“Yes, yes.” Genda was always impatient with formality and paperwork. He scrawled his name, then almost trotted down the hall till he came to the stairway. Despite his small size, he took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. He wasn’t breathing hard when he came out; he might be little, but he was fit.

A captain on the telephone looked at him curiously as he went past the officer’s open door. Genda didn’t meet the other man’s eyes, or even notice his gaze. All the commander’s energy focused on the meeting that lay ahead.

He knocked on the door. “Come in.” Admiral Yamamoto’s voice was deep and gruff.

Heart pounding, Genda did. He saluted the commander-in-chief of Japan’s Combined Fleet. Isoroku Yamamoto returned the courtesy. He was no taller than Genda, but there the physical resemblance between the two men ended. Yamamoto was broad-shouldered and barrel-chested: a wrestler’s body, made for grappling with the foe. His gray hair was closely cropped above his broad, hard face. He had lost the first two fingers of his left hand in battle against the Russians at Tsushima in 1905, the year after Genda was born.

After waving Genda to a chair, he asked, “Well, Commander, what’s on your mind?” He was no more a time-waster than Genda himself.

Genda licked his lips. Yamamoto could be-often strove to be-intimidating. But the younger man asked the question he had come to ask: “Sir, if war against the United States comes, what do you think of our chances?”

Yamamoto did not hesitate. “I hope this war does not come. If I am told to fight regardless of the consequences, I shall run wild for the first six months or a year, but I have utterly no confidence for the second or third year. I hope we can endeavor to avoid a Japanese-American war.”

“You say this in spite of the blow we have planned against Pearl Harbor?” Genda asked. He had been involved in preparing that blow from the beginning.