To the left of his cockpit the northern shores of Hokkaido ripped past. He took a moment to savor the view. Soon he would have no time, and everything would pass in a blur. He sent his daughter a last prayer, reciting the lines of the letter he had left for her.

Motoko, you often looked and smiled at my face. You slept in my arms, and we took baths together. When you grow up and want to know about me, ask your mother and Aunt Kayo. I gave you your name, hoping you would be a gentle, tenderhearted, and caring person. I wish you happiness when you grow up and hope you become a splendid bride, and even though I die without you knowing me, you must never feel sad.

As the sun’s first rays poured over the horizon, he chanced a brief gesture, taking one hand off the control stick to stroke the small doll his daughter had played with and enjoyed so much.

When you grow up and want to meet me, pray deeply, and surely your father’s face will show itself within your heart. You must not think of yourself as a child without a father. I will always protect you as I do right now.

And then, it was time.

The enemy ships had appeared in the distance before them.

The smell of something like bratwurst awoke him.

“Sorry, guv’nor, but it’s sausage sangers for you this morning. Bit of a blow on, you see. No sit-down feed this morning.”

“Was ist los?” he asked in his own language, before remembering where he was. “Sorry. What do you mean?”

The English sailor passed him a sausage wrapped in a piece of white bread. Brasch had to brace himself against a bulkhead so as not to go tumbling out of his bunk and onto the floor.

“See what I mean, guv. Got some big seas today. Had to nuke this up for you. Couldn’t use the fryer. Brought some coffee, too. Black, two sugars.”

As he shook the cobwebs from his head, Brasch thought he understood. They were in the middle of a storm, or at least a rough passage of water, so the galley could not operate as normal. It was good to know that these people hadn’t mastered everything. He nodded his thanks as he took the “sanger” and the plastic squeeze bottle with his coffee. The sailor tipped him an informal salute and waited until the ship rolled in the right direction to take him out of the small cabin. Brasch noted that a new guard had come on duty while he’d been asleep.

He checked his watch. He had slept for twelve hours. Exhaustion had caught up with him. Not just the physical and mental strain of his escape, but something more. A release of some sort. For two years he had expected to die in a Gestapo cell. His one respite from the gnawing terror had been the knowledge that his family was safe, somewhere in Canada. He had not been conscious of the effort involved in suppressing his fears for the future of his wife and boy, but it had been enormous.

Now, with the very real possibility that he might not just see them again, but that they might live out a normal life, uncontaminated by the poison of the Nazis…well, it was almost too much to bear. Brasch felt giddy, as though teetering on a precipice, which in a way he was. Fate was about to spill him into an entirely new life. Just as it had when he’d survived that day at Belgorod, and been sent east to investigate the arrival of the Sutanto. The ship from the future.

He ate the sandwich in three bites, amazed at how the small patch on his inner wrist had quelled his usual seasickness. A few sucks on the coffee bottle revived him even further. The ship’s cook brewed an excellent espresso. When he was finished, he swung his feet down and climbed into his boots. The British had given him new clothes, a comfortable civilian outfit. It was odd to think that he would never wear a uniform again. They had relieved him of his flexipad and sidearm, which was to be expected. Otherwise, apart from the guard on his door, he’d been treated with rare civility.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Brasch looked up from doing his laces. The guard had put his head inside.

“When you’re ready, General. The captain would like a chat, sir.”

Brasch nodded as he finished. Steadying himself, he waited for a sympathetic movement of the ship and used it to propel himself upward with at least some control. He had no idea how these nautical types put up with this rubbish. The Sutanto had been even worse.

The ship plowed into the base of a steep wave and began to climb. Forcing him to haul himself out of his cabin and into the companionway, where he found an additional guard waiting for him. Whenever he moved about the ship he always had at least two overseers, but they were unfailingly polite, even deferential, as far as it went.

The three men struggled along the corridor, flexing their knees as the deck shifted beneath them. About thirty meters down they climbed to a lower deck and doubled back, ending up somewhere beneath his cabin. Brasch swung in through the door as indicated and found himself in a darkened room, with a handful of Allied personnel gathered around a bank of large, glowing computer screens. Brasch had never made it aboard the Dessaix while it was being stripped, but he imagined it must have looked something like this. As advanced as the Sutanto had appeared to him at first, this vessel was obviously a great deal more sophisticated. The British had not been very forthcoming in answering his questions about it, though.

The Trident’s commander, the half-caste woman Halabi, was waiting for him with Prince Harry and a small group of men and women, none of whom he recognized.

“Good morning, Herr General,” Halabi said. “I’m glad to see you got your head up. I take it the Promatil patch is working.”

“Yes,” he answered. “It is working very well indeed, thank you, Captain. Is there something I can help you with? I thought I was supposed to be transferring to land today.”

Halabi, who seemed to have no trouble maintaining her balance in the difficult conditions, waved a hand at one of the screens. “My colleagues wanted your input on a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Brasch shrugged. “I imagine I’ll be doing nothing but answering questions for a long time to come.”

“I’m afraid so.” She pointed to a distinguished-looking man seated at the table, wearing a British army uniform. “Colonel Hart.”

The officer smiled unsteadily at Brasch. He was having a hard time with the violent movement. “Herr General. Young Harry’s been telling us of your adventures in Paris. Sounds like a smashing time.”

Brasch returned the smile uncertainly. “Like most adventures, it was best experienced in the telling, rather than the execution.”

“Marvelous,” Colonel Hart said. “Now, if I might. Would you mind awfully telling us if you chaps had any plans for using germ bombs, or poison gas?”

The abrupt change in topic caught him somewhat off-guard, and he had to search for an answer. It wasn’t that he wanted to hide anything. Rather, it was that he didn’t want to appear to be doing so.

“I didn’t work on any such projects myself,” he said at last. “It wasn’t my specialty. But I understand Himmler did have a special projects section of the SS investigating such weapons. When it became apparent that the atomic program might not deliver quickly enough, he was quite desperate to find an alternative. Why? Has someone used such a weapon?”

“Not on us,” Hart replied, before moving aside to give Brasch an unrestricted view of the large computer screen behind him.

Captain Halabi spoke up as he did so. “These images were captured by one of our drones a few hours ago,” she explained. “To my people, this looks like a bio-weapon.”