Black nodded. One of the files Kolhammer had sent him was Captain Halabi's report of the jet and rocket attack on the Trident. She described the German weapons as primitive and their tactics nonexistent. But those 262s looked mighty impressive to Black, who'd learned his flying just ten years earlier in a canvas biplane.

"And Hawaii? Australia?"

Kolhammer looked grim as he mulled over his answer. "The signals we're getting from MacArthur about a second assault Down Under are bullshit. The Japanese do not have the depth to pull off two strategic strikes at the same time. But they'll benefit from any doubt they sow in our minds by making a move to surge more of their forces down from New Guinea. It complicates things enormously. The chances of Prime Minister Curtin releasing any forces to help us in retaking Hawaii are slim because of it."

"You think it'll come down to having to retake the islands."

"I'm afraid so," said Kolhammer. "I've got all my intel people working the take from Hawaii, and nothing I'm seeing makes me feel good about this. The Japanese definitely have control of the Dessaix, a French ship that was part of my original force. I don't think they have the crew helping them-or not many, anyway. The attack profile was a fucking shambles and seemed to indicate both a very low level of competence by whoever is sailing her, and possibly even active sabotage by somebody on the ship."

Black poked at his breakfast disconsolately. "Well it's not all bad, then."

"No," said Kolhammer. "But there's nothing good about it, either. The enemy won't have sent the Dessaix in harm's way without stripping her of everything that wasn't immediately needed for the strike. And that's a lot of technology off a ship like that. It's even possible they've removed whole weapons systems and given them to the Germans. I had to send a burst to Halabi warning her that she could face a missile strike out of France. You see the problem. It's like a demonic butterfly effect."

"A what?" asked Black, looking completely dumbfounded.

"Never mind," said Kolhammer. "Bottom line, things are about to turn to custard everywhere all at once… There's something else, too, Dan."

Black's food had arrived, but he really hadn't touched it. He looked up from the plate at the change in Kolhammer's tone.

"I received some information the other day. Through back channels. It's about Hoover."

Black's face was blank.

"We've had a lot of trouble with the Bureau in the Zone, as you know."

The commander nodded. He seemed genuinely in the dark about whatever Kolhammer needed to discuss.

"I was given a list of names, of people the Bureau had recruited or attempted to recruit as informants, provocateurs, and so on. Your name was on the list."

Black's eyes went wide, and he swore. The blood drained from his cheeks and then rushed back in as his whole body seemed to stiffen with an electric shock. "Me? Why me?"

Kolhammer's smile was tired, but real. He had no intention of hooking Black up to a polygraph or asking him to take a shot of T5. His security section had already determined the circumstances of the approach to Black.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, Commander. You were an obvious candidate, and believe me, it is a goddamn tenth-order issue today. They were always going to pick you, and I think you were always going to disappoint them. But you didn't disappoint me."

Black moved around uncomfortably in his uniform. Their presence in the dining room had ceased to be a minor sensation, although a newly arrived group of four men did stop on their way through and pointedly check them out. Black didn't seem to notice them at all.

"It just leaves a sour taste in the mouth is all, Admiral."

"Get over it. They tried it on. They failed. Hoover will keep for the moment. Just be careful about talking to garrulous sheet metal salesmen in the future."

Black's face twisted as he tried to work out the reference.

"The man on your flight over here," Kolhammer said helpfully. "His name really was Dave Hurley, but he wasn't a sheet metal maker. He was FBI. He was trying to get you to compromise yourself, before he put the hook in. It wasn't the first time."

Black's jaw was knotting and clenching furiously. "Damn, Jules was right. I thought it was just her being, you know, twenty-first. All cynical and so on. But she was right about Hoover after all."

Kolhammer shrugged. "Maybe. There's a lot of unsubstantiated rumor around Hoover. And the thing about rumors, Commander-as your girlfriend the journalist could tell you if she's any good at her job-is that the rumor you most want to believe is the rumor you should be most skeptical of. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better go clean myself up. I feel like a bag of shit. I'll meet you in the lobby in fifteen."

As he stopped to sign his chit on the way out, Kolhammer saw the small group who'd just come in approach Black and engage him in an animated conversation. That was okay. As far as he knew, the FBI didn't have any black field agents at this point in time.

He hurried out of the dining room, with his Secret Service detail falling in behind him.

His hand kept patting the pocket where he had the data stick with the surveillance download from Chief Petty Officer Rogas. Kolhammer hadn't had time to watch the raw footage, but Rogas had cut together a five-minute briefing package that was mercifully free of too much X-rated material.

Kolhammer had no taste for gay porn.

Kolhammer was familiar with both the White House Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing, and the deeply buried tubelike Presidential Emergency Operations Center under the East Wing. In 2021, the meeting he was attending would have been held in one of those two places.

In 1942, however, neither existed. They were about to be built, because one of the more obscure factoids that came through the Transition in the lattice memory of Fleetnet was the information that the White House was structurally unsound and needed to be completely rebuilt from within. The work would have taken place during the Truman Administration, but had been brought forward in light of changed circumstances.

A single bomb could have brought the entire structure down on top of President Franklin D. Roosevelt. He was due to be temporarily shifted across to Blair House, but the move had been delayed by the attack in the Pacific and the bombing campaign at home. Thus Kolhammer and Black found themselves ushered into the old Oval Office by the president's secretary, Ms. Tully.

The room was instantly recognizable, but like so much of the world he moved through nowadays, noticeably different from Kolhammer's memories of the twenty-first century. He'd been in the room three times before.

Some things were reassuring constants, though: the white marble mantel from the original 1909 Oval Office, the presidential seal in the ceiling, the two flags behind the chief executive's desk, and the desk itself, carved from the timbers of the British warship Resolute. It was so familiar that he could have felt right at home, were it not for the other men in the room.

Roosevelt was in his wheelchair behind the desk, and he did not stand to greet them, although Kolhammer understood that the treatments he'd received from Task Force medical officers had greatly improved his mobility. The secretary of war, Henry Stimson, was waiting with Marshall and Eisenhower. Ike offered both of the newly arrived officers his cheeky, infectious grin.

Marshall, as ever, remained formidably reserved.

"Admiral Kolhammer," he said in his cold, clipped way. "Commander Black."

Black was mechanically formal in his reply. Kolhammer could afford to unwind a little, although he never called the chief of staff anything other than General or General Marshall. Roosevelt had told him that when he'd first met Marshall, he'd slapped the guy on the back and tried to call him George.