That was the way they'd recruited him.

He let his mind replay those events. The things he'd said, the things he should have said. But he couldn't dwell on it for long-not if he wanted to retain any vestige of his sanity. He found it easier to dwell on his companions.

He thought about Shine and wondered how the role of lackey sat with him. Kennedy had needed someone undercover in the Waldorf, and where else was a negro going to hide in New York City, much less the Union?

The reservations were all in the Midwest and they were full. The only negroes permitted in the North were in major cities, and they had to be registered in the employ of a landowner or some company. Ironically, things weren't as bad in the South. You could be self-employed if you were black, perhaps even run your own business, thanks to the major. But the best prospects, for both negroes and indians, remained in the army.

Shine's father had served in Kennedy's unit. Had fought with him at the Battle of San Juan. He was among the soldiers Kennedy had petitioned to receive land rights after the last Ranger War. Soldiers who'd sworn to follow Kennedy into hell itself, and then did so at Mazatlan.

Land rights for the disenfranchised. There was a precedent for Kennedy's actions, but you had to look back. To Rome. To Marius, Sulla and, of course, Julius Caesar. Men who had inspired armies to follow them rather than the state. Men who had brought down a republic.

Hot on the heels of his military victories and backed by the fervent support of key public figures, Kennedy's proposals had been tolerated as one would endure the wishes of a favoured child. Once he ran for public office, however, turning his own indulgences into party politics, he encountered an immovable wall of resistance. Suggestions of a secret agenda. That he wanted civil rights extended to all blacks in the South, and indians too. What had been perceived as eccentricity began being interpreted as folly by his supporters and rabble-rousing by his opponents. The election results shouldn't have surprised anyone.

The men and families of Kennedy's unit, the 4th Mech-Cavalry Division, got their land and Kennedy was parcelled laterally into the CBI. A polite shift out of the political arena.

Considering it now, Morgan had to wonder. For a brief moment Kennedy had enjoyed the support of the people and the army. What had held him back, stopped him from seizing what he might have considered his birthright? Was it the same thing that appeared to drive him now?

Joseph Patrick Kennedy I, the patriarch of the Kennedy clan and the major's great-grandfather, had started off as a bootlegger during Prohibition and ended up as Union ambassador to the German Empire after the Secession. Old Joseph had four sons: Joseph Junior, John, Robert and Edward.

Reconciliation. It could have happened. It almost did happen. But at what price?

In 1963, the Kennedys were well established in the North and the South. They had money. They had power. But of course there had always been the rumours. Rumours that old Pat the Patriarch had never quite broken his ties with organised crime, that he in fact merely represented its legitimate face to the watching world. Nothing was ever proved, but somewhere along the line Pat must have let some of his colleagues down. He was given a reprimand that neither he nor America would soon forget.

November 22, the last leg of the fundraiser for the United America Project. The crowd had greeted John and Bobbie with flag-waving enthusiasm as the brothers received recognition for their contributions to the city, their motorcade winding through downtown Dallas.

The Warren Commission never found a specific motive linking the assassins, though suspects ranged from Southern separatists to Mediterranean-based cartels. They never determined why Oswald, Ellroy and Stone, three senior members of a Dallas crime outfit, had decided to spend that day catching up on their reading in the book depository.

Zapruder had captured it all, his camera panning across Dealey Plaza. John, with his arm around Norma Jean. Robert's dazzling smile. Spouts of asphalt. John's head snapping back and forth as the Continental screeched to a halt. The street full of the dead and dying. Final tally: eleven dead and twenty-three wounded. Amongst the dead, the Kennedy boys and their spouses, an assortment of bodyguards and local count-sheet thugs. The remainder, a bunch of tourists and well-wishers.

Major Joseph Robard Kennedy had inherited a name forever linked with infamy and violence. Initially, he'd shunned the path chosen for him. He took the low road and joined the Confederate Army. Assigned to a third-rate unit of Buffalo soldiers and reservation rejects, he turned them into a force that had helped save Texas.

They gave him a shot at public office, and when he came close to success they smeared him with the detritus of his family history. They gave him a shitty little portfolio in the back office of the Bureau and he dished them back Camelot. What might he craft from the red sands of Nevada? What could he do about something he actually believed in?

Morgan surveyed the quiet street, and felt the fear steal upon him. He'd known it all of his life: the suspicion that the pieces of his world did not quite mesh. The feeling that a swift sideways glance at the occasional flicker that danced on the periphery, once pinioned and held in freeze-frame, might reveal the world as it truly was-or as it truly should be. The only difference was that now he knew why.

He closed his eyes and tried to slow the whirr of rushing thoughts.

Something had gone wrong.

II.

Hardas did his best not to draw too much attention to himself. He held a cigarette in one hand and a glass in the other and watched the women who came and went across the shell-strewn floor of the bar.

He'd always considered himself a pragmatic man. Presented with a problem, he'd find the solution. That was his speciality. Tactics. Leave the strategy to others. Let them concentrate on the forest, while he dealt with the trees.

But this was getting to be too big for him. And all because of the Titanic. Both Titanics, in fact.

He'd been happy in the Navy, working his way up the ranks, making commander in almost record time. His unblemished record earned him the new Confed-designed, Kaiser-class German submarines. It never occurred to him to question why the Confederate Navy was working so closely with the Germans.

In early April 2010, he found himself aboard the Schlieffen, scuttling across the floor of the North Atlantic. They'd remained undetected in Japanese waters for more than a month before the recall order had arrived. Then one of the chiefs of staff in Berlin got the bright idea of bringing back a trophy. "A gift for the Kaiser's fiftieth birthday."

They arrived at the wreck on the fifteenth; ninety-eight years to the day after the Titanic had sunk. A small memorial service was held in the mess. Hardas, leading the service, was amused at the hypocrisy. There they were, praying for the lost souls while planning to plunder their last resting place.

The bathyscaphe was cradled in a small hold towards the rear of the submarine, resembling an egg, clasped by a nest of iron twigs. Studded with lights and antennae in an array that seemed haphazard, it was designed for submersed repairs, clearing mines and deep-sea reconnaissance.

Hardas, his second officer and two engineers sat crowded inside the claustrophobic vessel as it spiralled its way down. Their two-hour journey was made in silence, each man lost in his thoughts. The North Atlantic lay heavily upon them. At these depths, the smallest leak in the hull could produce a razor-edged jet of water. Cut a man in two before he could blink.

At first, ghost-like, she appeared as a faint green glow on the ultrasound screen. One of the crewmen activated the cameras. Lights blazed into the Stygian depths. The bathyscaphe's propellers coughed to life, a dull constant thud that vibrated through the vessel and its occupants.

On the centre screen an image congealed out of the darkness. Hazy at first, it took on a grainy semblance that gained form, particulated, to reveal the ocean floor. Before them, basking in light for the first time in almost a century, a bronze deck bench sat perched upon the seabed.

"We're in the debris field. She lies due north, Commander," one of the engineers whispered.

With a sigh, the bathyscaphe wafted over the sand-swept plains of the North Atlantic. Bed springs and baroque oddities littered their path. Wine bottles, their corks firmly ground into their necks, lay spread out between shards of pottery and the rusted plates of boiler casings.

The ultrasound monitor pulsed with a green luminescence that bathed their faces with a sickly glow. The video screen flickered momentarily, white noise resolving into black shadow as, before them, the hull of the wreck rose out of the eternal night.

At first glance, she resembled an ancient creature from mythology. The husk of the Leviathan. Hardas could make out her bow. The encrusted shell was torn in many places, huge ragged gaps where the boilers had torn their way through the dying ship.

They took a slow run over her decks. There was the ominous creak of the turbines rotating on their axles. The screen misted over with churning sand and the bathyscaphe began its ascent up the sheer face of the Titanic's prow.

Hardas ignored the perplexed looks exchanged among his crew. He'd been asked to bring back a trifle, some small object of note to adorn the mantlepiece of the leader of the Western world. But Hardas wanted to do something more, something that might make all of his accomplishments to date pale into insignificance. This was a unique opportunity, and he was, after all, a pragmatic man.

Earlier expeditions had returned with samples from the debris field, the odd ornament prised loose from the ship's superstructure. The greatest prize, to date, had been the recovery of the ship's bell. Hardas had set his sights much higher. He was determined to retrieve the contents of the Titanic's safe and let the Kaiser take his pick.

As they pulled up just below the level of the boat deck, he took a few moments to explain his scheme to the crew, who murmured their approval. The bathyscaphe hovered in the murky darkness; her targeting lights splayed against the hull of the ruin while her acetylene torches punched holes in the rusted metal.

In less than two hours they had gained C Deck. Another two hours and the ship's safe lay secure in the mechanical grip of the bathyscaphe's grappling arms.

Back aboard the Schlieffen, there'd been some discussion as to what to do with the safe. Open it now or wait till it was safely on German soil? Hardas gave the order to make for New Orleans while he awaited further orders from Berlin.

Six days later, they encountered the Bremen in the Gulf of Mexico. The cruiser's captain told Hardas that both the Confederacy and Germany were exceedingly pleased with the mission's success. However, the Kaiser remained unaware of the gift they were bearing. Rather than risk staining the sumptuous carpets of the palace, it was decided that they would open the safe aboard the Bremen. Admiral Merkur, flown out from Berlin, was present to supervise.

So much for Hardas's golden opportunity.

Film crews were on hand to document the historic event. The Germans liked to film everything. A torch was employed to burn open the outer door. It clanged onto the Bremen's deck, releasing a small torrent of rank seawater that sprayed the uniforms of the closely observing crew.

Hardas hung back, behind the cameramen and journalists, an unlit Texas Tea dangling from his lips. After the men had dispersed, and the contents of the safe were inventoried, he was approached by the Bremen's captain.

"Herr Kommandant," the man had said, "a small token of esteem from Admiral Merkur. We were unable to find Captain Smith's logbook. He must have taken it with him to the bottom of the ocean, nicht wahr? However, we have found this journal. It is in English, and appears to be of a personal nature." He handed the book to Hardas. "Please accept this with the admiral's best wishes."

And what would the captain be taking, and Merkur himself, Hardas wondered. He suspected that by the time the safe's contents reached Berlin, the Kaiser would be lucky to find a paper clip.

He took the journal with a nod of thanks.

He doubted that the officers of the Bremen would even remember his name, much less mention it to the Kaiser. What the hell, he reasoned as he returned to the Schlieffen. He'd be back in New Orleans in no time. And from now on, he would leave the games to the politicians.

It took two more days to reach harbour. The pace was leisurely, and once they arrived Hardas decided the crew could do with a rest after a month spent in the ocean's depths.

He started to read the journal the night before they reached New Orleans. He'd planned on skimming it briefly before handing it over to one of the senior officers at the base. It took him six hours to complete the manuscript from cover to worn cover. Much of it was damaged beyond recognition by nearly one hundred years of exposure to the icy depths. What he could decipher was clear enough. He could not give this journal to his commanding officers.

He made a few phone calls. He smoked too many cigarettes.

He was contacted by Maritime Surveillance.

Within a week he was summoned to the CBI complex in Dallas.

Kennedy was tall and smiling and looked like a publicity photo of himself. He said, "Commander, I think we need to talk."

Maybe I did the right thing, Hardas thought, slouching outside the locked door. Ever since Red Rock, it's too much for me to grasp. I don't want to think about it any more.

His eyes found Kennedy.

The major, meeting his glance, gave him a smile he couldn't return.

III.

Kennedy sat at the back of the bar nursing his third cup of coffee.

According to Shine, Japanese detectives had sealed off the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Three bodies had been recovered from the crime scene. They had yet to be identified.

And there'd been a shooting in Osakatown. Perhaps Cooper was chasing the Germans who'd gunned down his men. Perhaps he was planning on coming downtown in force. It didn't matter. Shine was watching the perimeter.

Kennedy checked his Einstein. Two hours and they'd be gone. Dawn would find them in New Orleans. They'd make Red Rock by dusk. And Lightholler, primed by today's induction, would see the carapace. He would believe.

But they were cutting it close.

Kennedy had known for more than a year that war was coming, had known ever since he and Hardas had taken the carapace on its first test run at Red Rock. He'd always allowed for the fact that Lightholler's instruction might take some time. He just hadn't counted on the world starting to fall apart in the interim. The failure of the peace talks, the Japanese offensive in Russia, the German subterfuge closer to home-all pointed to the future he'd glimpsed in Nevada.

For nearly a century the empires of Germany and Japan had spread across the surface of the planet. There was no place on Earth where the influence of one of these great powers wasn't felt. And now they were in deadlock. Each had a vision of the future that held no place for the other.

This wouldn't be a war of punitive expeditions into disputed territories. Men wouldn't lie in trenches staring down the barrels of rifles into a fog of barbed wire and mud. The new weapons would change all that.

Kennedy looked up to find Hardas standing by his table.

"Has Lightholler tried to leave the room?" Kennedy asked.

Hardas shook his head.

"We've got an hour till we have to move."

Hardas pulled up a chair. "I don't like the captain's story, Major."

"It's a little far-fetched, isn't it?"

"So why are we moving ahead?"

"We don't have any choice. And we need him."

"We've got Shine," Hardas countered.

"Shine isn't allowed on the boat."

Hardas lit a cigarette. His forehead creased in deliberation. "It shouldn't have to come to that."

"Shouldn't doesn't mean won't," Kennedy replied.

"If Lightholler's working for the Bureau..."

"Let's just say for the moment that he is," Kennedy said. "Let's say Webster was using him as bait."

"Then he has to know what we're up to."

"Webster recalls me after our meeting with Lightholler, then sends Wetworks scurrying after us the very same day. That's clumsy."

"Or desperate," Hardas said.

"The way I figure it, if Webster thought we had a device like the carapace, we'd be down in Houston right now, at Intel Extraction," Kennedy said. "That, or dead. No, this is all tied up with the German thing."

"I hope you're right," Hardas murmured.

"Two days from now and we're gone," Kennedy said.

"I hope to God you're right."

IV.

Lightholler rose from the table as Kennedy and Hardas entered the room, "It's a fake," he began.

"It's no fake, Captain," Kennedy said. "We can be certain of that."

Hardas offered Lightholler a cigarette. He lit up with trembling hands.

"But it's absurd. I never heard of any crash at Roswell, any flying saucers," he said. "Las Vegas is just a wide spot in the road. And as for this secret installation..."

Kennedy and Hardas remained silent. It was exasperating.

Lightholler pointed at the journal. "This guy is talking about someone starting World War Three." His eyes were glistening. "What the hell is a world war?"

"We don't plan on finding out," Hardas said quietly.

"What's the matter with you people? Why would you believe any of this... this bullshit?"

Kennedy let the question hang in the air for a moment before replying.

"We went to Nevada, Captain. We found the carapace."

Lightholler started to laugh. "You found the carapace..." He drew back deeply on the remains of his cigarette and said, "You're lying."