Yamamoto got to his feet as Genda walked in. They exchanged bows. Yamamoto was only slightly taller than Genda, but had a wrestler’s stocky, wide-shouldered body. “Sit down, sit down,” he said now.

“How are you feeling? Better, I hope? You look stronger than you did, and you have more color, too.”

“I’m much improved, sir. Thank you,” Genda said as he did sit. He’d had pneumonia when the Japanese Navy squared off against the U.S. forces trying to retake Hawaii. Despite the illness, he’d come up from Akagi’s sick bay to the bridge to do what he could to help the Japanese carriers against their American opposite numbers. He didn’t take credit for the victory, but he’d taken part in it. More than a month after the fight, he was starting to feel like his old self, though he hadn’t got there yet.

“Glad to hear it. I was worried about you,” Yamamoto said with gruff affection. Genda inclined his head. Most of a generation younger than the admiral, he was Yamamoto’s protege. He’d planned the biggest part of the Pearl Harbor operation and the invasion of Hawaii. He’d planned them-and Yamamoto had rammed the plans through, turning them into reality. And now… they were meeting in the basement of Iolani Palace.

“The Americans have been very quiet since we stopped them,” Genda remarked.

“Hai.” Yamamoto nodded. “I think they will stay quiet a while longer, too. I am going to take this opportunity to go back to Japan. Now that Hawaii is settled for the time being, we have to talk with the Army about what to do next. Australia… India… And of course they’ll want to take another bite out of China, and they’ll expect our help with that.”

“So they will,” Genda agreed.