“Do you live far from here?”
“No. Close enough to walk.”
“Do you mind if I tag along?”
“I wouldn't mind the company.” She picked up a light blue sweater at the coat check.
“So, do you like children, or did your sister con you into helping?”
Kekili chuckled. “Well, I wasn't conned, and I do like children. But I'm helping mostly because my sister's nervous about the whole thing. She's never done anything like this before. She's been reminding me for weeks. ‘Now don't forget, Sunday the seventh,’” Kekili mimicked her sister, using a high nasal tone.
“Does she really talk like that?”
“No. Well...sometimes.” They both laughed.
After leaving Kekili at her front porch, Luke headed for the ship. He didn't feel much like sleeping, so he walked slowly, enjoying the evening air. He liked Kekili, but she wasn't Mattie. A familiar ache settled over him. No one was Mattie.
“She doesn't want me.” He picked up his pace. “Well, there are other fish in the sea. I can have a life without her,” he said but figured if someone as sweet and beautiful as Kekili couldn't distract him for more than a few minutes, he'd probably never get over his childhood sweetheart.
He pushed his hands into his pockets and looked up at a round December moon resting in a black sky. Its light splashed the bay, but the waters looked dark and dangerous. Luke suddenly felt cold. He gazed beyond the harbor toward the Pacific and its shadows. Apprehension enveloped him. He started jogging, hoping to shake off his anxiety. Although breathless when he arrived at the ship, the feeling remained, and he knew it would be a long night.
Chapter 4
A JAPANESE TASK FORCE PUSHED SOUTH. IN FANLIKE FORMATION, CRUISERS and destroyers plowed through heavy seas, acting as a shield for six carriers. The large, imposing flattops pitched in angry swells, nosing through huge waves that washed across their flight decks. In spite of the severe weather there would be no deferment of their mission—bombers, torpedo planes, and Zeros would be launched despite the peril.
In the dark hours of early morning, planes were moved to flight decks, their airmen eager and tense. Some prayed, others boasted of forthcoming kills, but many were thoughtful, their minds on family and country. As the time to embark approached, bravado grew. Today would be the beginning of a new era—Japanese supremacy.
Flyers entered their cockpits, parachutes strapped to their backs and white scarves around their necks with the word hissho, meaning “certain victory,” imprinted on them. Engines were fired, and the air pulsated with a deep rumble. Airmen adjusted goggles and maneuvered for takeoff.
A Zero moved into position, rolled down a perilously short runway, and lifted off. For a few moments it disappeared below the bow, skimming the rough seas, then lifted upward, its lights blinking in the dark sky.
One plane after another followed, and the men of the First Air Fleet circled and waited for their comrades. Burnt orange colored the morning sky as the First Air Fleet turned southward.
Pearl Harbor slept.
Preparing to rendezvous with a tug that would guide it into Pearl Harbor, the USS Antares moved through the quiet Pacific waters off Oahu. An officer lifted binoculars to his eyes and scanned the waves. All looked clear; then he spotted a peculiar object cutting through the sea, leaving a small wake. “What do you make of that?” he asked another officer. “There off the stern of the tug.”
The helmsman saw what he thought looked like a conning tower and sent for the captain.
“Out there,” the officer said, pointing.
Turning binoculars seaward, the captain searched, then stopped. He studied the object. “It's a sub all right. But whose?” he asked, then answered his own question. “It's got to be a Japanese sub. Sound general quarters.”
The alarm went out, the guns were loaded, and the ship moved in on the enemy. The Antares fired. The first round missed; the second hit the sub just below the waterline. For a moment it appeared the enemy ship would heel over and sink, but instead it submerged and moved toward the Antares, sliding beneath the destroyer.
“Roll depth charges!” the captain shouted.
At 0653, the submarine sank, and the encounter was reported to the Fourteenth Naval District's officer on watch. The official who noted the incident sent the information to the duty officer who sent it to his supervisor who handed it on to his superior. In the end, it was decided no action should be taken until the report could be verified.
And still Pearl Harbor slept.
On the north tip of Oahu, 230 feet above sea level, a Mobile Radar Station stood, watchful. On the morning of December 7, 1941, two privates were on duty. Just before shutting down at the end of their shift, an unusual image appeared. A large target moved toward their shores.
Something big was happening! His hands shaking, one of the men called in the reading to the Information Center. “We've got something on the oscilloscope—about 120 miles out! It's one of the biggest sightings I've ever seen!” he shouted into a portable phone.
The officer on the other end of the line remained calm. He knew a squadron of B-17s were flying in from California. That's all it was. “Don't worry about it,” he said.
The privates continued taking readings. Their last report recorded the approaching planes' location at twenty miles from the base.
And still Pearl Harbor slept.
