Machine guns blazing, an American fighter raked the flight deck from no higher than the top of the island. Despite the bellowing antiaircraft guns, the enemy escaped. “That is a brave man,” Genda said.

“Zakennayo!” somebody else replied. “How many of our brave men did he just shoot up?” Genda had no answer for that.

“Helldivers!” someone screeched. Genda involuntarily looked up, though steel armor kept him from seeing the sky. But then, he didn’t need to see to imagine dive bombers racing down towards Akagi. He was one of the men who’d brought the technique to Japan, and he’d brought it from the USA.

Rear Admiral Kaku swung the wheel hard to port, then even harder to starboard. Muscles in his shoulders bunched as he tried to force the carrier to respond to his will at once. Bombs splashed into the sea all around Akagi, but the first few missed. So far, so good, Genda thought.

Then another shout pierced the racket on the bridge: “Torpedo! Torpedo to port!”

This isn’t fair was what went through Genda’s mind. Too much happening all at once. He and his countrymen had kept the Americans off-balance through the first two fights in Hawaiian waters. Now the shoe was on the other foot, and much less comfortable this way.

Cursing horribly, Kaku yanked the wheel to port again, intending to turn into the torpedo’s path. But either that took him into the path of the dive bombers overhead or the Yankee pilots simply guessed with him and outguessed him. Three bombs hit Akagi: near the stern, amidships, and right at the bow.

The next thing Genda knew, he was on the floor. One of his ankles screamed at him when he tried to put weight on it. He hauled himself upright anyhow-duty shouted louder than pain. Several men were down and wouldn’t get up again; the steel beneath his feet had twisted like cardboard and was awash in blood.

Kaku still wrestled with the wheel. He went on cursing for a few seconds, then said something worse than the blackest of oaths: “She doesn’t answer her helm.” If Akagi couldn’t steer… Kaku turned to the speaking tube to shout down to the engine room. A ship could be guided, crudely, by her engines. It wasn’t much, but it was what they had.

The torpedo hit then, as near amidships as made no difference.

Akagi had taken a torpedo, from a plane off the Lexington, during the first strike against Hawaii. That fish, like a lot of the ones the Americans used in the first months of the war, proved a dud. This one-wasn’t.

Genda found himself on the floor again. Getting up a second time hurt even more than it had the first. All the same, he did it. Once he was on his feet, he wondered why he’d bothered. For a moment, he also wondered if he could stand straight. Then he realized the problem wasn’t his but Akagi’s: the ship had a list, one that worsened every minute.

Flames were shooting up through holes in the flight deck, too. Men with hoses fought them, but they weren’t having much luck.

“My apologies, Commander,” Admiral Kaku said, as if he’d accidentally bumped into Genda.

“Sir, we’ve got to abandon ship,” Genda blurted. As if to underscore his words, an explosion shook Akagi. Maybe that was aviation gasoline going up, or maybe it was the carrier’s munitions starting to cook off.

Calmly, Tomeo Kaku nodded. “You are correct, of course. I will give the order.” He spoke into the intercom, which by some miracle still functioned: “All hands, prepare to abandon ship! This is the captain speaking! All hands, prepare to abandon ship!” Bowing politely to Genda, he went on, “You should head for the flight deck now, Commander. I see you have an injured leg. Give yourself all the time you need.”

“Yes, sir.” Genda took one lurching stride towards a doorway twisted open. “What about you, sir?”

“What about me?” Kaku smiled a sweet, sad smile. “This is my ship, Commander.”

Genda couldn’t very well misunderstand that. He did protest: “Sir, you should save yourself so you can go on serving the Emperor. Japan needs all the capable senior officers she can find.”

“I know you younger men feel that way,” Kaku said, smiling still. “If that course seems right and proper to you, then you should follow it. As for me… I have made mistakes here. If I had not made mistakes, I would not be losing Akagi. The least I can do is atone to his Majesty for my failure. Sayonara, Commander.”

After that, nothing would change his mind. Recognizing as much, Genda bowed and limped away. The last he saw of Rear Admiral Kaku, Akagi’s skipper was fastening his belt to a chair so he would be sure to go down with his ship.

When Genda got to the flight deck, he saw more flames leaping up from the bomb hit at the stern. “Come on, boys, over the side!” a petty officer shouted, sounding absurdly cheerful. “Swim away from the hull as fast as you can, mind, so the undertow doesn’t drag you down when she sinks!”

That was good, sensible advice. And the ship’s growing list made going over the side easier. Genda cursed when he hit the water even so. That ankle was definitely sprained, and might be broken. He rolled over onto his back and pulled away from Akagi with his arms.

American fighters strafed sailors in the sea. Bullets kicked up splashes only a few meters from him. He swam past a dead man leaking scarlet into the Pacific. The blood would draw sharks, but sharks, at the moment, were the least of his worries.

Their antiaircraft guns still blazing, destroyers circled the doomed Akagi to pick up survivors. Some men clambered up cargo nets hung from the sides. With his bad leg, Genda couldn’t climb. He clung to a line till sailors aboard the Yukikaze could haul him up to the deck.

“Domo arigato,” he said. When he tried to stand on that bad leg, it wouldn’t bear his weight. He had to sit and watch Akagi slide beneath the waves. His face crumpled. Tears ran down his cheeks. Since he was already soaking wet, only he noticed. He looked away from the carrier that had fought so long and so well, and noticed he was far from the only man off Akagi doing the same. She deserved mourning-and so did Admiral Kaku, who’d never left the bridge.

AN EXULTANT VOICE HOWLED in Joe Crosetti’s earphones: “Scratch one flattop!” Yells and cheers and curses rang out as the enemy carrier sank.

“How do you like that, you Jap bastards?” Joe shouted. He looked around for more Zeros, and didn’t see any. Some might still be airborne, but not close to him. He’d made a few runs at sailors bobbing in the sea, but decided he could hurt the enemy worse by shooting up his ships. That felt like a real duel, because the Japs shot back for all they were worth. Watching sailors scatter was a hell of a lot of fun.

After he’d made a couple of passes, an authoritative voice sounded off: “Attention, Hellcat pilots! We’ve got a formation of bandits coming up from the south at about 15,000 feet. Time to give them a friendly American welcome, hey?”

Joe needed a few seconds to figure out where south was. He’d got all turned around in his strafing runs. When he did, he started to climb. His new wingman still clung like a burr, which was what a wingman was supposed to do. He wondered who the guy was, and from which carrier he’d taken off.

There were the bandits, buzzing along as if they didn’t have a care in the world. If they didn’t, they were about to. Joe had trouble recognizing ships, but planes he knew. He clicked through a mental card file. Bombers. Twin-engined. Streamlined-they looked like flying cigars. Bettys, he thought. They could carry bombs or torpedoes. The point of the exercise, as far as he was concerned, was to make sure they didn’t get the chance to use whatever they were carrying.