“More’n that, Captain. They had blueprints for hiding these things in mountain caves-they were gonna shoot ’em out of the cliffs at the Yanks when they got close enough. Probably woulda done some real mischief.”

“Probably will, you mean.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Willet nodded. All around her the crew in the submarine’s Combat Center maintained their vigil on the fighting. Dozens of screens ran with low-light and infrared coverage of the battlespace. The result was an eerie scene.

On Hokkaido at least half a million men tore at each other across a sixty-five-kilometer front. In the waters offshore, the Soviet invasion fleet seemed unchallenged. Destroyers and light cruisers steamed up near the coastline to lend gunnery support to their comrades who were pushing inland. Overhead at least two dozen Russian fighters maintained a combat air patrol over the ships at all times.

“How long?” Willet asked.

“Not long at all,” Lohrey answered. “Those things are really moving.”

She nodded at a large screen to her right.

The Havoc’s Combat Intelligence had a fix on eighty-two rocket bombs screaming toward the Soviets in a long stream. Apparently there was no forming up into squadrons for the attack. The Ohkas just took off and made for the enemy at top speed.

“Amanda, as Captain Judge would say, git-r-done.”

As he sped toward his death, Corporal Chuji Asami could not shake the image of the girl, Reiko, who had tormented him so with her cat. Asami had always hated cats. It was only natural, having been born in the Year of the Mouse.

Around him the world had contracted to the cramped cockpit of the rocket bomb. The roar of the engine was so powerful, the tremors of the airframe so violent, that he felt as though he was trapped at the very center of an earthquake. Asami gripped the flight stick so tightly that his arms ached, and he tried to concentrate on following the long line of exhaust plumes that stretched out in front of the bubble canopy, like a string of shooting stars. But he seemed fated to face the end of his life pursued by the memory of Reiko, giggling as she chased him around the little noodle house in Chiran Town, holding her cat up like an evil charm.

Was it his fault that he couldn’t stand to be in the same room as the filthy animal? Could he help it if his face contorted and his flesh crawled at the very sight of the beast? How many times had he complained to Torihamasan? But his friends in the squadron thought it a great joke, and they encouraged the girl in her endeavors, roaring with laughter when Asami fell off his stool in his haste to escape the little troll and her pet. It was only natural that the girl’s parents would not discipline her, given the joy she brought to the Thunder Gods with her antics.

That’s what they were known as now. The Thunder Gods. Meteors screaming toward destruction. His friends. His leader, Lieutenant Uemura.

That would be Uemura, up ahead. One, two, three, four exhaust plumes. He was much older than the rest of the squadron. Twenty-five to Asami’s seventeen. A graduate of Rikkyo University, and a father, while most of the men did not even have girlfriends. Asami’s heart swelled with memories of how diligently the lieutenant had trained them, how he had looked after them as though they were his own family. He was a kind man, unusually so. He had taken all of his charges to one last meal at Torihama’s noodle house before they left Chiran for the fleet base at Hashirajima.

Uemura had produced a barrel of junmai-shu sake from somewhere-a rare treat in these hard times-and among them they had sipped to the last draft. Asami had been so drunk, he had not been able to change the records on the phonograph. And of course Reiki had waited until he was almost incapable of fleeing before suddenly leaping at him from the shadows with the cat in her hand. Such a shock had he received that he bumped his head on a low beam trying to get away. He could feel the gash rubbing against his goggles even now.

Everyone had roared with laughter, but Lieutenant Uemura had picked him up off the floor and shooed the cat away.

“A mouse you may be, Corporal Asami,” he’d said, laughing, “but soon the little mouse will terrify a great elephant. Yes?”

“Yes!” Asami had agreed, nodding his head so vigorously that a few drops of blood flew from the graze he had given himself.

“Then drink up, little mouse! You have earned it.”

The roar of his friends that night echoed still beneath the roar of his engines. Below, and away to the west, a low moon threw a curving scimitar of flickering light across the waters. Ahead of them, the volcanic peaks of the lower Kurils glowed a dim ruby red. To the east a new dawn hovered on the cusp of the world.

Asami wondered if Uemura was thinking of his family.

Masahisa Uemura’s heart ached. The lieutenant had fixed a small doll to his dashboard where he could see it easily. It belonged to his little daughter, Motoko, who had played with it in her crib, and it bore the marks of having been chewed and sucked and handled roughly by her. He intended to focus only on the doll as he plunged his rocket plane into the enemy. That moment, the ending of his life, could not be far away now.

As they approached the volcanic range that shielded them from the Russians his stomach felt like it was trying to rise up into his mouth. The Ohka’s airframe shuddered at it plowed into weird, contrary masses of air. He’d struck pockets of turbulence and thickness and strange, empty spaces that were less than nothing. The fiery peaks rushed toward him at an insane rate.

Life rushed away just as quickly. The life he would have led raising little Motoko. Her life, which he would never know, but for which he was about to die.

He craned around as far as could in the restricted confines of his flying coffin. As far as he could tell the men remained in position behind him. He felt better, thinking about that. They were good boys. The bravest of the brave, and he hoped he had trained them well. They were all that stood between the Japanese people, the emperor, and annihilation at the hands of the Communists. He was sure they would do their duty. If only he could be certain that it would mean anything-that the admiral’s gambit would pay off. After all, this was not the mission they had trained for.

As he swept through the gap between Kunashir and Iturup islands he caught his first glimpse of the invasion fleet: a dozen or more vessels anchored offshore, their running lights blinking in the gloom. With their speed it seemed they would be past the enemy’s lead elements well before he could respond, and indeed, the Communists fell behind him before he observed any reaction on their part. It was probable, however, that the last of the Ohkas would fly into a barrage from those ships as the crews realized an attack was under way.

Uemura wrested the plane around on a new heading, taking her a few degrees to the northwest, where the bulk of the Soviet armada lay ahead. He had a very short time left to spend in the same world as his wife and beloved daughter now. A quick check of his wings told him that the guidance lights were functioning properly. His men would be watching closely, trusting in him to lead them toward the quarry. They had been assigned the task of the striking at one of the two “helicopter carriers” identified as potential command centers for the invaders. Little was known of how the Soviet air defenses might perform against them, but hopes were high. They could not be anywhere near as advanced as the Americans or the Emergence barbarians.

Some of the Thunder Gods should get through.