Hornets Crossing

By Robert Bush

In mid-April 1942, the aircraft carriers Hornet and Enterprise were vulnerable to submarine attack as they sped toward Japan on their mission to launch Col. Jimmy Doolittle on his now famous raid on Tokyo and four other Japanese cities.
What if there had been a lucky Japanese submarine lurking in those waters? What if the US Navy's calculated risk hadn't paid off and the two carriers were lost and therefore not available for the Battle of Midway a month and a half later?
Interviews with Col. CV Glines and Col. Bill Bower plus extensive research at the National Archives and Naval Historical Center in Washington DC have been blended into an accurate but fictional tale of the Navy's contribution to that raid and the submarine force's astonishing performance against overwhelming challenges at the beginning of the war in the Pacific.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Bush
• Release date: Dec 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301140824

Robert Bush

Robert is a Boeing 777 International Captain with a major airline. Previously, he served 8 years as a Naval Aviator. He is a 1976 graduate of the USAF Academy in Colorado Springs.

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Hornets Crossing

Robert Bush

Copyright 2012 by Robert Bush

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Prologue

. . . and there is nobody more terrible than the desperate

Field Marshal Aleksandr V. Suvorov, 1799

8 April 2155

Hiroshima

A bolt of lightning lit the boardroom. The terrible rip of thunder that followed was muted by the glass that formed the south wall. Torrents of rain, swept in from the sea, pounded the windows obscuring the view of the bay.

Around a conference table by the windows, six men awaited the arrival of the president and vice president of the company. None of them spoke. Some nervously toyed with their pencils; others stared at their hands. With each blast of thunder, the tension in the room increased. Only Tomonaga, the youngest member, was calm. At the far end of the polished table, he sat with Zen like serenity, gazing out the window at the raging storm.

In an elevator rising to the board room level, still three minutes from arriving, two men watched the digital indicator count the floors on their way to the top of the world headquarters building. They had just left the company’s laboratories beneath the building. Fuchita, the president, broke the silence. Have you noticed the fact that as we ascend to the hundred and sixtieth floor of this building, our plan will send technicians, Hiryu and Akagi, one hundred and sixty years into the past?

Kaga, the vice president, turned to face his superior. His eyes narrowed. It is a good omen. It tells us of our mastery of the situation. He knew any other answer would be dangerous. "Master Sun Tzu in The Art of War speaks of the desirability of using deception in concert with one's forces."

Fuchsia smiled ironically. "Even when the deception is directed at one's own forces? They shared a glance. Fuchita continued. Eliminating the ancestor of your enemy while improving the strategic position of the company and doing this with only one simple act in a long forgotten war is truly an elegant plan."

"You're sure Kurita does not know his forefather was aboard the ship, the Kosei Maru?" Kaga was anticipating the meeting they would soon be attending. Kurita would be there, sitting to his left.

Absolutely. He has several times unknowingly said to me that he has lost track of his family lines from his great-grand father back. Fuchita remembered his fascination, months ago, when the technician Hiryu showed him the computer’s report of the historical intersection between Kurita and the group of Americans aboard the Japanese transport ship at the beginning of the Greater East Asian War over two hundred years ago. It was almost too easy. With one simple act then he could eliminate everyone who threatened him today. Three Americans intersected as prisoners of war aboard the Kosei Maru. They were to be eliminated because, years later, their sons would start an electronics firm that would grow into a large and aggressive company that would consistently be one step ahead of his company for lucrative patents. Kurita would be eliminated because he had long been secretly plotting and forming alliances to eliminate Fuchita. When Fuchita had found out about the plot against him it was too far gone to be stopped. This fortuitous intersection seemed the only way to save himself. He was very interested in a swift and simple end to his problems.

The other members of the board, with whom they were about to meet, knew only of the plan to kill the Americans. Kaga, Fuchita and technician Hiryu, were the only ones who knew of the additional intersection of Kurita’s ancestor being a guard aboard the ship.

Technician Hiryu had been assured of a very comfortable retirement in return for his silence. Fuchita and Kaga would continue their domination of the board, more than enough incentive for the murders; if indeed they could be called murders. These men would never have existed.

Fuchita guarded his expression. He did not want to admit, even to his vice president that he was, in spite of the potential rewards, quite worried about this latest mission. His best and most experienced technician, Hiryu, would be taking their machine back for the first part of the plan and then jumping the package and a dead body to another time and location. The second jump had become necessary for accuracy and logistics. Previous missions had not required Hiryu to leave for so long nor so far back. It was a large risk. Indeed, Hiryu was the only one of his team of scientists who fully understood the machine that they had built. Without him the program would never have come this far. Hiryu was the key to everything. He must be successful. Fuchita wondered briefly if he should have given Hiryu an even more generous bonus. No, he decided. The man’s loyalty was beyond question, that fact was certain. The risk lay in the chance of foul ups. There was absolutely no margin for error.

The cleansed air of the elevator was cool, Fuchita was perspiring nonetheless. He glanced at his friend. Kaga didn’t seem to notice his discomfort.

With a flick of his heavy hand, Fuchita waved his concern aside. "What Kurita knows or does not know at this point no longer matters. The shiseiji (bastard) will cease to exist in a few minutes."

Kaga forced himself to smile. His stomach was tied in knots. Do you think it will happen during the meeting? He found it difficult to accept the fact that if you cause a human being to cease to exist, it is, in fact, murder. He was about to become a murderer without actually doing anything. He had never accepted Fuchita’s idea that if the men never existed that there was no murder.

Kaga had never before seen this look in Fuchita’s eyes. It was a look of desperation. Never, in any of the years they were climbing through the ranks, had he seen this in his mentor’s eyes.

Fuchita appraised his partner. Growing squeamish at the thought of bold action?

Kaga blinked quickly and looked at the silk carpet of the elevator’s floor. No, not that, I was just wondering if there might be some kind of danger to us; an explosion or something.

The older man shrugged. We will learn this morning. His heart was racing. Was he right in placing so much faith in and risking Hiryu?

The elevator gently slowed and stopped. A chime announced their arrival as the door opened to the boardroom. Six men stood for the arrival of their president and his vice. Fuchita walked to the head of the table and nodded for the members to sit. He began immediately. Your report mister vice president. He did not look at Kurita sitting to his left.

Kaga moved to the head of the table and took his place next to Fuchita. As he walked, he looked into the face of each man. Unlike his boss, he could not help but let his eyes linger on Kurita. The man stared back through hate-filled eyes until Kaga looked away. Another blast of thunder slammed against the glass.

All of the men around the vast mahogany table knew what he was about to say, or thought they did. For months they had all been participants in the stormiest verbal battles the walls of this grand suite had ever seen. Ever since the company had secretly developed and perfected a reliable method of time travel they had never agreed on how to use the new machine. Now, as they sat in their leather chairs around the highly polished table, there were more than a few who had misgivings about what they thought was the plan. It was becoming more ominous the closer it came to becoming reality.

Kaga cleared his throat and began. "Gentlemen, for over two hundred years our kaisha (company) has fought to attain the preeminent position that we enjoy today. By any measure, we are second to no one." His cultured voice had a threatening quality that instilled fear in those he dealt with. He used it now to maximum advantage.

Outside, the black storm grew more violent.

His smile was perfect. This little journey is more daring than any of the five we have done before. He let his words sink in. "For the first time it will involve two jumps for accuracy and the use of a pawn. He smiled again. However, this keikaku (plan) will reap far greater rewards than we have ever before contemplated." He paused again, this time to anticipate the effect of his next words.

We sent technicians Hiryu and Akagi on their mission an hour ago.

At the far end of the table, Ryujo, fourth in seniority, leapt to his feet shouting. "Are you mad? This plan is not ready to be put into action. It hasn't been fully studied for flaws. We're still analyzing the impact of the fourth shichi ni ireru (journey), and now you've leapt into one that is infinitely more complex!"

It dawned on Ryujo too late that he was directly confronting both Fuchita and Kaga. Politically, this was suicide. He looked at Kurita. Why was he not reacting? He glanced in the direction of the others and saw they were all looking intently at the tabletop in front of each. At the distant end of the table, Tomonaga was still too toshishita no (junior) to speak. Ryujo was alone.

He breathed deeply and carefully chose his next words. With the utmost respect mister president. He gripped the edge of the table. Considering the magnitude of what we are undertaking, that we now, in a sense, own time-- the means to manipulate it. We must cover every possibility and every eventuality. The mathematician's report for us on chaos . . .

Ryujo's emotions began to overwhelm him. There is absolutely no room for error. Any detail not accounted for will lead to irreversible disaster. He looked directly into Fuchita’s eyes, beseeching him, and spread his hands. All we have is a computer model . . .

Enough! Fuchita's thundering voice silenced Ryujo who sat down so quickly it was as though his legs had failed. "We have bickered over this for months! We have selected the perfect point to intervene. Every detail has been accounted for. There are no errors. He lightened his tone. And in any case, technician Hiryu assures me they can correct whatever we don't like. He gestured generously and smiled. When he and his assistant return, we can just send them back. His fist slammed down on the table with his last words. The operation has begun!"

Ryujo sat upright, his head bowed.

Mister president, if I may? To the astonishment of all it was Tomonaga, the youngest member of the board. For over two centuries, tradition at the giant company dictated that he not speak for the first year of his membership. His tone was poised and confident as he disregarded the custom of the board. Fuchita glared down the length of the table, beads of sweat betrayed his rage by appearing at the point where his thick neck met the starched linen of his collar. Kaga's mouth hung open in surprise.

The junior board member continued. Forgive me, but I cannot remain silent while we enact a plan to allow the killing of our heroic ancestor-warriors. He paused long enough to look each man in the eye. "The passage of years, even one hundred sixty, does not lessen the fact that to carry out our plan will mean the death of the crew of the Kosei Maru. We are asking them to pay the price for our quest for more power. I have listened as you have gone over this many times and every time you pass over this point as though it is of no consequence. We are not rikugunsh kan (generals) of the Army nor teitoku (admirals) of the Navy . . . We are not even a government body. We are merely the board of directors of a very large company. The plan we contemplate, whatever reward it brings, is beyond immoral. It is a most egregious insult to the honor of our ancestors and their tremendous sacrifice that brought us the dominating power our nation enjoys as the leader of the Asian Co-Prosperity sphere."

Fuchita eyed Tomonaga suspiciously. What was his real objective? Had he secretly aligned himself with Kurita?

The room was silent. Tomonaga waited for the reaction to his gross breach of decorum. For a moment it seemed he had succeeded in swaying this board of powerful men; maybe his words had been heard and their meaning taken. But, as he looked around the room at the faces of his senior colleagues, he realized with a growing sadness that none of these powerful men had arrived at this lofty boardroom by being men of conscience, even Kurita. They would do anything to get what they wanted.

He rose from the table, his voice was low but with all the menace of the raging storm outside he said, "You bring dishonor upon the sacred name of the sword, Shinryakusha Satsujinhan’nin." (Invader Killer) With a subtle nod of his head he indicated the ancient sword held in an elaborate case at the end of the room. For centuries the sword had been an icon for the board. Without a word he walked toward the elevator at the distant end of the boardroom. He hardly heard, nor did he register any surprise at the words that followed him.

Tomonaga! Kaga's voice could have come from the far side of the moon. Tomonaga, you are dismissed. His stride never faltered as he continued for the door.

At the window, a blinding bolt of lightning, louder than the others, reported with an angry blast that rattled the heavy glass. It seemed to signal the end of the storm for a moment later the sun burst into the room with a brilliance that seemed brighter than the men had ever seen. It shone on the sword and on the faces of the men at the table. It shone on Tomonaga’s empty chair. They took the sun's magnificent light as an omen and stood.

Fuchita broke the silence with his deep voice. In a few moments we shall have the results of our operation. He watched Tomonaga walk for the door. And then, without turning his head, stole a sidelong glance at Kurita.

Chapter 1

Find the enemy and shoot him down, anything else is nonsense.

Captain Manfred Baron von Richthofen, 1917

9 February 2012

Herat Province

Afghanistan

The moon was stark and bright. The landscape spread below me in pale white. The view from twenty eight thousand feet was of a rugged Afghanistan countryside. I settled into my ejection seat and tweaked the heat a bit and thought of my two plus hours back to the aircraft carrier. A trap aboard, quick debrief over sliders, coffee and a movie in the ready room. Or, choice two, trap aboard the ship, hit the rack and get some sleep. I’d been awake going on twenty hours now and it was a close call between food and sleep. The deep howl of my twin G.E. turbofan engines was reassuring but lulling. I could do without dinner, again.

Me? I’m Ensign Mike Hayder, call sign Ambush F/A-18E Hornet driver extraordinaire of VFA-136 Knighthawks aboard the aircraft carrier Eisenhower (CVN-69). This is my first tour. I pinned my gold wings on some twelve months ago. I completed Hornet school in Jacksonville Florida four months ago. My performance was strong enough I was allowed to join my squadron already at sea.

Tonight is my sixteenth mission, another bomb run in the bleak southwest sector of Afghanistan. An hour ago we blew up some barn like structure at the intersection of two dirt roads just north of a river. We were effective, I suppose. I mean, we blew it to bits but we’ll never know if any bad guys were there. We’re the delivery guys. In another war, on another day we would be fighting for air superiority or counter enemy air as the planners call it. Find the enemy and shoot him down. In this war though we pretty much just support the poor bastards down in the mud by dropping an assortment of smart, laser guided weapons on targets assigned by the intelligence weenies and commanders a thousand miles away in some secure command center. Hopefully, we made a difference to those guys on the ground.

A wisp of static flickered in my headset; quiet, quick, but definitely not normal. That would be the electrical engineer in me. I keyed my microphone and asked my lead, LCdr Robbie Jello Fellows. Hey Jell, are you getting any static? His Hornet was shining in the moonlight a few hundred feet ahead and to the left of me. I was hanging back in a loose cruise position.

Only from you Meat. He didn’t miss a beat. Funny guy that man. He badly wanted his call sign to be Lobo or Chainsaw, something tough but, long ago, when he was an Ensign on his first cruise he and his squadron mates were in Naples, Italy attending a cultural event in the form a Jello wrestling match with a list of female performers. Robbie was pulled into the vat of red and blue gelatin and ended up in a full nelson headlock face down and nearly unconscious before being rescued by his squadron mates. That was it. His call-sign was sealed. Tragic, maybe, even heartbreaking, but that’s how it is in a navy fighter squadron. Your call sign is given to you by your mates and there is no appealing it.

I turned the radio’s sensitivity up and could detect a voice within the static. Most people wouldn’t have been able to understand what was being said but, sadly, I had misspent my youth as a radio head, wasting too many hours building junk radios from other, perfectly good radios and probing the ether for anything of interest.

A faint voice, Any station, any station, Sierra Two Victor. What I thought was the sound of static I could now discern as gunfire. The voice was calm. I switched radios and keyed the mike. Sierra Two victor, Hawk four-five, go ahead.

Right, Hawk four-five whoever you are would you kindly get hold of Red Crown and enquire where our air support might be? There was intense gunfire in the background. Calm and still a sense of humor; tough guy. The British accent meant he was probably SAS. Roger, stand by. Red Crown was an airborne, central combat controller who would know who know about the air support for this Sierra Two Victor."

Break Red Crown, Red Crown, Hawk four-five.

The response was immediate. Hawk four-five, Red Crown go. It would be the voice of an Air Force staff sergeant sitting at a console in the aft section of an EC-135 trained to organize and control a diverse array of war fighting units as they go about their business.

Red Crown, Hawk four-five relaying for Sierra Two Victor, an engaged ground unit looking for his air support. Sounds hot.

Right. A short pause. Pass to Sierra Two Victor his air support has RTB with a maintenance problem. I am vectoring another unit there. Advise Sierra Two Victor there’ll be a predator with two Hellfires, ETA ten minutes.

Predators. I sighed and keyed the mike. Roger that, Red Crown. Standby. Sierra Two Victor, Red Crown says it’ll be one zero minutes for the cavalry. Be advised, they can only spare a Predator with two Hellfires.

Hawk four-five, Sierra Two Victor, roger that, The voice, amazingly, was still calm, Here’s the deal, either some real air support arrives right now or just send, ah, twenty-four body bags. We seem to be on the wrong side of a rather sizeable ambush. We’re killing quite a large number of bad guys, actually, but I’m afraid our resources are running rather low. I estimate our survival time to be less than twenty minutes.

He was still calm but I detected a tone in his voice. He is seriously pissed off. I made a quick decision. Sierra Two Victor, pass your location. I copied the coordinates. Any prominent landmarks? I had already turned in the general direction as I passed the word that they were trapped in a farmhouse at the side of a road. Jello, Ambush we gotta go help these guys.

Jello, god bless him, had turned with me before asking, Ambush, ah, unless you’re holding out on me we haven’t got anything left to drop or shoot. And not a lot of fuel either.

We’ve got some twenty mill ammunition, between us we have a thousand rounds and, uh, you know, we can make some noise or something. Jell was right, it wasn’t much. Whatever we could do was still better than one Predator UAV with a couple of anti-armor missiles.

Sierra Two Victor, Hawk four-five we are over your posit. Ordinance onboard is only a thousand rounds of twenty mike. I see your infra-red spot. We’ll lay some runs on the concentration of bad guys along the road maybe you can boogie through the hole.

Heads down, fingers crossed. Have a go mate. There wasn’t a lot of hope in his voice. The sound of gunfire in the background was sporadic. They were conserving their ammo.

I tweaked my Lantern. In the green glow of the infrared system I saw a multitude of hot targets gathered along the road in the culvert. The bad guys had a good ambush going; the Brits were surrounded. Every angle was covered. The voice on the radio wasn’t exaggerating. These boys were screwed. In the moment I watched two RPGs hit the side of the house they were holed up in.

Jell and me had let down to an attack altitude of three thousand feet. We were going see if we could even the odds a bit.

One’s in. Jello rolled in first taking a run in line from the west lining up on the road. My FLIR (forward looking Infra-red) showed a short stream of rounds streaking from his Hornet. He had fired too soon and too high, most of the rounds hit short of the road and the bad guys. A few went into the white targets At least they knew we were here and would get their heads down. One’s off. Jello’s voice was annoyed.

Two’s in. I rolled hard and pulled my nose to the target. Maybe sooner than I should have but considering the ineffectiveness of the first run I wanted to get some lead into the targets. The crosshairs of my weapon system were square and steady in the midst of a clump of bad guys. Without taking my eyes off the target I rechecked my master arm switch on and in the gun mode. Then I pressed in on the target. This was going to be low and concentrated. Five hundred rounds might sound like a lot but when your cannon spits out over six thousand rounds per minute it’s only enough for two runs. Maybe.

I squeezed the trigger and put a good hose on them. On my screen I could see the heat signature of my rounds merge with the heat signature of the bad guys.