It was a moot point, however. Enough damage had been done to render the island indefensible against any Japanese force that included the Dessaix or a ship of similar capability. Follow-up strikes by carrier-based Japanese planes had focused on further degrading the islands' air defense net, but those strikes had been unnecessary, as far as he could tell. The piles of twisted, white hot metal, which had been the Clinton's surviving fighter wing, were all Yamamoto needed to see. With those gone, and the Dessaix at large, it was only a matter of time before the Rising Sun flew over Hawaii.

There was little point in turning the Clinton around and sending her back. Without a working catapult or fighter wing, she was just a target, not a threat.

The Kandahar was an option, but not a great one. Jones's forces were spread over a couple of thousand square miles, and it would take more than a week to gather and embark for any counterstrike, and they were running perilously low on ammunition.

The Havoc had run through all her land-attack missiles. She had a small number of ship-killers left, and seemed the obvious choice to hunt for the Dessaix, but he was going to have the devil's own job convincing Canberra to release her.

As they approached the Rockies in near total darkness, Phillip Kolhammer examined his options and could find only one viable response to Yamamoto's gambit.

The Siranui.

HONOLULU, HAWAII

Every window in her apartment was broken, but at least the building still stood. So much of Honolulu had been flattened that Rosanna hadn't expected to find anything but smoking rubble where her home had been.

Cherry's place was gone, along with his police station. And Curtis had been trying all day to find someone to report to, without any luck. He'd given up for now and decided to stick with her. The three of them pulled up outside her place in the gathering darkness of midevening. Her apartment building stood on the side of a hill, and half the island seemed to be ablaze below them.

The time between the Japanese air raids was becoming noticeably shorter.

"They're closer now," said Curtis as a few pathetic lines of tracer snaked up from the fiery cauldron that had been Pearl Harbor. Irregular flashes from exploding bombs strobed away below them.

"You got anything to eat?" asked Cherry.

"You gotta be kidding," said Curtis.

"No, he's right," Rosanna countered. "If the Japanese get ashore, we don't know when we'll eat again before relief arrives. I've got some leftovers in the icebox, and my oven is gas. We should eat now. We'll need our strength. I want to pick up some batteries for my gear, too. I don't know if we'll get back here again, once we leave."

Curtis looked even more despondent. He stopped halfway up the path that led to the front door of her block. "Do you really think the Clinton will come back?" he asked.

Even Cherry seemed interested in her answer.

"No," she said. "The Clinton's out of it for now. But the Kandahar isn't. Or that LAS with her, the Ipswich. Even if the Japanese take over, they could kick down the door and fight their way in."

"Unless they get sunk," said Cherry, "by whatever hit us."

"Yeah," she agreed, feeling very tired. "But let's not think about that right now. Come on, let's get inside."

There was no electricity to light the place, whether from the effects of the electromagnetic pulse or from direct damage to the power grid, she couldn't tell. It didn't matter. Cherry had brought a hooded oil lamp, looted from God knew where. There was so much smoke and dust in the air that the beam was tightly defined, reminding Rosanna of a light saber. That familiar image from her childhood, which now seemed so much more peaceful than this nightmare, lifted her spirits slightly.

Everything was relative, she told herself as they climbed the stairs to the rooms she occupied on the third floor of the Mission-style building. Curtis thought that she'd grown up in a world full of violent lunatics.

"Miss Natoli, is that you?" a quavering voice asked. Cherry's lamp quickly picked out a small, round white face framed by unruly strands of gray hair, peeking out over the landing above them.

"It's okay, Mrs. Mackellar. Yeah, it's me."

"Oh, dearie, I've been so worried. Mr. Ramsay said the Japanese had landed and were going to kill everyone and-"

Cherry's voice boomed out. "It's all right, Mrs. Mackellar. I'm Detective Cherry, from the Honolulu PD, and I can assure you that everything will be okay. Now you need to go back into your apartment, ma'am, and wait for help to come. Do you have enough food to last a few days?"

"Well, I… the delivery boy came this morning, just before the air raid and-oh, I hope he hasn't been hurt-"

"He'll be fine, ma'am," Cherry said, taking the stairs two at a time to get up to her. The oil lamp threw long, swaying shadows as he climbed. Rosanna saw him place a huge paw on the old woman's shoulder and steer her back into her home. "Fill your bath with cold water, Mrs. Mackellar. And your sinks and any pots or pans you have. In case the water gets cut off. And listen to your radio-"

"I can't, Detective. The Japanese broke it."

"What… Oh, right. Yeah, Lieutenant Curtis down there told me about that. They had some special bomb fried the electrics. Most of 'em, anyhow. Well, not to worry. A uniformed officer will come around, and tell you when it's safe again. For now, just do as I say. In fact, you might want to go around to the rest of the occupants and tell them the same thing. Can you do that for me, Mrs. Mackellar? Can I deputize that job to you?"

Rosanna found herself touched, and more than a little surprised by Cherry's ability to calm the old lady's nerves. Mrs. Mackellar promised him she would go right away, and instruct the rest of the building to do as he said.

"Well, get yourself a candle or a torch," he cautioned, "and be careful on the stairs in the dark. There isn't going to be any ambulance service for a while."

Cherry came back down and joined them on the lower landing.

"What are you fucking looking at?" he growled at Rosanna.

"You fucking asshole. You're just a pussycat," she said back. "Why can't you be nice like that all the time?"

"Because it hurts my head," he said. "This your place, Natoli? Can we get inside and get some grub now?"

She added the light of her flexipad to his oil lamp, to help find the keyhole.

"Is there a layer of lead or something in there that protected it from the pulse?" asked Curtis.

"Not lead, no," she answered as the key turned. "But most of my stuff is hardened for battlefield use. My watch isn't, though. Look."

She showed him her wristwatch. The alphanumeric display was dead.

"It used to light up," she said. "It had the prettiest blue face."

"Got any booze?" Cherry asked, pushing his way into the living room, where glass crunched underfoot.

"There's champagne in the icebox. That's it, but you're welcome to have some."

"Jesus Christ, lolly water," he muttered.

"Hey, for a guy who was spying on us until this morning, and doing a shit job of it, too, you're a bit of a lippy fucker, aren't you?"

"Calm down, sister," said Cherry. "It's been a long day. Where d'you keep your glasses?"

"Not under my pillow, like you. Try the cupboard over the sink."

Cherry crunched away.

"I'm sorry about your place," Curtis said. Every window seemed to be broken.

"It was always too dark for my tastes, anyhow," she said, shrugging. "You should see the joint I bought in New York, with Julia. Hey, speaking of which, I'd better file."

She set about slotting the flexipad into the drivebay of her personal server. It could run on batteries for three days, and had even better shielding against an EMP than her pad. A row of blinking lights, on a charcoal gray communications cone jacked into the rear of the box, told her that she still had a link to Fleetnet.