sock exposed. “Yes, I know. We
all
know.”
“But according to this latest decrypt, Tokyo wants to conclude negotiations, and I quote, ‘no later than November twenty-ninth.’ After which ‘things are automatically going to happen.’ ”
He looked up at Kramer, who met his gaze. “Yes, we’ve all read it,” the Lieutenant said.
Bratton was undeterred. “But look at this intelligence report from the British—five Japanese troop transports with naval escort were sighted off China’s coast, near Formosa, heading south.”
“That must be a mistake.” Kramer crossed his legs. “You know we’ve been monitoring the Japanese fleet. And most of their ships are in home waters.”
Bratton shook his head. “We have intelligence that the Japanese are on the move,” he said, standing and walking to the map. “One of their expeditionary forces is embarking in Shanghai on as many as forty or fifty ships.” He pointed at the map. “And a number of ships have left Japan and are sailing toward the Pescadores. And now a cruiser division, a destroyer squadron, and a number of aircraft carriers have been spotted in the harbor of Samah on Hainan Island. Everything we have indicates that Admiral Yamamoto’s forces are set to sail in a matter of days. If not hours.”
The pieces came together and clicked in Bratton’s brain. “I bet you they’re going to attack us.” His voice rising in both pitch and intensity, he finally spoke his worst fears aloud: “I bet that Japan is going to attack the United States of America—most likely on a Sunday, when the fleet is in. This Sunday is November thirtieth.”
Bratton’s eyes met Kramer’s in an unwavering gaze. “The goddamn Japs are going to attack us on Sunday, the thirtieth of November!”
Prime Minister Winston Churchill had seen the film
That Hamilton Woman
so many times that he would often unconsciously mouth the words along with the actors on-screen. On this night, it was playing at the library at Chequers, set up as a makeshift movie theater. All of the oil paintings had been rolled up and put away for safekeeping, leaving the ornate gold frames empty, like blank eyes. The film viewing was after a long and rich dinner, with bottles of wine and spirits, and a few of the guests and staff had settled in, preparing for a nap. But Churchill, a wine stain on the lapelof his velvet siren suit (which the staff referred to, behind his back, as his “rompers”), was on the edge of his seat.
In his own plush armchair, while the rest sat behind, in metal folding chairs, the Prime Minister growled, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, “Mr. Greene, please start the projector. Mr. Sterling, turn off the lights.”
His two private secretaries did his bidding, and soon the room was dark, filled with the noise of the whirring projector and then the black-and-white images projected onto a screen.
When Lord Nelson, played by Laurence Olivier, said,
“Gentlemen, you will never make peace with Napoleon … Napoleon cannot be master of the world until he has smashed us up, and believe me, gentlemen, he means to be master of the world! You cannot make peace with dictators. You have to destroy them—wipe them out!”
the P.M. rose and shook his fist at the screen.
He turned toward the audience, who did their best to rouse themselves and look attentive. “I’ll have you know I wrote that line—and several others of Nelson’s! Just fill in ‘Hitler’ wherever ‘Napoleon’ appears and have done with it!” he barked, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis.
“Winston …” his wife, Clementine Churchill, said from a brocade settee behind the P.M.’s armchair.
But Churchill paced in front of the screen, mouthing Nelson’s words. “Yes, things were different when we were here five years ago, weren’t they? Our braid was shining in those days. Today they won’t even let us anchor in the harbor. It’s as though we had the plague. They’re so scared of
all
know.”
“But according to this latest decrypt, Tokyo wants to conclude negotiations, and I quote, ‘no later than November twenty-ninth.’ After which ‘things are automatically going to happen.’ ”
He looked up at Kramer, who met his gaze. “Yes, we’ve all read it,” the Lieutenant said.
Bratton was undeterred. “But look at this intelligence report from the British—five Japanese troop transports with naval escort were sighted off China’s coast, near Formosa, heading south.”
“That must be a mistake.” Kramer crossed his legs. “You know we’ve been monitoring the Japanese fleet. And most of their ships are in home waters.”
Bratton shook his head. “We have intelligence that the Japanese are on the move,” he said, standing and walking to the map. “One of their expeditionary forces is embarking in Shanghai on as many as forty or fifty ships.” He pointed at the map. “And a number of ships have left Japan and are sailing toward the Pescadores. And now a cruiser division, a destroyer squadron, and a number of aircraft carriers have been spotted in the harbor of Samah on Hainan Island. Everything we have indicates that Admiral Yamamoto’s forces are set to sail in a matter of days. If not hours.”
The pieces came together and clicked in Bratton’s brain. “I bet you they’re going to attack us.” His voice rising in both pitch and intensity, he finally spoke his worst fears aloud: “I bet that Japan is going to attack the United States of America—most likely on a Sunday, when the fleet is in. This Sunday is November thirtieth.”
Bratton’s eyes met Kramer’s in an unwavering gaze. “The goddamn Japs are going to attack us on Sunday, the thirtieth of November!”
Prime Minister Winston Churchill had seen the film
That Hamilton Woman
so many times that he would often unconsciously mouth the words along with the actors on-screen. On this night, it was playing at the library at Chequers, set up as a makeshift movie theater. All of the oil paintings had been rolled up and put away for safekeeping, leaving the ornate gold frames empty, like blank eyes. The film viewing was after a long and rich dinner, with bottles of wine and spirits, and a few of the guests and staff had settled in, preparing for a nap. But Churchill, a wine stain on the lapelof his velvet siren suit (which the staff referred to, behind his back, as his “rompers”), was on the edge of his seat.
In his own plush armchair, while the rest sat behind, in metal folding chairs, the Prime Minister growled, unlit cigar clenched between his teeth, “Mr. Greene, please start the projector. Mr. Sterling, turn off the lights.”
His two private secretaries did his bidding, and soon the room was dark, filled with the noise of the whirring projector and then the black-and-white images projected onto a screen.
When Lord Nelson, played by Laurence Olivier, said,
“Gentlemen, you will never make peace with Napoleon … Napoleon cannot be master of the world until he has smashed us up, and believe me, gentlemen, he means to be master of the world! You cannot make peace with dictators. You have to destroy them—wipe them out!”
the P.M. rose and shook his fist at the screen.
He turned toward the audience, who did their best to rouse themselves and look attentive. “I’ll have you know I wrote that line—and several others of Nelson’s! Just fill in ‘Hitler’ wherever ‘Napoleon’ appears and have done with it!” he barked, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis.
“Winston …” his wife, Clementine Churchill, said from a brocade settee behind the P.M.’s armchair.
But Churchill paced in front of the screen, mouthing Nelson’s words. “Yes, things were different when we were here five years ago, weren’t they? Our braid was shining in those days. Today they won’t even let us anchor in the harbor. It’s as though we had the plague. They’re so scared of
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