For some reason gooseflesh crawled over his arms and legs, and he shuddered as the hair on his scalp stood up on end. It was ridiculous. What was there to be…

Two shadows detached themselves from the inky void of a small side passage just behind the German spy and flowed like jet-black quicksilver just around the edge of his peripheral vision. A stifled cry caught in his throat and his heart lurched in response to a warning from the deepest, most reptilian part of his hindbrain. His hands fumbled at the buttons of his leather coat, frantically seeking access to the Luger he carried in a deep breast pocket.

The faint swish of a descending Bokken was the last sound he heard before his arm shattered with a blast of blinding white-hot pain. The scream building in his throat had no time to emerge. He sensed, rather than saw, the briefest glimmer of a shadow, or a silhouette, or just a flicker of negative space, as the hiss of a wooden sword, swung with inhuman speed, presaged the end of his life. The leading edge of the hard wooden blade crushed his larynx, choking off the cry and the last breath he would ever draw.

As he twitched and shuddered on the wet cobblestones, clutching at his throat, desperately trying to drag air in through the crumpled windpipe, his eyes, bulging and bloodshot, darted everywhere for sign of his assailants. But he died without ever truly seeing them.

Isoroku Yamamoto did not look up when he had finished studying the paper. Brasch and Hidaka sat as quietly as they had during the hour and a half it had taken the admiral to read the document. Yamamoto did not speak. He exhaled a long, slow breath, as though he had been holding it all along. He closed his heavy lidded eyes, and they remained closed for many minutes.

Brasch ventured an inquiring look at Hidaka, who shook his head wordlessly.

"You have exceeded my expectations, gentlemen," Yamamoto said at last.

The two officers, near exhaustion after a marathon work session, thanked him quietly.

Yamamoto held the ninety-page laser-printed document aloft. "As I predicted, this is worth more than your lives."

Hidaka remained motionless. Brasch sketched a sardonic lift of the eyebrows.

"Our lives aren't worth that much anyway, Admiral."

"Well put, Major. You would not like more time for research?"

"No point," Brasch said without embellishment. "We might flesh out the details and the argument, but the line of reasoning that lies at the core would remain unchanged. We weren't really undertaking original research. One of the ship's systems operators was able to direct us to a wealth of material prepared by scholars who had been picking over the rubble of this war for three generations. They wrote with the value of hindsight; we merely harvested their labor."

Hidaka leaned forward. "If I might, Admiral. This system's operator, a junior lieutenant named Damiri, has proved much more cooperative and useful than Moertopo. He seems to have a genuine hatred of the Americans. I suspect he may prove a more willing collaborator. Moertopo is trying to play us for fools."

Yamamoto held the paper with his deformed hand and flicked through it again, stopping here and there to reexamine a particular point or argument.

"I agree with you about Moertopo," he said without looking up. "But we need his skills for now. If you wish to cultivate this other barbarian, go ahead. You have done great service to the emperor so far, Hidaka."

The Japanese officer looked as if he might burst with pride.

As Yamamoto reread another section of their paper, he murmured, "I was sorry to hear about Herr Steckel, Major Brasch."

"I sent my condolences."

"Sometimes they are all we have," Yamamoto said, letting the paper fall to his desktop. "And I agree with your recommendations, Commander Hidaka. I could have written them myself. They are bold and will meet much resistance, but I do not see any other way out of the trap we have constructed for ourselves."

Hidaka nearly levitated at the praise, but Brasch punctured his brief cheer.

"You could surrender."

"It is lucky for you that Herr Steckel is no longer with us," Hidaka sputtered. "I understand that defeatism is a capital crime in the Reich."

Brasch, as was his way, refused to rise to the provocation. He smiled in his slow, dreamy fashion, folding his arms as if discussing a football match in a beer garden.

"There are so many ways to die in the Reich, my friend. What does it matter how one departs this life?"

Hidaka, who had grown even more exasperated with the German's morose fatalism these last days, could stand it no longer. His temper launched him to his feet.

"The manner of one's death is the most important thing in life," he gasped. "I would not expect an ordinary gaijin to understand, but you are supposed to be the vaunted warrior of a warrior's race. Instead you speak like the most ignorant barbarian. It is as if you do not care who wins this war."

"I care very much," said Brasch.

"Then you should behave as if that were true."

Yamamoto watched the exchange without any visible sign of concern, but he intervened as Hidaka's irritation threatened to get the better of him.

"You forget yourself, Commander," he said sharply. "Resume your seat. A true samurai does not succumb to rage, like some wild dog. Even in the heat of battle, he is tranquil. His own death means nothing to him. Perhaps it is you who has something to learn from Major Brasch."

Brasch had the luxury of snorting at the proposition, while Hidaka was forced to choke on his own pride. Stiffly lowering his head, he first apologized to Yamamoto and then to the engineer for his outburst.

The admiral stretched and stood, motioning for the others to remain in their seats. He stepped out from behind his desk and paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin resting on his chest. Shaking his head and pursing his lips, he was the very picture of a man caught in an unbearable dilemma.

"This is how it will be from this moment forward," he conceded unhappily, stopping to stare out a porthole. "We will need to throw our shoulders against the axis of history, and tip it over. But the very people we are trying to save will be the ones who most violently oppose us. I have no doubt my counterparts at Pearl Harbor are having this same discussion, perhaps even right this minute. And I fear they will seize the opportunity of this miracle-or mishap or whatever it may turn out to be-to reinforce their strategic advantages, no matter what their current tactical weaknesses may be."

Yamamoto turned from the porthole through which he had been gazing.

"Major Brasch, what chance is there that you will receive a fair hearing in Berlin?"

"They already think I am a madman," he confessed. "And they may be right."

The admiral rolled on the balls of his feet, examining the carpet as though the answer lay there.

"It is not a matter of belief alone," he mused. "They will come to believe. At some point, one of these new ships will appear in the Atlantic and sink every battle cruiser Admiral Raeder sends against it. From what Moertopo tells us, the captain may even be a woman."

All three shook their head at that absurd notion.

"So it becomes necessary to advance the moment of their belief," the admiral continued. "I think you will need to return to your history lesson, gentlemen. Scour the electric library and learn all you can of events set to transpire the next few weeks in the European theater. We will need to intervene decisively in some issue, making use of the bounty that has come our way."