Genda had been puzzling till nearly midnight over what Japan could do to protect her ships. When he lay down, he looked forward to getting up before sunrise and getting right back to work. No one had ever accused him of not doing everything in his power, and no one ever would.

As things worked out, he woke up long before he expected to. At half past one, air-raid sirens started howling. Genda did his best to work them into a dream about an attack on the Akagi, but after a few seconds his eyes opened. Staring up into the darkness, he needed another moment to remember where he was, and why. Then he swore and jumped out of the cot.

The sirens kept wailing. Orders were to shelter in a cellar till the all-clear sounded. Genda was not about to obey orders like that. He threw on his trousers, rushed downstairs, and hurried out into the quiet streets to find out what was going on.

“Careful, sir,” said a sentry outside the building.

“Where are the enemy airplanes?” Genda demanded.

Before the sentry could answer, antiaircraft guns around Pearl Harbor opened up. A fireworks display of traces and bursting shells lit up the western sky. Half a minute later, the crump! of bursting bombs added to the din.

“Zakennayo!” Genda exclaimed in dismay. “They’re going after Akagi!”

American flying boats didn’t have the astounding range of H8Ks. They would need refueling from a submarine to reach Hawaii from the U.S. mainland, and probably another refueling to make it home again. As long as the enemy flying boat found the submarine in the vastness of the Pacific, though, that wasn’t an insurmountable problem.

The Yankees must have decided the same thing. Yes, they were doing their best to make nuisances of themselves.

Commander Fuchida had laughed when he told of suddenly appearing over San Francisco harbor in an H8K and bombing U.S. warships there. Now the shoe was on the other foot-and Genda didn’t like the way it felt.

Long after the American raiders must have disappeared, antiaircraft fire kept throwing up shells over Pearl Harbor. Shrapnel clattered down on Honolulu streets and rooftops. A chunk of steel falling from a few thousand meters would kill a man as dead as any rifle bullet.

Realizing he couldn’t do anything useful where he was, Genda went back into the office building and climbed the stairs as fast as he’d descended them. He flipped on the light in his office. Blackout curtains kept it from leaking out into the street. Right this minute, that probably didn’t matter. Having struck once, the Americans wouldn’t be back tonight.

Genda picked up the telephone. “Get me Pearl Harbor!” he snapped when an operator came on the line.

“Who is this?” The operator sounded rattled. “Are you authorized to be telephoning during an emergency?”

“This is Commander Genda,” Genda said coldly. “Put me through at once, before I ask who you are.”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Now the operator sounded terrified. Genda wanted him to sound that way.

“Pearl Harbor-Ensign Yasutake here.” The youngster who picked up the phone at Pearl Harbor, by contrast, almost squeaked with excitement.

After giving his name again, Genda asked, “What’s going on over there? Is the carrier all right?”

“Uh, yes, sir. A couple of near misses, but no hits,” Yasutake said, and Genda breathed a sigh of relief. The ensign went on, “Uh, sir, how did you know the Americans would attack Akagi?”

“Because she’s the most valuable target there. Why come all that way if you’re not going to attack the most valuable target?” Genda said. “And the Yankees are bound to know she’s there, too.” He was sure Oahu-and, indeed, all the Hawaiian Islands-crawled with American spies. A hidden wireless set in the mountains, a few quick code groups, and… trouble. “I don’t suppose we managed to knock down the American flying boat, did we?”

“No, sir. Or at least we didn’t see any sign of it,” Ensign Yasutake answered.

Genda sighed. “Too bad. Still, it could be worse. They didn’t hurt us badly, either.” Even if they did scare us out of a year’s growth. “You’re sure Akagi is all right?”

“Oh, yes, sir. No new damage,” Yasutake said. Genda hung up. For the next little while, people would be running around like chickens that had just met the chopper. One of the things the Army would be screaming about was that the U.S. flying boat managed to catch the Navy napping. And the Army would have more of a point than Genda wished it did.

His own phone rang. In the after-midnight quiet, the jangle made him jump. He picked up the telephone right as the second ring started. “Genda here.”

“This is Fuchida.”

“Good to hear your voice. I’m glad you’re all right. I’m glad Akagi’s all right.”

Commander Fuchida laughed. “I might have known you’d already know. But we were lucky, Genda-san — no more than lucky. If the Americans had aimed better, they could have done a lot of harm. We have to get some of those electronic range-finding sets out here from the home islands. Then we won’t be blind to attacks till they’re on top of us.”

That marched well with Genda’s thoughts. “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. “I’ll send a message to Admiral Yamamoto. If anybody can get some of those sets out here, he’s the man. I wish the Americans weren’t ahead of us there-they’re already running, while we’ve just started to walk.”

“Walking is one thing,” Fuchida said. “Thinking we can stand around is something else again.”

To that, Genda said the only thing he could: “Hai.”

JIRO TAKAHASHI CARRIED A PLUMP AHI UP NUUANU AVENUE TOWARD THE JAPANESE consulate. The Rising Sun had always flown above the consulate, reminding him of the land he’d left when he was younger than Hiroshi and Kenzo were now. These days, the Rising Sun waved above Iolani Palace and all over Hawaii. That made Jiro proud, even if it appalled his sons.

Even before the war started, Jiro had brought fine fish to the consulate. The men who served Japan deserved the best, and talking with them had given the fisherman a taste of home, so he’d been glad to do it. Since the war started, things were different. Jiro was pleased that his fish helped keep Consul Kita and Chancellor Morimura from going hungry.

Japanese soldiers in their dark khaki uniforms stood guard outside the consulate. Along with the palace and the leading warship in Hawaiian waters, it was one of the places where policy for the islands got hammered out. A sentry pointed toward Jiro. “Here comes the Fisherman!” he exclaimed.

By the way he said it, it might have been Takahashi’s name. All the sentries called Jiro the Fisherman. They bowed as he drew near. “Konichiwa, Fisherman-sama,” one of them said.

That was laying it on thick. The Fisherman or Fisherman-san-Mr. Fisherman-was fine. Fisherman- sama… As Jiro bowed back, he said, “You boys must be hungry if you start calling me Lord Fisherman.”

The sentries laughed. “We’re always hungry, Fisherman-sama,” said the one who’d used the name before.

They probably were, too. Japanese soldiers got better rations than local civilians, but still ate lots of rice and not much of anything else. The sentries came from the same class as Jiro, and from the Hiroshima area, too. When he could, he brought them something. Today, though, he bowed again, apologetically.

“Please excuse me, friends. Next time for you, if I get the chance. Maybe the men inside will share this ahi with you.” He held up the fish.

“Fat chance!” two soldiers said at the same time. One of them added, “Those stingy bastards don’t know how lucky they are to have you for a friend.”