Instead, Murata laughed uproariously. “Go ahead, Takahashi-san. Go right ahead. Who do you think wrote that script, anyway?”

“Not Chancellor Morimura?” Jiro said in something not far from horror.

With more than a little malicious glee, the broadcaster from Tokyo nodded. “The very same. Now, Takahashi-san, enough of this nonsense. Get on with it, and no more backtalk.”

Miserably, Jiro obeyed. He wondered how he could get through the program, but he’d done enough of them that he had no trouble reading the words set out before him. He thought his performance left something to be desired, but the engineer in the room next to the studio gave him a thumbs-up through the window that let the man see in.

When it was over, sweat drenched Jiro. He stumbled out of the studio. Murata waited in the hallway, all solicitude now that he’d got what he wanted. “Very good!” he said. “You see? That wasn’t so hard.”

“Whatever you say,” Jiro answered dully.

“Yes, whatever I say.” Murata had that elegant accent. He wore a fancy suit. And he had all the arrogance the Japanese conquerors had brought with them from the home islands.

Jiro had admired that arrogance when it was aimed at the local haoles. When it was pointed at him and fired like a gun… It felt different then. Amazing how different it felt. “Please excuse me, Murata-san. I’m going home.”

“So long,” Murata said, as if he and Jiro were still on friendly terms. As if we were ever on friendly terms, Jiro thought. Murata had used him, the way a man would use any tool that came in handy. I was too dumb to see it. I see it now, though. He didn’t intend to say anything about it. If he did, Hiroshi and Kenzo would only laugh at him. Hearing I told you so from his sons was the last thing he wanted.

The thick, nasty, greasy smell of burning fuel oil filled the air. He’d got used to that after the Japanese bombed the Pearl Harbor tank farms. Then, once the tanks finally burned dry, the stink went away. Now it was back. It wasn’t so strong this time, probably because Japan didn’t stow nearly so much fuel here as the USA had. But the Americans had hit what there was.

Men from the special naval landing forces and civilians worked together to build barricades and machine-gun nests at street corners. The civilians hadn’t volunteered for the duty, which didn’t mean they could get out of it. When a haole man didn’t move fast enough to suit one of the Navy men, he got the stock of an Arisaka rifle in the side of the head. Blood running down his cheek and jaw, the white man threw another chunk of rubble on the growing barricade, and then another.

A soldier gestured with his rifle at Takahashi. “Hey, you! Hai, you there! Get over here and give the Emperor a hand!”

“Please excuse me, but I just did,” Jiro answered. “I just finished broadcasting for Murata-san.”

“Now tell me one I’ll believe,” the Navy man said scornfully.

But one of his pals said, “Hang on-I know this guy’s voice. You’re the one they call the Fisherman, aren’t you? I listen to you whenever I can.”

“That’s me,” Jiro said. A few minutes before, he’d hated his connection to the Japanese radio. Now he used it, even if he did hate it. He shook his head. Life was stranger and more complicated than anyone could imagine till he’d put a good many miles under his keel.

“Let him go,” the second soldier urged the first. “He’s done his bit, and we’ve got plenty of warm bodies here.”

“All right. All right. Have it your way.” The first man from the special naval landing forces sounded disgusted, but he didn’t argue any more. “Go on, you,” he told Jiro. “You better keep your nose clean.”

“Domo arigato. I will, thank you.” Jiro got out of there in a hurry.

The Americans hadn’t fought much inside Honolulu. They’d surrendered when driven back to the city’s outskirts. That spared the civilian population. But surrender wasn’t in the Japanese soldier’s vocabulary. The special naval landing forces looked to be getting ready to battle it out house to house. Would anything be left standing by the time the battle was through? More to the point, did anybody on either side care?

JOE CROSETTI GULPED COFFEE IN THE BUNKER HILL’S WARDROOM. If not for java, he didn’t know how the hell he would keep going. He’d heard the pharmacist’s mates were giving out benzedrine tablets to pilots who asked for them. He hadn’t tried to find out, not yet. He didn’t think he needed that big a kick in the pants. It had occurred to him, though.

In the seat next to his, Orson Sharp slurped from a bottle of Coke. He was serious about staying away from the “hot drinks” that were forbidden to him, but he needed a jolt, too. A couple of empties sat by his feet.

“You’re gonna be pissing like a racehorse,” Joe said. “What do you do if you’re up in your Hellcat and you gotta whizz?”

Sharp smiled what looked like a very secular smile. “Ever hear of a streetcar driver’s friend?” he asked. When Joe shook his head, his buddy explained the gadget. “Son of a bitch!” Joe said. “That’s a great idea. But what if it comes loose when you’re pulling a lot of g’s? You’ll have piss all over the inside of your flight suit, maybe all over the inside of the cockpit.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Sharp answered, “and I’ve flown that plane every which way but inside out. I’m thinking of writing a testimonial for the company.”

“Jeez Louise, I don’t blame you,” Joe said. “But what about your John Henry? How does it like the ‘friend’ when you weigh four times as much as you’re supposed to?”

“Everything hurts then,” Orson Sharp said matter-of-factly, which was true enough. “He’s not bruised or anything-I’ll tell you that.”

“Okay. I wish I’d thought of it myself,” Joe said. “Can you get ’em on the ship, or did you bring it aboard?”

“I brought mine, so I don’t know if you can get them or not. You’d probably do best asking the toughest-looking CPO you can find. If he can’t tell you, nobody can.”

“Makes sense. CPOs know everything-or if they don’t, they sure think they do,” Joe said. That had been a revelation to him since boarding the carrier. When he was in flight training, almost all his instructors were officers. He’d dealt with petty officers only when navigating the maze of Navy bureaucracy. Now he saw the senior ratings were the men who held things together. They might be able to run the ship better without officers than officers could without them.

A plane roared in and landed, up above their heads. The ship shook a little, but only a little. An Essex — class carrier displaced upwards of 27,000 tons; a few tons of airplane weren’t much next to that. Joe and Orson Sharp both said, “Dauntless,” at the same time. Engine noise was a dead giveaway-if you knew what you were listening for. By now, they both did.

“How does it feel, being a veteran?” Sharp asked.

Joe considered. A yawn interrupted his consideration. “Tired,” he said.

His friend nodded. “That’s the truth.” He took another swig from the wasp-waisted green glass bottle, then burped softly. “Excuse me.” His politeness was automatic; he’d been a gentleman before he became an officer. After one more swig, he went on, “We’re doing what we’ve got to do, though.”

“Oh, hell, yes.” Joe nodded vigorously. The Marines and Army men were on the ground in Oahu, and fighting their way south from the invasion beaches. It wasn’t easy or cheap-quit didn’t seem to be in the Japs’ vocabulary-but they were doing it. Some Japanese submarines still prowled around, but the enemy’s surface fleet in these waters had taken a KO. And enemy air power was on its last legs. Japan had proved naval air could beat the land-based variety. Now the USA was extending the lesson.