Then, with that out of the way, we keyed the door pad to our fingerprints and made our way down to main level, where the actual meeting was scheduled to take place. The lobby itself was quiet as a tomb, but outside, beyond the heavily armored glass, a mob had gathered. The signs said it all: “Down with Alfano, Inc.!”

  “Back to the soil!”

  “Earth first!”

  The Greenies seemed to surge forward, an army of Zeebs reinforced by security people pushed them back, and Prudence stopped to watch. She was calm, very calm, as if nothing much mattered anymore. Then, as if I were the one who had stopped to look, she nodded toward the far side of the lobby. “Enough standing around, Maxon . . . the auditorium is on the far side of the lobby.”

  The lobby had been furnished with chairs that people rarely sat in, glass-topped coffee tables, and enormous tropical plants. We made our way between them to emerge on the other side. On the doors Andre had guards on the doors. They damned near growled. I nodded in reply.

  The auditorium was large, much larger than it needed to be in order to accommodate the forty-odd shareowners who actually showed up. Smartly dressed waiters dispensed appetizers and drinks. One of them spilled something, received a wicked tongue-lashing, and backed away.

  Prudence nodded to some of the shareowners as we made our way down the aisle and were shown to our seats. They had preprinted cards on them. Hers read: “Prudence Alfano” and mine said: “Assistant.”

  Linda took a seat nearby but didn’t look our way. There was no sign of Alfano senior. Pru touched my arm. “Maxon . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “No matter what happens, no matter how my father reacts, don’t kill him. He may be a first-class dyed in the wool shit, but he’s still my father.”

  I was about to ask her what she was talking about but didn’t get the opportunity. Martin Zawicki, the company’s chief financial officer, took the podium and called the meeting to order. Once that was out of the way there was a good thirty minutes’ worth of holo charts and financial mumbo jumbo before the CFO brought the presentation to a close. That’s when Alfred Alfano made his appearance, delivered a surprisingly effective speech, and opened the meeting to questions.

  There were a couple of softballs, tossed by friends of the family, but the sharks were waiting their turn. A woman with a nurse at her side sucked oxygen through a mask and removed it so that she could speak. Her voice was high and wheezy. “I join those who laud Mr. Alfano for past achievements—but am forced to look to the future. Why has Alfano Inc. lost 4 percent market share during the last twelve months? And what steps does he plan to take?”

  There it was, the moment when Alfano would have announced a deal, had there been one in the making. He forced a smile, hinted a new but unspecified initiatives, and pointed to a man in the fourth row. “You, sir. Did you have a question?”

  The shareowner’s suit looked a little too large, as if he had recently lost some weight, or borrowed it from another man. His eyebrows were bushy and untrimmed. Bright blue eyes peered out from under them. “Why yes,” the man replied, “I did. My name is Hoskins, Mark Hoskins, a onetime employee of Alfano Inc., presently serving as regional manager for Green Party. We would like to know when you plan to cut your reliance on fossil fuels, address global wanning, and provide benefits to freelancers.”

  Blood suffused Alfano’s face, and his jaw started to tighten. “This meeting is for stockholders, Mr. Hoskins . . . Andre will show you out.”

  “Oh, but I am a shareowner,” the Greenie replied tightly, “and a rather important one at that. Isn’t that correct, Ms. Alfano?”

  Every eye in the place swiveled between Linda and Prudence. I felt something cold trickle into the pit of my stomach and allowed my hand to drift under my jacket. Prudence stood. “Yes,” she replied, her voice strong and clear. “I joined this morning, and, to demonstrate how sincere I am, donated all of my shares to the party. From this moment forward the Greens control 14.1 percent of Alfano Inc.”

  It was an audacious move, one that put the screws to her father, and purchased some pretty good protection. They might be looney, but the Greens were well organized, and very well armed. And, thanks to all the press her conversion would generate, the tree-huggers had every reason to protect her, to keep their own rep clean. It was a deal worthy of her father.

  The crowd sucked air, Alfano reached inside his coat, and I shot him in the knee. A jet of blood sprayed outward, he crumpled, and all hell broke loose. A bullet whizzed past my head, the waiters produced submachine guns, and fired them into the ceiling. That froze everyone in place. Gun smoke drifted beneath the lights.

  Hoskins stood and sidestepped toward the aisle, his movements calm and precise. Once there, he turned to look at the audience. “It isn’t too late. Earth can be saved. Miss Alfano? Are you ready to leave?”

  It was nicely done. Just like he had practiced in front of a mirror. Prudence nodded. She made her way to the aisle, and I followed. The waiters covered our exit. Hoskins led us into a restaurant and through the kitchen. A row of employees, all gagged and bound, lined one of the walls. We followed Hoskins out onto a loading dock where an unmarked delivery van waited with opened doors. We stepped inside, took our seats, and strapped in. The driver knew her stuff, and the corpies never came close.

  Prudence gave me three days’ pay plus a bonus. Not bad, all things considered. I never saw her again except on the holo, speaking for the Greenies, or when they ran a piece on her paintings. The critics seem to love them, and she smiles a lot.

  Her father sent three different poppers after me, got tired of paying for services he never received, and eventually gave up. As for me, well, the money ran out a couple of months ago, but Bobby’s still out there, and the burritos are good.

  Path of the Storm

  Once at the enemy, you should not aspire just to strike him, but to

  cling after the attack.

  —Miyamoto Musashsi, A Book of Five Rings

  PEARL HARBOR STRIKE FORCE, DECEMBER 5, 1941, 16:00

  THE STORM WAS BORN over the warm waters of the Pacific near 12N 135W on November 29 about sixteen hundred miles southwest of Baja California. The depression began to gain strength the following day when it was reported by several merchant ships and one of the U.S. Navy’s destroyers.

  That’s when the storm was named “Gabrielle,” after a radioman’s girlfriend. It moved west after that, continued to pick up speed, and was upgraded to a tropical storm at 13N 152W, or 470 miles SSE of Hilo.

  Meanwhile, hundreds of miles to the north, a long gray wave, just one in what seemed like an endless train of such waves, rose like a miniature mountain then parted as the 27,500-ton Kongo-class battle cruiser plowed into its thirty-foot-high face. A welter of white spray exploded away from the ship’s bow and flew back toward the stern.

  The deck bucked and a two-foot-high wall of seawater sluiced along the side of the ship’s superstructure to catch an unwary sailor from behind. The water pushed his feet out from under him, but he managed to grab a stanchion. The garbage can he’d been sent to empty rattled away, bounced off a 13.2-mm gun tub, and tumbled over the side.

  A gunner, his body shapeless under a glistening oilskin, shook his finger. “You’d better go after that can or Cookie will have you for dinner!”

  The sailor replied with a rude gesture, heard laughter by way of a response, and turned into the wind. It plastered his clothing against his body, dragged tears from the corners of his eyes, and doused him with cold salt water. The hatch was only ten meters ahead. It looked like a kilometer.

  High above, standing on the wing that extended out from the enclosed bridge, Vice Adm. Chuichi Nagumo stared out to sea. On either side of his battle cruiser, the farthest ships lost against the everdarkening skies, the rest of his fleet bucked and plunged. Not just any fleet, but what might be the most powerful fleet ever assembled. Six carriers, two fast battleships, two heavy cruisers, a light cruiser, and nine destroyers. All supported by eight tankers and supply ships.

  Nagumo felt the ship lurch as she dived into another wave, waited for the hull to stabilize, and used the brief interlude to reenter the warmth of the bridge. The interior smelled of wet wool, strong tea, and stale cigarette smoke. His officers stood like statues, feet apart, their eyes on the spray-spattered windscreen.

  The helmsman, both hands on the enormous wheel, spun the spokes to the left as a wave loomed off the port bow. The admiral pitched his voice to be heard over the sound of the wind, the creak of highly stressed metal, and bursts of static that leaked from the radio shack just aft of the bridge. “Send for Lieutenant Omato.”

  A rating scurried toward the hatch. Nothing was said, but every person on the bridge knew what the admiral was thinking. The storm could delay or even abort the all-important attack on Pearl Harbor. An attack that, if successful, would compromise American military power in the Pacific to such an extent that the United States would be forced to accept a negotiated peace while Japan continued to expand.

  The deck officers were outwardly impassive as the lowly meteorological officer arrived on the bridge, pushed his glasses higher on his nose, and came to attention. He was nervous, as he had every right to be, and his voice shook. “Sir, you sent for me?”

  “Yes,” Nagumo replied, well aware that the bridge party was listening. “Have you noticed the weather?”

  “Yes sir. I’m the meteorological officer, sir.”

  Someone sniggered but stopped when the steely eyed XO turned to glare at him.

  “Yes,” the admiral replied patiently, “that’s why I sent for you. Tell me about the weather . . . how much worse is it likely to get?”

  Omato struggled to formulate an answer. No mention of the storm had been made in the coded reports received from Japan, and given the need to maintain radio silence, he couldn’t ask for help. Not that the Admiralty would necessarily have any relevant information to offer since they had very few resources east of the Hawaiian Islands. A submarine or two perhaps, but they spent a great deal of their time submerged and weren’t able to offer more than localized reports. “I’m sorry, sir, I honestly don’t know. My guess, and it’s only a guess, is that we will encounter the worst part of the storm around 2100 hours tonight.”

  The admiral stared at the junior officer for what seemed like an hour, actually no more than a few seconds, then nodded his head. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That will be all.”

  Omato left the bridge, and Nagumo turned to the XO. “Maintain the same speed and heading. Call me if the weather worsens.”

  The ship’s executive officer stood even taller. “Yes sir!” And he held the pose till the admiral had cleared the bridge. That’s when he allowed himself to relax slightly and barked at the helmsman. “You heard the admiral! Steady as she goes.”

  The helmsman didn’t blink. “Steady as she goes. Yes sir.”

  Signal lamps stuttered as darkness closed around the fleet and Nagumo’s orders were relayed to the rest of his ships. Dawn remained a long ways off.

  THE ISLAND OF OAHU, DECEMBER 5, 1941, 20:15

  Most of the Pacific Fleet was in, and the Blue Girl was packed. The voluptuous mermaid occupied the better part of an entire wall and painted the entire room with her blue neon glow. She buzzed softly and seemed to float suspended within a haze of cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoke. Men in crisp white uniforms shouted for more beer, a dance tune blared, and a couple shuffled across the dance floor.

  Marine Staff Sgt. Mike Moon eyed the crowd, liked the mix of uniforms, and looked forward to making a deposit in his steadily growing retirement fund. Something the burly noncom thought about more frequently of late. Three months, six days, and roughly twelve hours. That’s when he would hit the magic twenty-five-year mark, kiss the crops good-bye, and head home to Montana. He’d buy some land, round up some cattle, and who knew? A wife? Kids? Anything was possible.

  Moon’s thoughts were interrupted as Corporal McKenzie, otherwise known as “Pockets,” bumped the table, slopped some beer out of the pitcher, and sat in the adjoining chair. “I have what you’re looking for, Sarge. A nice big deck ape, complete with his own flotilla of beady-eyed swabbies.”

  “Yeah?” Moon said. “Where?”

  “Over there,” the little marine answered, gesturing with his beer mug. “Under the weather hoist.”

  Any number of traditions were observed within the Blue Girl’s sacred walls, one of which was to maintain a hoist of signal flags on one of the whitewashed pillars, or “masts,” that supported the roof. Like most fleet marines with more than a single hitch under his belt, Moon could read most such signals and knew that a black box on a field of red signified a storm warning. Two such flags, one hung over the other, warned of a hurricane. The very thing that accounted for all the rain.

  Of more interest, however, was the group of white uniforms gathered around the table directly below the flags. The man Pockets had selected was impossible to miss. His surprisingly small head sat atop a wedge-shaped torso. The carefully tailored shore rig was so tight the sailor had no choice but to keep his Camels stashed in a sock. The petty officer made an aside and his toadies laughed.

  Moon took a sip of beer, waited for eye contact, and winked.

  The sailor frowned, wondered if his eyes had somehow deceived him, and looked again. There was smoke, lots of it, and maybe that was the problem. No, the marine was blowing him a kiss!

  Now, like remoras attached to a shark, the deck ape’s entourage sensed his displeasure. One saw the kiss and was quick to comment. “Damn, Briggs, did you see that? The sergeant loves you!”

  The petty officer stood with all the dignity of a mountain heaving itself off a plain, handed his hat to the toady on his left, and started across the room. Sailors scattered, someone yelled, “Fight!” and the bartender, a normally jovial sort, known as “Pops,” groaned.

  The bartender was reaching for the phone when a freckle-covered hand grabbed his wrist. Pockets shook his head. “Don’t call the Shore Patrol yet, Pops . . . not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  The older man hesitated. “Things cost money.”

  The corporal pulled a wad out of his pocket, peeled two twenties off the roll, and handed them over. “There you go, Pops, a damage deposit. Okay?”

  The money vanished. “Okay, but keep it one-on-one, got it?”

  Pockets nodded. “Got it. Semper Fi.”

  Pops replied, “Semper bullshit,” waved the bar rag in a gesture of surrender, and turned to the shelves loaded with booze. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull the expensive stuff down before any chairs started to fly.

  Moon sat back in his chair and watched the sailor wind his way across the room. He was a big one all right, with long arms and slightly bowed legs. “Well look what we have here,” Briggs said. “A girlie boy all dressed up to look like a marine.”

  That, or something like it, was the cue Pockets had been waiting for. “Girlie boy?” the corporal objected indignantly. “Have you lost your fucking mind? Staff Sergeant Moon is 100 percent marine. . . . The kind who can kick your worthless deck-swabbing ass from one end of this bar to the other!”

  The toadies now stood in a rough semicircle behind the petty officer. One of them, a seaman named Cristo, gave a snort of derision. “Would you like to put some money on that? Say ten bucks?”

  “Ten? Hell, I’ll put twenty on it,” Pockets replied hotly. “And that goes for the rest of you mop pushers, too.”

  “Let’s see the color of your money,” a lanky torpedoman demanded, and Pockets obliged. One after another, bills were counted off the thick wad and given into the hand of an army sergeant for safekeeping. Had the sailors been less inebriated, and had they been a bit more knowledgeable regarding army insignia, they might have noticed that the seemingly avuncular noncom wore a Corps of Engineers insignia on one shoulder and the crossed cannons of the artillery on the other. But the small discrepancy was missed as was the wink that passed between the soldier and the corporal of marines.

  “So,” Briggs demanded heavily. “How do you want it, girlie boy? Sitting in a chair? Or up on your feet?”

  “Up on my feet,” Moon replied easily and rose from the chair. He stood six-two but was sadly out of shape. A pronounced pot hid the top half of his brass belt buckle. He swayed and was forced to grab a chair for support.

  “Jeez,” one of the sailors said, “look at the bastard! Briggs will lay him out in less than a minute! Hey, you! Put another ten on the bosun for me!” Others echoed the call, and more money flowed to the army sergeant, who obligingly tucked it away.

  “The dance floor,” Moon said thickly, “that’s where I’ll kick your ass.”

  Briggs allowed himself to relax. He’d been worried at first, concerned lest the marine turn out to be a genuine challenge, but there was no sign of that. He gestured for Moon to pass. “Lead the way, asshole—assuming you can transport that gut all the way to the other side of the room.”

  People laughed. Moon staggered and loosened his tie as he walked. It was off by the time he stepped onto the hardwood dance floor and turned to raise his fists.

  Briggs expected, no wanted, a toe-to-toe slugfest where his big knot-shaped fists could inflict the maximum amount of damage on his opponent’s face. The face first and foremost, because that’s where it hurt, that’s where it would show, and that’s where it would continue to serve as a flesh-and-blood testimonial to the petty officer’s prowess.

  The sailor’s roundhouse right ran into an unexpected obstacle as Moon grabbed the petty officer’s wrist, turned his hip inward, and reached up under his opponent’s arm. That’s when the NCO grabbed a fistful of jersey, used his hip as a fulcrum, and jerked the sailor off his feet. It was a simple throw, one every marine learned in basic, except Briggs had never been to basic.