Genda decided not to show he understood everything King Stanley meant. Bowing, he said, “No, thank you, your Majesty. I will not live through defeat, either, I promise you. But we have our own way of ending.”

“Hara-kiri?” the king asked. Genda made himself not wince as he nodded; seppuku was a much more elegant, much less earthy way to put it. King Stanley grimaced. “Better you than me, buddy. I want to get it over with in a hurry.”

“It will be fast enough,” Genda answered. He turned to Senior Private Furusawa and spoke in Japanese:

“Will you please serve as my second? Things here cannot go on much longer.” As if to underscore that, the machine gun at the edge of the moat started hammering away again.

“I would be honored, Commander-san,” Furusawa said. “I will do it quickly, so you do not suffer.”

“Domo arigato,” Genda said, and then went back to English: “It is arranged.”

“Okay,” Stanley Laanui said. His mouth twisted when the machine gun abruptly fell silent. “You ready, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know.” Queen Cynthia’s voice shook. “I don’t know if anybody can be ready, but you’d better not wait.” She nodded to Genda. “Good-bye, Commander. We tried our best.”

“Hai. Sayonara.” Genda looked down at the floor.

The Hawaiian royal couple went into a little room off the central hallway. A shot rang out, and then a moment later another one. Genda opened the door. If either of them needed finishing, he would take care of it. But Stanley Owana Laanui, while he might not have made much of a king, had done what he had to do here. He and his redheaded queen both lay dead, each with a neat gunshot wound to the temple-and a nasty exit wound on the other side.

“Sayonara,” Genda whispered again, and went back outside. He nodded to Senior Private Furusawa.

“The time has come,” he said, and sat cross-legged on the floor. Baring his belly, he drew his Navy-issue katana from its sheath. He’d never used it before. He should have had a wakizashi, a samurai’s shortsword, but he would have to make do.

“As the blade touches you, sir?” Furusawa asked.

“Let it go in first,” Genda said. “Then.” He looked up to the ceiling. “With this, my death, I atone for my failure here. May the Emperor forgive me. May my spirit find its home in Yasukuni Shrine.” He drove the sword home. The pain was astonishing, unbelievable. Discipline forgotten, he opened his mouth to scream. Then everything ended.

WHAT WAS LEFT OF THE TOP TWO FLOORS of Iolani Palace belonged to the USA again. Japs and Hawaiians sprawled everywhere in blood-soaked, unlovely death. So did too goddamn many Marines. Japs, and maybe Hawaiians, too, were still holed up in the basement. Every so often, they would fire up through the floor above them. That was a nasty angle when a bullet hit; two Marines, one in Les Dillon’s platoon, had had their balls shot off.

The Japs had driven back three attacks on the basement from outside. Now the Americans were trying something different. Marine engineers were setting up a shaped charge on the ground floor of the palace.

It would blow a big hole in the basement’s roof. With luck, that would let leathernecks get down there and go toe-to-toe with the enemy.

Luck, Les thought. Some fucking luck. The Japs down there would die. So would a lot of Marines. He was too likely to be one of them.

Another bullet crashed up through the floor. By luck that really was good, that one missed everybody. Getting shot at from below was still goddamn scary. Several Marines fired a round or two down through the floor at the Japs they couldn’t see. Then they all went somewhere else in a hurry, so the slant-eyed sons of bitches wouldn’t nail them by shooting back where the bullets had gone through. Their boots clumping around overhead probably gave the enemy a hint about where they were anyway.

Through all the chaos, the engineers went on working. One of them looked up at Les and said, “Okay, we’re about ready to blow this bastard.”

“Hear that, people?” Les called to the other Marines. “Get your grenades ready. We’ll see how many of those fuckers we can blow to hell and gone before we go down there ourselves.”

Another engineer lit a fuse. The Marines drew back. After a sharp, surprisingly small whump! the charge blew a hole about four feet square in the floor. Along with his buddies, Les chucked grenades through the hole as fast as he could. Some fragments came back up. They bit one man in the hand. The Marines kept on tossing grenades into the basement. They didn’t want live Japs anywhere near that hole. Les didn’t see how anybody could live through what the enemy was getting, but the Japs had surprised him before.

“Come on!” he said, and let himself drop through the hole. He was down there by himself for only a heartbeat. More leathernecks dropped down with him. He saw a few twisted bodies close by. Then a bullet cracked past his head. Sure as hell, some of Hirohito’s warriors still had fight in them.

A Marine with a tommy gun sprayed death as if from a garden hose. After that, it was the usual chaos of a firefight, made worse because it was at such close quarters. Les was too busy to be afraid and too afraid to be anything else. He charged forward yelling like a banshee, and at least one of the fierce roars that burst from his throat started life as a terrified shriek. Even if he knew that, with luck the Japs wouldn’t.

Hell, they’ve gotta be as scared as I am, went through his mind in one of the brief moments when he wasn’t shooting or throwing a grenade into one of the rooms off the central hallway or using his bayonet. He’d already used it more here in Hawaii than he ever did in the trenches in 1918. If the Japanese soldiers he faced were afraid, they sure didn’t show it. Les wasn’t showing it, either, but he knew what was going on inside his own head. To him, the Japs might have been targets on the firing range, except they had the nasty habit of fighting back.

He fired and stabbed and used his rifle butt once or twice. He got a cut on one forearm, but it was hardly more than a scratch. If he wanted more oak leaves for his Purple Heart, he supposed he could get them. But he didn’t much care. The Purple Heart wasn’t a medal anybody in his right mind wanted to win.

More and more Marines jumped down into the basement. They went forward faster than they could get killed or wounded. Before too long, no more enemy soldiers were still standing. The Americans went through the basement, methodically finishing off wounded Japs. “Save a couple for prisoners,” Les called.

“The brass wants to grill ’em.”

He got grumbles from the men down there with him. “After what those mothers did to our guys, they ought to grill ’em over a slow fire,” one of them said.

“Save a couple,” Les repeated. “Maybe what we squeeze out of ’em will save enough of our guys while we’re cleaning out the last of ’em to make it worthwhile.”

“Maybe.” The Marine didn’t sound convinced, but he didn’t shoot the unconscious Jap at his feet, either. The enemy soldier showed no gunshot wounds, but he was out cold. Les wondered if he’d got the Jap with his rifle butt, or if one of the other leathernecks had done it.

He shrugged. That didn’t make much difference. The fighting right here was over. He could enjoy the breather-for a little while.

“CAN YOU HEAR ME?” a voice asked in Japanese.

Yasuo Furusawa forced his eyes open. His head hurt worse than after the worst hangover he’d ever had. “Hai,” he whispered so he wouldn’t have to hear himself. The man looking down at him was Japanese, but wore civilian clothes. They were in a tent: that was canvas behind the other man. Furusawa tried to take stock, but didn’t have much luck. “What happened?” he asked at last.