Rachel drew a breath and peeked up. Commander Murray still looked furious, but kept his own counsel for the moment. About two dozen strong, her audience was a study in parallel but contrary natures. Nobody looked comfortable or remotely assured. She'd nearly majored in psych before switching to postgrad history, and would have loved to watch a video of the whole meeting, to tease out the personal clashes, to watch alliances take shape as the various interests maneuvered for dominance.

What a pity the outcome was so far from academic with thousands-if not millions-of lives dependent on the decisions that would be made in this room. She was glad the burden of choice did not fall on her.

"In North Africa," she continued, "the Afrika Korps under Rommel are due to press an offensive to El Alamein…"

She delivered the rest of her brief speech with growing confidence, now that she knew Halabi would act as her shield. She reminded the senior commanders that the SS was carrying out an atrocity in Lidice at that very moment. She warned of attacks on convoys bound for Malta on the fourteenth and fifteenth of June, detailing the individual losses to air attack, torpedo boats, and surface raiders. She pointedly advised the British liaison officers to attend to the inadequate state of Tobruk's defences-advice she could just tell they were going to ignore. She told Nimitz that General MacArthur should know that significant Japanese forces were supposed to land in New Guinea on July 22, and as things stood they would be opposed only by a limited number of Australian militia.

She concluded by pointing out that tens of thousands of Allied POWs were, for the moment, being held in large central camps in the Philippines and Singapore, and that many of them would die quite wretchedly over the next few years of their captivity. At each stage of her talk a panel of the wallscreen switched from displaying the world map to running images of the relevant topic. There was no escaping the human consequences of Lidice, or the Bataan Death March.

"Is there a point to that, miss?" asked Admiral Bill Halsey. "Or are you just rubbing our noses in it?"

Rachel was familiar with Halsey's reputation as a blunt speaker. She struggled not to take it personally.

"I'm just doing my job, Admiral. You have the information I was asked to provide. Making decisions on the basis of that information is not my responsibility."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," said Captain Halabi, forestalling any reply from Halsey. "Does anybody have any questions relating to the presentation?"

Rachel handed over the data stick that held the briefing information and extended background notes. Halabi inserted the stick into her flexipad and broadcast the files around the room. Rachel could see that each of the contemporary officers had been provided with a flexipad, and she wondered how many would actually use them.

"Lieutenant, how long will it be before those POWs are dispersed to labor camps?" asked Colonel Jones.

"The first group of about three thousand have already left from Changi in Singapore for the Burma-Thailand railway. Another fifteen hundred will go on July eighth. All of the officers will be moved on August sixteenth. Casualties among Allied POWs in Japanese camps will run between thirty to forty percent, depending on the individual situations at each camp. I'm afraid that hundreds of Americans have already perished on the forced march from Bataan to prison in central Luzon."

Nimitz, who clearly was tired and grappling with an infinitely more tangled web of problems than he'd ever imagined might arise in this war, rubbed at his eyes and spoke quite irritably, which Rachel knew was unusual for him.

"I don't see where this advances the discussion of our strategic options, Colonel Jones. Nobody has to tell us what a bunch of bastards the Japs are. There'll come a heavy reckoning for their crimes in the future, but the best we can do for those men who've been captured is to defeat the enemy that's torturing them."

"In fact, Admiral," Colonel Jones said carefully, "that may not be true."

Nimitz was beyond understanding. He gave the marine commander a blank look and indicated with a weary gesture that he should explain.

"If they were our men," Jones said, "we'd go and get them."

Two hours later, Rachel couldn't keep her eyes open. She'd been sent back to her office after her presentation to further research the POW issue. She had been awake for all but four hours of the last forty-eight, and was nearing the time when she would have to sleep or get a stimulant patch. Those things always gave her hideous nausea, so she was hoping to grab a little shuteye, but she was called into Halabi's temporary quarters aboard the Clinton to present her supplementary data.

"Here it is, ma'am," she said, stifling a yawn as she handed Halabi the data stick. "It's only preliminary. If we all go at it tomorrow, we can get a lot more for you."

The British officer wasn't alone. Colonel Jones was perched on the edge of a desk, and another marine-a doctor to judge by her insignia-was nursing a glass of something on the couch, resting her eyes. Rachel knew that American ships were supposed to be dry, but she was certain she could smell bourbon. The doctor sat up and smiled at her. It was too late for formalities.

Halabi gestured for Rachel to sit down.

"Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant?"

"No, thank you, ma'am. I plan to sleep soon, if that's all right."

"Good luck to you," Halabi said sympathetically. "I'd like you to fill in Colonel Jones and Doctor Francois concerning that note you sent me after your briefing."

Rachel felt more than a little uncomfortable with the request. She'd beamed Halabi the message as an afterthought.

"All I said," she began, "was that we'd have little trouble defeating the Axis navies if we engaged them ourselves. Even with the damage we took at Midway. Their weapons and doctrine are generations behind our own. But just as they're generations behind us, so are the Allies, not just technically, but culturally, as well. We can help here. We could probably rescue those guys in the prison camps, for instance, and they'd be insanely grateful. At least at first.

"But if we're here permanently, we pose a significant threat to their way of life just as surely as would defeat by the Axis powers. Not as dire a threat, of course. But a threat nonetheless."

"How so, Lieutenant?" came the deep bass rumble of Colonel J. Lonesome Jones. She suspected he already knew the answer.

"This is nineteen forty-two," she said. "Begging the colonel's pardon, sir, but by the standards of this time, you are not an African American-"

She was going to continue, but she didn't have to. Johnson finished the thought for her.

"No. I'm a nigger."

"And I'm a little coolie girl," said Rachel. "And Captain Halabi is a half-breed, and some of us are wogs and kikes and dagos. These guys aren't Nazis, but they're not going to understand us. And my guess is that what they don't understand and cannot control, they'll eventually treat as threatening."

"There's nothing eventual about it," said Francois from the couch. She rubbed her eyes. They looked very red and watery to Rachel.

"It's already begun," the doctor went on. "The riot down in Honolulu today, Borghino getting shot, Anderson and Miyazaki getting whacked. I tell you… what they did to that woman…"

Halabi looked like she was about to ask the doctor to shut up, but the surgeon plowed on anyway. She was bitter and furious, and she spat her words out like poison darts.

"They stuck a piece of piece barbed wire inside her, and used it like a fucking pipe cleaner. I tell you, Lonesome, if we catch these assholes and they still get away with it, I am going to personally draw down and cap 'em myself."