The only people who seemed unimpressed-to put it mildly-with his rise in the world were his sons. Hiroshi and Kenzo did their best to act as if nothing had changed, or to wish things hadn’t. Once, when they were out in the Oshima Maru and no one else could hear, Kenzo asked, “Why couldn’t you just keep your head down like most people, Father?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jiro answered his own question before Kenzo could: “It means you’re still full of sour grapes, that’s what.”

“You think the Americans are gone for good,” Kenzo said. “You think you can call them all the names you want. But they haven’t gone away. They’re sinking more and more ships these days. Their planes come over more and more often. What will you do when they take Oahu back? You’ll be in more trouble than you can shake a stick at, that’s what.”

“They’re back on the mainland.” To Jiro, the U.S. mainland was as far away as the moon. “How can they come back here? Do you think I’m afraid of the bogeyman? You’d better think twice.”

“They aren’t the bogeyman, Father.” Hiroshi backed Kenzo. “They’re real.” He spoke with a somber conviction Jiro couldn’t dismiss, however much he wanted to.

“Oh, yes!” He still tried to laugh it off. “And I suppose you’ve talked to them, and they told you just what they’re going to do.”

Neither of his sons said anything. They only looked at each other. The breeze shifted. With automatic attention, Jiro turned to the rigging. Every bit as automatically, Hiroshi swung the rudder a few degrees to port. He and Kenzo had become good sailors, even if they liked the United States too well.

They proved right about one thing: the Americans weren’t going away. Jiro had thought they would. After the beatings Japan gave them, wouldn’t they see they didn’t have a chance and give up? Evidently not. U.S. seaplanes buzzed over Honolulu or Pearl Harbor, dropped bombs, and flew away under cover of darkness. Or a submarine surfaced, fired a few rounds with its deck gun, and disappeared under the sea again. Or a sub didn’t surface, but put a torpedo into a Japanese freighter-and, again, disappeared.

A couple of times, the Japanese had sunk a marauding U.S. submarine. The papers and the radio trumpeted those triumphs to the skies. Hiroshi’s sardonic comment was that they wouldn’t get so excited about it if it happened more often. That hadn’t occurred to Jiro, and he wished it hadn’t occurred to his son, either; it made an uncomfortable amount of sense.

Was there a kami in charge of bad timing? If there was, the spirit had its eye on the Oshima Maru right that minute. No sooner had Jiro worried about how Japan was really doing than Kenzo said, “It sounds like the Russians are still giving Hitler a hard time.”

The Japanese-language papers that were the only ones Jiro could read had done their best to talk around that, but they couldn’t get around the brute fact that Germany had got into Stalingrad, had fought a terrible battle there, and had lost it. Jiro did his best to shrug it off, and even to counterpunch: “Hitler has his war, and we have ours. Did you see how our bombers hit Australia again? More haoles getting what they deserve.”

“Our bombers?” Kenzo shook his head. “They weren’t mine, Father, please excuse me.”

“You’re Japanese, too,” Jiro said angrily.

“I look like you. I speak Japanese, yes,” his younger son answered. “But I speak English, too. I was born in America. I’m glad I was born in America.”

“That silly girl you’re going with has you all confused,” Jiro said.

Kenzo glowered at him. “Elsie’s not silly. She’s about the least silly girl I ever met.”

“I’m not seeing any haole girl, and I feel the same way Kenzo does,” Hiroshi said.

Jiro went back to tending the sails. His sons just wouldn’t listen to reason. One thing growing up in America had done to them: it had taught them not to respect their parents the way they would have in Japan. He and his wife had done everything they knew how to do, but America corroded good moral order-that was all there was to it.

“You don’t know how lucky we are that we’ve come under the Emperor’s rule,” Jiro said.

That got squawks from both his sons. The squawks took some little will to turn into words. Kenzo got there before Hiroshi: “Some luck! If we didn’t catch most of our own food, we’d be as skinny as the rest of the poor so-and-sos in Honolulu.”

The ration ordinary people got was less than extravagant. “The Americans are sinking the ships that bring in rice,” Jiro said. “Chancellor Morimura told me so himself. And besides, we don’t have white men telling us what to do any more. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“We have Japanese soldiers and Japanese sailors telling us what to do instead,” Hiroshi said. “If we don’t do it, they shoot us. The Americans never did anything like that.”

“You haven’t got the right attitude,” Jiro scolded. His boys-now men with minds of their own-both nodded. He didn’t know what to do about them. He feared he couldn’t do anything.

COMMANDER MITSUO FUCHIDA BOWED TO HIS OPPOSITE NUMBER from the Army.

“Good to see you again,” he said.

Lieutenant Colonel Murakami bowed back in precisely the same way; their ranks were equivalent. “And you,” he said, slyly adding, “Kingmaker.” Fuchida laughed; along with Commander Genda and one of Murakami’s colleagues, they’d chosen Stanley Laanui to head the restored-on paper, anyhow-Kingdom of Hawaii.

That, though, probably wasn’t why Murakami had come to the Akagi-had actually set foot on a Navy ship-now. Fuchida waved him to a chair in his cramped cabin. There was no other kind on the carrier; even Captain Kaku was pinched for room. “What can I do for you?” Fuchida asked.

Before answering, Murakami looked to the closed watertight door that gave them privacy. “How long have we got before the Americans attack Hawaii again?” he asked.

“Why ask me?” Fuchida replied. “The Americans are the ones who know. You can ring up President Roosevelt and get the answer straight from him.”

Instead of laughing, Murakami grimaced. “That’s not as funny as it sounds, Fuchida-san. There was a telephone operator who passed on information to the Americans by calling California in the middle of the night when no one was paying attention to what she did. She will not call California any more-or anywhere else, either.” He spoke with a grim certainty.

“I never heard anything about that,” Fuchida exclaimed.

“You wouldn’t. It’s not something we’re proud of. But I’m telling you-in confidence, I hope.” Murakami waited.

Fuchida’s “Hai” was, Yes, I understand, not, Yes, I agree. He recognized Murakami’s ploy. The Army officer was telling him something he didn’t know. Now Murakami hoped to hear something he didn’t know. Bargains often went along routes like that.

When Fuchida said no more than Hai, Murakami sighed. “We do need this information,” he said reasonably. “We have to defend this island, too-with our airplanes, and with our soldiers if the Americans manage to land.”

That was polite. What he meant was, If the Americans smash our carriers. Since he was aboard one of them, he couldn’t very well come out and say so. Commander Fuchida also sighed. “When they build enough so they think they can beat us-then they will come.”

“Domo arigato.” Murakami’s thanks were a small masterpiece of sarcasm. “And when will that be?”

“They have commissioned-we think they have commissioned-two new fleet carriers, as well as some light carriers,” Fuchida answered. That was pay-back for Murakami’s bit of news; up till now, the Navy had held the information close to its chest.