Chameleons, a Novel Based Upon Actual Events Read online

  “Yes, yes. I am so excited I almost forgot about it.” She pauses momentarily to regain her breath. “I will go get it right now.” She turns and hurries back to the house.

  “Bobby, the sword she dug up is something the Navy doesn’t know about and the scuttlebutt Mori heard indicates the grave site dates to WWII. Add to that the appearance of the sword and I think I have myself a story that will most definitely get the attention of those Navy folks. If I can ruffle some feathers over at Pearl, who knows what kind of leverage I might create, not to mention who might crawl out from under a rock over there with some juicy insights.”

  Gale quickly finishes her lemonade and hands the empty glass to Bobby. “Let’s get a couple of pictures of Auntie and her sword and then get the hell out of here. I have the front page waiting for me!”

  Gale and Bobby walk to the edge of the pool excavation and wait for Auntie Lee, who is slowly making her way to them. She’s dragging a heavily tarnished sword that is about half of her height.

  “Okay Auntie, hold the sword up with both hands across your chest,” says Bobby. Gale helps her place the sword as requested. “And don’t forget to smile.” Bobby lines up the shot, but not fast enough to suit Gale.

  “Bobby, take the picture already!”

  “Perfect.” Bobby snaps several shots of Auntie Lee, who is rapidly growing tired of holding the sword. “Got it! We’re good to go Ms. Gale.” Bobby lowers his camera, waiting for the next order.

  “Great! Thanks Auntie. By the way, you said it was some construction workers who discovered the skeleton?”

  “Why, yes,” says Auntie Lee as she drops the sword to the ground.

  “Would you mind telling me how to get in touch with them?” Gale continues to force herself to be charming. From what Bobby has seen of her around the newspaper, she appears to be quite out of character.

  Auntie Lee, bits of perspiration forming around her temples, fishes around for a moment in one of the two huge pockets of her brightly colored, floral dress. Eventually she pulls out a handful of business cards and gives one to Gale. “They gave me all these cards in case my neighbors want to buy pools. You are most certainly welcome to take one. Danny is in charge of my project.”

  She accepts the card, grabs Bobby by the arm and quickly leads him out of the yard. She turns around and pauses ever so briefly and calls out, “Thanks Auntie,” as they waste no time departing.

  Auntie Lee momentarily stands still, staring at their backs before shrugging her shoulders. She walks over to pick up the empty lemonade glasses lying in the grass and makes her way back into the house, dragging the sword behind her.

  Gale pauses before opening the passenger door and chastises Bobby: “Damnit, I have a story to write. I’ll need your photos and all of Auntie’s photos right away, understood?” Gale opens the passenger door, gets in and impatiently watches as Bobby stuffs his equipment into the trunk, runs around to the driver’s door, slips behind the wheel and starts the car with a roar, beads of sweat streaming down his face.

  “Don’t forget your seat belt. I don’t want you to get stopped by a cop.” She fastens her shoulder belt and continues: We have no time to waste!”

  “Yes Miss Gale, don’t worry. I’ll have you in your office with all the photos before you know it.”

  Gale is staring out the side window thinking of possible headlines for the morning issue and what it might be like to be working for The Washington Post. Bobby smiles broadly as they speed towards downtown Honolulu. It’s not often he has a woman in his car, let alone someone as physically appealing to him as Gale.

  Auntie Lee comes running out her front door, waving at Gale and Bobby as they disappear down the street. “Wait! What about my fifty dollars?” As she watches their car disappear she throws her hands up in the air, turns around and walks back into her house, mumbling aloud to herself, “Maybe they will mail me a check.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ADMIRAL ROMAN REARDON

  Pastwa is standing in the inner office of Rear Admiral Roman Reardon impatiently waiting for his appointment when suddenly the door swings open. Rather than Reardon, he’s facing an elderly gentleman about six foot two inches tall with a long, chiseled chin, well-wrinkled face and a dark tan which contrasts with his close-cropped grey hair. He’s wearing a navy blue patch over his left eye and is gripping a walking cane with Reardon close behind him. Recognizing Pastwa, Reardon grows a broad smile as the two men come to a halt.

  “Dad, I’d like you to meet one of my fine young officers.” Reardon points to Pastwa. “This is Lieutenant Commander Chris Pastwa. Commander, this is my father, Captain Clint Reardon.”

  Pastwa accepts the right hand extended to him by the elder Reardon.

  “This is truly an honor Captain. The Admiral has spoken of you many times.” Pastwa isn’t surprised at the strength of the elder Reardon’s grip nor at how long he holds it.

  After several moments Captain Reardon releases Pastwa’s hand. “Lieutenant Commander? Well, you need to get on the ball,” he points towards Pastwa’s jacket sleeve, “and get that full third stripe on there.”

  “Yes Sir, I’m working on it.”

  Reardon motions to Pastwa. “I’m going to walk the Captain to his cab so go on in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  Reardon turns towards his aide who is sitting behind a desk a few feet away. “Jones, get the Commander some coffee, and as you know he likes it strong and black.”

  “Yes Sir.” Jones salutes and quickly disappears down the hall.

  Senior Chief Petty Officer Keona Jones has a Caucasian American father and a native Hawaiian mother. His father was discharged from the Navy while on Oahu and decided he liked it enough to stay. He subsequently bought a small bar/restaurant with a killer ocean view on Kauai and has been running it ever since with his wife and three of his sons. Jones is the oldest of four boys and the only one with no interest in the family business. For as long as he can remember, he wanted to be in the Navy.

  After enlisting it eventually came to pass that Jones found himself on a patrol boat venturing up a jungle river somewhere in Central America. Reardon was in command of the clandestine mission when all hell broke loose. Out of the jungle darkness streaked the discomforting tracers of heavy machine gun fire. Rocket propelled grenades suddenly exploded on either side of the bow, but before they could zero in, Jones, without waiting for orders, floored the throttle and made a hard turn to starboard temporarily exposing the entire port side of the patrol boat to potential disaster. However, the risk paid off as two explosions marked the place their little boat had just vacated. As fast as they got into trouble, they were out of it. Reardon admired Jones’ quick thinking and has retained Jones’s services for more than twenty years subsequent.

  Pastwa makes himself comfortable while waiting for Reardon to return. Being a corner office, two walls are all windows but the remaining walls are full of shelves hosting an assortment of over fifty scale model ships and submarines from WWII. Pastwa notices one in particular and gets up to take a closer look. It’s the I-16 and strapped on the aft deck is a midget submarine. He picks it up and gives it a good once-over before he returns the model to the shelf.

  In a few minutes Jones brings his piping hot, black coffee in a large, navy blue mug with a depiction of the U.S.S. Arizona emblazed on it. Pastwa smiles as he lays his folder of photographs on the Admiral’s desk alongside a model of the U.S.S. Arizona, leaving a free hand for the mug. Reardon returns just as his mind begins to wander.

  “No need to get up Chris.” Reardon settles into his overstuffed, Hawaiian mahogany and leather chair while simultaneously swiveling to face Pastwa.

  “Tell me, what do you have for me?”

  Pastwa passes him the file. “This is a complete photo record with notations of the physical evidence we have collected from the pool excavation.”

  Reardon takes the file without commenting. After flipping through the pages, he closes the c
over and looks Pastwa directly in the eyes. Reardon’s about six foot tall with short, thinning hair, though still mostly dark brown. His weathered face reflects the years he’s spent at sea and his frame is carrying a few pounds more than it once did. His deep blue eyes sparkle, but when angered they expand so much as to be intimidating. His scarred, deeply tanned hands are lying flat on his desktop, almost as if he’s ready to pounce.

  “So tell me, Commander, what’s the significance of this find? Is there anything special about the skeleton, or for that matter, any of the items you discovered with it?” He points to a photo depicting the contents of the rusted box.

  Pastwa squirms a bit in his chair as he very much dislikes it when the Reardon barrages him with questions. He never knows for sure if Reardon expects him to answer each question in order or if he’s looking for a broad response. He doesn’t realize he is guilty of doing the same to his subordinates.

  “Well Sir, we found a book we have concluded to be a ship’s logbook. It was wrapped in oil cloth inside the metal box you see in the photos.” Pastwa pauses as Reardon again flips through the photos, appearing to pay more attention to the box and the logbook.

  “Sir, the logbook’s written in Japanese.” Pastwa pauses as he notices Reardon is looking out one of the windows, almost giving the appearance he’s not listening, except Pastwa knows better.

  “I directed Lieutenant Yamura to translate the log and type a copy for us. You likely remember her work on the incident out at Kaneohoe a couple of years ago when her Japanese language skills proved invaluable.” Reardon smiles as he puts a face to the name.

  “Right, she’s a top notch officer and I’m fully aware of her capabilities. In fact when you requested Yamura and that young Lieutenant Ferguson be temporarily assigned to our unit it made me think you were reading my mind. Of course you couldn’t have known I’ve been considering the possibility of permanently adding the two of them to our special unit; especially as we are short-handed. We’ll table that until this matter’s been resolved.”

  Turning his attention to the folder, Reardon picks up one of the photos, briefly looks it over and puts it back down. “Did you brief Yamura and Ferguson relative to the Top Secret status, not just of the photos but of the entire case?”

  “Yes Sir, they’re taking all the requisite precautions. As for the logbook, we’ve discovered it purports to be the ship’s log from a vessel that was likely part of the Imperial Japanese Navy’s submarine fleet. The author sometimes refers to it as ‘I-16’s boat,’ sometimes as a ‘tube’ and sometimes as ‘I-16-tou.’”

  Reardon suddenly pushes his chair away from his desk and abruptly stands, taking Pastwa by surprise.

  “What?” He exclaims. “Do you have any idea what the hell ‘I-16’s boat’ really was?” Reardon remains standing, as if frozen by the news, waiting for Pastwa’s response.

  “Yes Sir. It was probably the midget sub launched just outside Pearl Harbor by the Japanese fleet submarine, I-16, in the early hours of December 7th. In fact, from what I’ve learned so far it looks like we only recently discovered the remains of I-16-tou entangled with debris we dredged from West Loch.

  “Correct, Commander, but the torpedoes were not there and I believe the sub was empty, to boot! Empty, as in nobody home in there. Abandoned and left to sink in West Loch.” Reardon allows his words to penetrate before continuing.

  “So what else does Lieutenant Yamura have to say?” Reardon, relaxing a bit, sits back in his chair and pours himself a glass of water from the ever present pitcher on his credenza. Pastwa somewhat relaxes at the site of Reardon returning to his chair. He always feels particularly exposed when Reardon stands to make a point for as often as not, Reardon will then begin pacing around the office, Pastwa’s head twirling around to keep up with him. He considers it to be a good sign Reardon has returned to his chair as it likely means he’s calming down and Pastwa will again be able to speak freely.

  “Sir, on my way over Lieutenant Yamura phoned with her latest information. She’s translated all of the log entries and positively identified the skeleton. It’s a Japanese sailor named ‘Kamita’ and the man who wrote the log is a Lieutenant, junior grade, by the name of ‘Yokoyama,’ as we already surmised. She’ll have a typed translation of the complete log tomorrow sometime, likely early afternoon.”

  Pastwa braces himself for an eruption, but the Admiral remains seated, listening carefully while staring out the windows towards the harbor.

  “Yamura says the writing is a little smeared, but she thinks the burial took place on or about December 10, 1941. Apparently some of the pages are difficult to read due to water damage, but she’s certain the two midget submariners made contact with a number of people whose names probably had been given to them by Imperial Japanese Navy intelligence. According to our research the midget submariners were equipped with various maps and hide-out locations in addition to safe contacts. According to the log entries, swimming ashore and making contact with local Japanese was one of the planned escape options.”

  Reardon reaches for a glass of water, but just as he’s about to touch it, he suddenly pulls his arm back.

  “Commander, as you well know, I’m a bit of an expert on the Pearl Harbor bushwhack.” Pastwa shakes his head in agreement. “But did you know this Yokoyama fellow was credited by the Imperial Japanese Navy with single-handedly sinking the Arizona?”

  “No Sir.” Pastwa sounds puzzled. “How can that be? Everyone knows she was sunk by a perfectly placed aerial bomb strike. In fact, I think it was actually a converted fourteen inch shell from the battleship Nagato.”

  “You’re right about that, however it seems Yokoyama made a few radio transmissions late on the 7th and into the 8th. He was quite the chatterbox and I have always thought it to be unfortunate our boys failed to jump on those transmissions, especially since they appear to have been sourced from within Pearl Harbor itself. So chew on that fact a bit!”

  Reardon pauses while Pastwa digests the information. “No Sir, this is news to me.”

  Reardon smiles as he’s pleased to discover he knows more about Yokoyama, at least for now, than does Pastwa.

  “Yes Commander, and among his transmissions, some of which were undecipherable, he told his pals back on the I-16 the attack was a success.” Reardon shakes his head in disbelief. “Really, did Yokoyama think the entire Japanese Navy didn’t already know the attack had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams?”

  Reardon picks up his glass of water and takes a long, deep drink. He gazes out towards the harbor as he considers the situation and mulls over various options. After what to Pastwa seems to be an eternity, Reardon swivels to face him.

  “Chris, it gets even better. The Jap Navy had its own version of Nazi Germany’s Propaganda Minister Herr Goebbels so when they decided to credit Yokoyama with the sinking of the Arizona, their propaganda ministry took that story and ran with it in a big way. They transformed the nine midget submariners, who they presumed were all killed in action, into Demi-Gods. In the Japanese scheme of life that status put them just one notch below their own Emperor, but they paid particular attention to Mr. Yokoyama.”

  Reardon pauses to again drink some water. Pastwa has noticed in the past the more upset he is, the more water, or coffee, he consumes. He has often mused that perhaps Reardon does so in order to give his thoughts time to unfold.

  “They made a full blown motion picture about Yokoyama and his exploits which I believe was titled, ‘Navy.’ That movie would have done Frank Capra proud as thousands of young Japanese men joined the Imperial Navy after watching it. Civilians would write poems about him and the newspapers published stories about his exploits. Hell, the Emperor’s wife baked Yokoyama’s mom a cake and gave it to her at his official funeral at the Yasukuni Shrine. The Jap media turned this little guy into something of a Japanese World War II super hero, kind of a Captain Japan.” Reardon laughs at his comparison to a modern comic book series. However, Pastwa notices he’s pressing a fin
ger under his twitching right eye, which is a bad sign.

  “So, Chris, if Yokoyama penetrated the harbor, survived the attack, then came ashore and successfully made contact with Japanese nationals, and even had the time to bury his pal, then just what the hell became of him?”

  Reardon cuts him off before he can get a word out.

  “The Japanese Navy stationed a few subs around the islands for quite some time hoping to pick up their midget submariners, except none of them showed up. Well, at least not that we know of. We did manage to pluck more than a dozen Jap bodies out of the ocean in the following weeks, but none of them, with the exception of Prisoner of War Number One’s engineer, was a Japanese sailor. They were all pilots. So again, that brings me to the question: what happened to Yokoyama?” Reardon doesn’t wait for a reply.

  “We certainly can’t assume he failed to survive the war. And as far as the war goes, he couldn’t even reveal himself after the war. Let’s face it, he was a Demi-God so if he was still alive how could he go back to Japan? When he adopted a new identity, which I assume he did, it meant he was basically stuck with it forever. He was dead to his family and to his country, putting him in a difficult situation the likes of which I cannot even imagine.” Reardon takes another gulp of water.

  Pastwa is staring directly into Reardon’s eyes, who’s obviously expecting a response.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Yamura is going to compile two sets of the translated logbook and will type the translation herself. They’ll be marked ‘Top Secret-Eyes Only’ and numbered. I’ll deliver copy number one to you and Yamura and I will work from the second copy. We’ll lock the original logbook into our vault along with her dictation. Once we have digested the contents we can formulate a definitive course of action. Naturally, I’ll keep you advised each step of the way.”

  Pastwa pauses as he realizes he may have overstepped, so to cover himself he quickly adds: