"The Russians," Anami said with a sneer, "are paying the price of their treachery. Already they are running out of supplies, and a Siberian winter is beginning to blanket them in ice and snow. Do not worry about the Russians. Stalin's frozen and hungry legions are not going to be a factor in the coming battle."

And so much more was going on with Stalin. At Anami's direction, Foreign Minister Hideki Tojo was working wonders with the most subtle of negotiations. With only the slightest good fortune, there would be some unpleasant diplomatic and military surprises for the Americans as the despised Soviets were being extremely cooperative. Anami thought that the Soviets also wanted the Americans to bleed profusely.

Anami took another sip of the cheap, harsh whiskey that was all that remained of what had once been a magnificent supply. But they would be stopped, he swore.

The Decisive Battle would begin shortly. The storm that had swept the Pacific and caused so much damage on Okinawa had delayed the inevitable invasion but not stopped it. Yet, every day the invasion was delayed had brought additional strength and numbers to the defenders of Kyushu. What a magnificent thing it would be, Anami thought, surging with pride, if the typhoon turned out to be yet another divine wind, a true kamikaze.

As always, Commander Hashimoto let no hint of any emotion show on his face as he stood in the conning tower of the I-58. Inwardly, he was churning. He wanted to yell at the confused soldiers who had spilled out of the hatches and onto his deck. They looked like fish escaping from a torn net. He wanted them to hurry even faster than they were, for every instant spent on the surface and so close to land was fraught with peril. Even seconds too long could mean death. He silently cursed.

As with the other transits, this too had been a litany of confusion and even horror as one soldier, confined in a submarine that was under the ocean and jammed full of sweating, stinking bodies, had gone mad and been bludgeoned to death. It could not be helped. Ferrying soldiers from Korea to Kyushu by submarine was the only way their arrival could reasonably be assured. The I-58 had made a score of those trips between Korea and Kyushu and, by Hashimoto's count, had delivered more than fifteen hundred frontline soldiers to fight the coming of the Americans.

The routine was simple. The I-58 would surface in the night off the Korean coast and south of the city of Pusan. Small boats would stream out from the shore and deposit as many soldiers as the I-58 could hold. That most were without weapons or other equipment meant that more could be squeezed in. Once loaded, the I-58 would submerge and make the 150-mile journey to Kyushu. Sometimes they would pause at Tshushima Island, a rough midway point in their journey, and surface to clear the air that the presence of so many bodies had fouled. The I-58 had been refitted with a German air-breathing device called a Schnorchel, but it was barely adequate under normal circumstances, and the additional men simply overwhelmed the schnorchel's abilities.

When they arrived at the night-darkened coast of Kyushu, the soldiers would be off-loaded onto yet another swarm of small boats and taken ashore where they would get new equipment. From there they would be sent southward to stem the anticipated onslaught.

While Hashimoto recognized the need to do this, he resented that his submarine had been forced to act as a transport and not as a weapon. He knew it was as a result of his using two of the precious kaiten human torpedoes against that damned American sub. In retrospect, he realized that he should not have given in to the wails of the young volunteers and should have saved them for a more significant target, such as a carrier, and used conventional torpedoes against the American sub. He had been rebuked for his actions, and the assignment as an underwater ferryboat captain had been his punishment.

Thank God, his stint in purgatory was about to end. Or it would as soon as the last of the soldiers stumbled and bumbled their way off his boat and onto the small craft. Thankfully, they were being quiet. While the likelihood of voices carrying over water to where an American patrol boat might be lurking was small, it was not a chance he was prepared to take. The soldiers had been ordered to maintain silence under penalty of death.

Hashimoto saw his lookouts straining, staring into the darkness to try to detect even the slightest hint of motion. If they saw anything, the I-58 would submerge immediately, even if that meant that some of the soldiers were lost.

Many of the larger American planes had radar and would, upon registering a contact, drop flares and use searchlights to pin a target. Then they would strafe with machine guns and drop depth charges to sink the target. Since the I-58 was in relatively shallow water, a sudden attack would be fatal, as he could not dive deeply to get away. Hashimoto had a submariner's dread of being submerged so close to the surface as to be visible to an enemy plane.

Hashimoto saw an army officer heading toward the conning tower. It was the commander of the army unit. What the hell did the man want?

"Captain, I wish to thank you for bringing us safely home."

Hashimoto wanted to tell the man to shut up and get the flick off his ship, but he forced himself to be polite. The officer wheeled and stepped briskly onto the last of the small craft. En route, the officer had told an interesting story. He claimed that he and his men had actually passed safely through the Russian lines on their way to the Pusan area. Most interesting if it was true. But then, the officer was quite young and most likely confused. The Russians were Japan's enemies, and not her allies.

Hashimoto ordered the hatches closed, and the I-58, free of its cargo, turned its nose toward the sea and safety.

"The last time," Hashimoto muttered, and a few heads turned at the sound of his voice. No one dared to ask what he was talking about.

Hashimoto gave the order to dive and went to his cramped cabin, where he sat down at his small desk and examined the piece of paper on which his radio operator had written his new orders. His hands shook slightly as he reread the orders. The I-58 was to proceed with all prudent haste to a position off southern Kyushu. There, American ships were gathering for the invasion. His orders concluded with the simple phrase that he was to attack and destroy any and all targets of opportunity, but with special emphasis on carriers and troop transports.

For the first time in weeks, Hashimoto smiled. The orders had told him he could return to base and get additional supplies if that was necessary. He had thought about it briefly, but decided against it. He was safest under the sea and not alongside a dock at some navy base that was subject to bombing. No, he would proceed directly to the waters off southern Kyushu. He had food and water for several weeks normal cruising and could extend that by cutting back on rations. He had a full complement of Type 95 torpedoes. He did not have any of the distracting kaiten on this trip and didn't want them.

Targets of opportunity, the orders said. The I-58 and her sisters were free to roam and kill as they wished. Instead of working as ferries, they were to be sharks, predators of the sea. It was glorious, as was the phrase targets of opportunity. It was a submariner's dream and he vowed to live it to the fullest.