“You ask about our policies? I sometimes wonder if we have one,” Genda said.

“We are a long way from making this place our own,” Fuchida responded. “I sometimes wonder if we will have the time.”

Lieutenant Goto stood at attention before Colonel Omori and Admiral Iwabachi, and looked at his two superiors with studied insolence. He knew he was the son of an important man and had far more political pull than either of the senior officers who glowered at him. He had nothing to fear.

Omori shook his head in disbelief. “I cannot believe you would be so stupid, Goto, as to perpetuate what is a near uprising among the Japanese community. I gave my word that the girl would not be harmed and you went and fucked her and, worse, turned her over to your men. Now she is dead, the woman I wanted to serve as my mistress has disappeared, and the Japanese community is outraged. Is it possible that you are incapable of thinking beyond your prick?”

“I only did what a soldier should do with a captive woman, Colonel,” Goto said unrepentantly. “The people who are claiming she was pure-bred Japanese are lying. The girl was certainly part Japanese, but she was a mongrel with Hawaiian and American blood, which makes her less than nothing. There is no reason for anyone to get excited.”

“I am concerned that you disobeyed an order,” Iwabachi snarled. “I have only a few thousand men to govern these entire islands, and I depend on the goodwill of the Asian people to do that. Whether she was a mongrel or not, many people believe that she was Japanese and that you caused her death.”

Goto’s response was almost a sneer. “I did not force her to walk into the ocean, sir. That was her own stupid idea. So she got fucked, so what? Every woman will get it sooner or later.”

Iwabachi was a terrier of a man, considered a fanatic by many. His faith in all that was Japanese was absolute, and he prayed for the honor of dying for his emperor. At a different time and place, the admiral would have been sympathetic to Goto’s position. Today, however, he had an unruly set of islands to govern. He decided to play his trump card.

“Lieutenant, the girl’s last name was Ozawa. It is being said that she was distantly related to our Admiral Ozawa, even though she was a mongrel.”

For the first time, Goto looked uncertain. Admiral Ozawa commanded the naval detachments in action against Indonesia and Malaya, and was considered the logical successor to the revered Yamamoto, should anything happen to him.

“It can’t be,” Goto said without conviction. “I don’t even think that’s her last name. It was Ogawa, not Ozawa. We must refute the lie.”

Omori did not quite agree. “That is too simple. Refuting a rumor often does nothing but give it credence. Like many rumors, it will have a life of its own. We can only wait for time to cause it to die down. In the meantime, you must go. I am assigning you to command the kempetei detachment on the island of Hawaii, at Hilo. There are guerrillas loose on the island, and your task is to find them and destroy them.”

Goto bowed and sighed in some relief. His punishment would be a minor one, and the banishment to Hilo would only be temporary. Besides, while there he would have the opportunity for glory and independent command, and there had to be very young women in Hilo. It could have been a lot worse. It was good to have clout.

“And who besides the southern congressmen support this incredible idea?” President Roosevelt asked as he shook his head in disbelief.

“General DeWitt,” said General Marshall.

Roosevelt sighed. DeWitt was the commander of the Western Defense Command, which included California. Shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he had convinced the president and others that the resident Japanese were a threat to the safety of the country and quickly had them removed to concentration camps. Liberals, even those in Roosevelt’s own party, were calling it a travesty of justice in that many of those removed were American citizens, both native-born and naturalized, and others were too old and feeble to be considered threats. It didn’t matter. General DeWitt felt that the only good Jap was either a dead one or one who was locked up.

Roosevelt had reluctantly acquiesced. The mood of the country had demanded it, and he had rationalized that the Japanese-Americans would actually be safer in concentration camps than out on the streets and subject to mob justice.

But this request from a small group of senators and representatives astonished him. They proposed a trade of the Japanese civilians held in California camps for those white American civilians in Hawaii.

Senator Theodore Bilbo, a Democrat from Mississippi, was the spearhead for the plan. His rationale was simple: First, white people were being abused and going hungry in Hawaii; and, second, white people should never be held prisoner by nonwhites. Thus, with so many Japanese in our prisons and so many white Americans in theirs, a trade seemed like a logical step.

Roosevelt handed the paper containing the proposal to Marshall, who passed it to Admiral King. “Tell me, does the esteemed Senator Bilbo know he is under investigation for illegal activities involving war contractors?”

Marshall smiled tightly. “He must. Everyone else is aware of it.”

Roosevelt jammed his cigarette into an ashtray. “And what would he have us do with the nonwhite population of Hawaii? Just write them off and leave them under their oppressors? Doesn’t he realize that what he proposes would be a virtual signal of abandonment of the islands? It would tell the world that we have withdrawn from Hawaii forever.”

“I don’t think Bilbo has thought that far.” King snorted. “Personally, I don’t think the dumb son of a bitch can think to the end of his nose.”

“I’m being crucified by the press,” Roosevelt said. “Walter Winchell is saying the most terrible things about Hawaii to his radio audience,, and the Chicago Tribune is printing news of appalling atrocities, most of which is false. Even Father Coughlin has decided to reignite his career by blaming me for everything. Tell me, gentlemen, are there any real plans afoot to liberate Hawaii and relieve me of this god-awful burden?”

The two senior military men stole quick glances at each other. Under FDR, security in the White House was not the best in the world. At one time they had even restricted the president’s access to Magic information because of his maddening tendency to leave papers lying around, or to share the information with advisers who had no clearance to receive it. In particular, this applied to his friend and military adviser Major General Edwin “Pa” Watson, who was garrulous and sloppy with the documents he received.

“There are plans in the development state,” Marshall answered cautiously. “But there is nothing we can or should discuss at this time.”

“So I should say nothing in response to these attacks?” Roosevelt asked, and both men nodded. “This is so much more difficult than I ever thought it would be,” the president said sadly. “Thank you for your time, gentlemen. If you don’t mind, I’m not feeling well and am going to take a nap.”

Marshall and King watched as the president wheeled himself out of the office. He was gaunt and gray, and had difficulty maneuvering the chair.

“If he feels as bad as he looks,” King said as they were leaving, “then he is in really bad shape.”

Marshall did not comment. He was deeply disturbed by the state of the president’s health and what that portended. His worst nightmare was that Vice President Henry A. Wallace would accede to the presidency.