MacArthur had heard muted criticism regarding his choosing the Augusta in the first place. The whispers said that he wanted the Augusta because two presidents had sailed on her. What foolishness! He'd selected the Augusta because it had been configured to handle an admiral's staff, which meant it could house his. Admiral Nimitz had suggested they share the resources of Nimitz's command ship, the Wasatch. MacArthur, while appreciating the gesture, had demurred. He'd feared that his presence on the Wasatch would look as if he were under Nimitz's command when the command was actually shared by the two men.

On the other hand, there was no reason for the Augusta to be so far from Japan. They were a full hundred miles behind the fleet, which itself stretched for scores of miles, and this was not what he'd had in mind when he'd voiced the wish to be closer to the battlefields. He would tell Admiral Nimitz it was essential that the Augusta move much closer to Japan.

MacArthur thought and smiled. He would direct that the Augusta be stationed off Ariake Bay; thus, when circumstances permitted, he would be ready to go ashore on Japanese soil at the first opportunity. Wouldn't Gen. George Catlett Marshall like that!

MacArthur chuckled deeply at the picture. Some damn Republicans had contacted him about a presidential candidacy in 1948 against what they presumed would be that country nitwit, Harry Truman. A triumphal entry onto Japanese territory would help that cause, and the cause of America, immensely.

Now, if the Japanese army would only cooperate and begin to shatter. He sighed and bit down on the stem of his unlit corncob pipe. It was incredible that the Japs were still fighting. They had few weapons, fewer supplies, rudimentary organization, primitive communications, and poor leaders. He had to give the Japanese soldier a warrior's credit for being personally quite brave, but they would ultimately be defeated. Then General of the Army Douglas MacArthur would have his revenge, both on the Japanese and on the coterie of enemies conspiring against him in Washington. Yes, he thought, and smiled again, it would be a pleasant time.

Joe Nomura walked slowly and disconsolately down the dirt path that cut through the overgrown field. He was upset and frustrated. American armies were fighting desperately 150 miles south of him and he had done nothing lately to help them. He had continued his periodic reports, but there had been nothing new to report for a while.

There was still little food for the civilian population, and medicine was in even shorter supply. He had told his listeners that the average Japanese civilian was on the verge of starvation and disease and wanted the war to end, even if it meant surrender. He sometimes wondered if anyone important was actually getting his messages, or whether he was sending them into an electronic mine shaft.

The Japanese people had lost horribly in terms of their homes, their livelihoods, and the lives of their loved ones. The devastation of their cities, even those not atom-bombed, was virtually total. Work and travel were impossible. They cursed the American planes that flew overhead and bombed their homes and few remaining factories with almost contemptuous ease. In one way, the American invasion was a blessing for the Japanese civilians as it continued to siphon off large numbers of American warplanes.

The civilians he saw were sick at heart and discontented with the Anami government, which persisted in fighting a war they saw no way of winning. Strangely, this discontent did not reflect in a dislike for the vanished emperor. Virtually no one in Japan had ever heard Hirohito speak, so no one noticed his absence from the public forum. However, they did understand that Anami was in charge and that the military and the kempei backed Anami. Even with his own Japanese background Joe found it hard to understand their fatalism, but the civilians accepted the situation.

Joe had reported that large numbers of Japanese soldiers continued to infiltrate from north Kyushu to the south after either being shipped by submarine from Korea or having navigated the narrow straits between Honshu and Kyushu in swarms of small boats. He'd identified several major units originally stationed around Tokyo as having been switched to Kyushu, including several Imperial Guard divisions. It confirmed his opinion that Japan's major effort would be on Kyushu. He hadn't reported his opinion. Let the generals figure that out for themselves. He thought it was so obvious that they wouldn't need help from a lowly field operative to draw that conclusion.

Gathering this data had required little in the way of effort. The soldiers he'd met on the trail were more than happy to chatter like magpies when they'd met up with him. After all, he was one of them, wasn't he? Nomura's tattered uniform and missing arm were more than enough to induce the soldiers to tell him everything they knew. It was inconceivable that he could be anything other than what he looked like- an honored Japanese war veteran.

But what had he done lately? Joe wanted to do something that would really help the men who were fighting and dying for him. At least Dennis Chambers was still alive, feeling well, kicking and bitching. Chambers was as frustrated as he was. Living the life of a virtual hermit on a Kyushu mountaintop was driving Chambers nuts as well. An air force pilot, not a recluse, he too wanted to do something.

When they'd heard of the landings, the two men had discussed the possibility of working their way south and into the American lines. This they'd quickly discarded as an improbable accomplishment. Dennis's white skin would mark him as an enemy to the Japanese, and he'd be shot on sight if he was lucky. Then, Joe's yellow skin would draw fire from every American who saw him, and they'd ask questions later. They'd reluctantly decided they were much better staying where they were and not trying to get through the combatants. If the Japs surrendered, then they would decide how to deliver themselves to the proper authorities.

What really worried both men was that the war would develop into a prolonged stalemate, causing them to stay in hiding indefinitely in northern Kyushu. Equally frightening was the thought that the fighting would work its way northward and wash over them. This would cause the same difficulties as trying to get through the lines in the first place.

It wasn't fair, but what the hell else was new? Then he saw the bicycle lying on its side on the edge of the path. He grinned as he saw that no rider was around. If it was abandoned and rideable, it would beat the hell out of walking all over Kyushu in search of information to send back to mama in the States.

Joe grabbed the handlebars, righted it, and worked the pedals. It was dirty and battered, but the tires had air and it otherwise looked all right. Finally, he might be more useful. He would take the bike back to where Dennis was hidden and they'd discuss it over a shot of their dwindling supply of whiskey.

The bicycle was painted brown, which meant that it belonged to the military or at least had at some time in its past. This didn't worry him. With the desperate shortage of fuel, bicycles were everywhere, and many had belonged to the military. A brown bicycle would draw no attention, particularly since it would be ridden by a one-armed vet.

As he turned the bike around and began to pedal awkwardly, he saw something sticking out of the tall grass alongside the path. It was a leg.

"Hello, hello," he said softly, then grimaced as he realized he'd accidentally spoken in English. He hadn't made that mistake in a while, not even with Chambers.

Joe got off the bike and walked over to where the body lay facedown. The man wore the uniform of a captain in the Japanese secret police, the kempei. Joe knelt down and checked for a pulse even though the body was cold and graying. The captain of the secret police was dead. Joe rolled the corpse on its back and saw a massive indentation in its skull.