April 22, 2012.

CSS Shenandoah, out of New York.

Kennedy and Shine sat at one of the tables in the cabin's lounge by the gondola's bow. Morgan had disappeared below, ostensibly to check out their berths. Three other men sat in the open area of the gondola. Lightholler made them for Confederate airmen, possibly commercial crew, off-duty and slumming it back south.

It was half an hour since the airship had cleared Central Park, since Lightholler had learned about Berlin and what had been unleashed from the cargo holds of his ship. He stood, numbly, waiting for Morgan by the winding stairwell. A few carefully worded questions might clarify any number of things. Hardas, arms folded, the ubiquitous cigarette dangling from his lips, watched him through narrowed eyes from across the cabin.

The only passengers permitted aboard the Shenandoah were those with proof of Confederate or German nationality, and only a handful of those had chosen to embark. They sought berths in the aft gondola, beyond the hangar.

The stigma of their association with the Brandenburg Division suggested that there was more to Kennedy and his companions than met the eye. They were left to themselves. The Brandenburgs had cut their teeth defeating the first British tank formations in 1917. They'd accompanied Kaiser Wilhelm's victory march into Paris at the end of that year. During the European War they'd swept behind Soviet lines to crush Stalin's dream of communist expansion.

Over the last fifty years they had been brutally employed in the colonial wars of German North Afrika and the Middle East. It was even rumoured that a division had been sent to Vietnam, thus prolonging Japan's disastrous campaign in that region. They were the most feared military corps on the planet and Lightholler had brought them to New York. In doing so, he may have ensured the city's destruction.

Berlin, in her death throes, had unleashed her wrath upon the Japanese Empire. New York was only a stone's throw away from German-aligned Canada. An assault force could arrive in the beleaguered city before dawn. Moreover, if Kennedy's sources were correct, there were at least eighteen divisions of German infantry massed beyond the new Mason-Dixon line; there was a German fleet assembled offshore. The Japanese forces, stationed on the West Coast and along the southern border, would have a hard time deploying on all fronts.

There were three regiments of elite German troops deposited in the heart of the Japanese Occupation. If there was anything Lightholler had learned from his time at Sandhurst it was that the primary purpose of inserting troops behind enemy lines was to give your ground forces incentive to get in there and relieve them. That alone was reason enough for Lightholler to go along with Kennedy. Whatever was happening in New York was merely a hint of what was to come. The tip of the iceberg.

Morgan was taking his time downstairs. Kennedy stood, and walked over to one of the gondola's wide curtained windows. Lightholler joined him.

"Enjoying the show?" he asked.

Kennedy shrugged. Behind him, through the thick plated glass, New York was a battlefield.

Lightholler placed a palm against the glass. He thought about Berlin. Below, the remains of the Sinatra Island aerial tramway were already in flames. Only a skeleton, shrouded in thick smoke, remained of the Summer Palace spires that had once gleamed over the city. He paced along the gondola wall from window to window, edging past scattered tables and chairs. Mushrooms of smoke hung over the bridges leading into Manhattan. The barracks at Battery Park were aflame.

"Over here," Hardas called out. "This what you're looking for?"

Lightholler crossed the lounge.

"That ship might just be bad luck after all," Hardas said.

"Why don't you shut your mouth," Lightholler growled.

"See for yourself." Hardas drew a cigarette from his pocket and went over to join the three strangers by the cabin's rear entrance.

Lightholler peered into the darkness below. The Titanic lay crooked at her mooring, plumes of smoke rising from her scarred deck. Further out to sea, he made out the silhouette of two Japanese battlecruisers. He watched the silent puffs of smoke bloom from the decks of the two ships. Tracer trails illuminated the paths of their shells as they shattered in scarlet licks on the ocean liner's deck.

Lightholler grabbed the satin sash of the window's curtain in a balled-up fist. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"There she goes," Kennedy said.

The Titanic seemed to leap out of the water. Her centre, rent from topdeck to waterline, rose up, dragging her sagging bow and stern in an eruption of boiling water.

"There must have still been some ammunition stowed aboard her." Lightholler leaned his forehead on the glass.

Thick billows of black cloud obscured their view as the Shenandoah continued her ascent.

Lightholler allowed Kennedy to lead him back to their table. Morgan, returned from below, pulled up a chair next to Shine. Hardas had struck up a conversation with the strangers and was seated at their table. Every now and then a burst of laughter emerged from their group, ringing blasphemous in Lightholler's ears.

Morgan offered him a cold glass of water.

"I could do with something stronger," Lightholler murmured.

Morgan withdrew a flask from his coat pocket. If he was aware of Kennedy's stern expression, he chose to ignore it. "Bourbon," he said, gathering empty glasses and pouring out a measure for each of them.

Kennedy slid into a chair. "Captain," he began hesitantly.

Lightholler ignored him. He turned to Morgan and said, "My ship's gone. My command's gone. I've been implicated in the filthiest piece of subterfuge since the Greeks left their horse outside the gates of Troy. And I've nowhere left to turn. So tell me, is that the way Major Kennedy recruits his staff?" He eyed Morgan squarely. "What did he do to your life? How long were you researching the Titanic before you found out that it was all grist for the mill, something to fuel this fantasy field trip?"

"I'd finished my study on the Titanic years before anyone approached me," Morgan replied. "I was on the lecture circuit, rehashing the same material I'd been presenting for as long as I could remember. I was offered a chance to experience that material-that world-first-hand. Unlike you, I jumped at the opportunity, Captain."

"Well, you're a fugitive from your own government now," Lightholler said. "Is that what you had in mind?"

"It's not as simple as you make it out to be." Morgan's voice faltered.

"Preying on people with nothing left to lose doesn't seem very complicated to me," Lightholler said. He cast Shine a glance.

Shine said, "Captain, please don't even think about trying that shit on me."

Lightholler, taken aback by the negro's response, fell silent.

"I have a profile on you, Captain," Kennedy said. "I worked for the Bureau as an assistant director. That means I have a profile on everyone. What you have, what you wanted, what you never got ... it's all there. If I was looking to recruit people who thought they'd have nothing to lose, I'd have amassed the largest army in human history. That's no way to change the world. That's how you destroy it."

"And you plan on saving the world?"

"I plan on stopping the psychopath who condemned it to its current fate."

"That's right, I almost forgot," Lightholler said. "You have a time machine. Tell me, Major, how does it all end? With a bang, or a whimper?"

"A whimper."

Kennedy's look held such despair that Lightholler could almost believe him.

He downed his drink.

VII.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable, gentlemen."

It was Hardas. He'd returned with one of the strangers in tow. As he approached, he nodded his head in the direction of the starboard-side windows. "We've got company."

"Fuck." Instantly Morgan was out of his seat and backing towards the other side of the gondola.

"That was pretty fast." Kennedy approached the window for a closer look.

The others crowded around him.

Lightholler could make out at least three seaplanes. Mitsubishi Fukuryus, Crouching Dragons. The Japanese had first employed them in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. Squadrons of them would squat in the islets that dotted the archipelagos of the Pacific, awaiting convoys. Their ungainly fuselage and poor manoeuvrability made them easy prey for the Union fighters, earning them the nickname "Fuck Yous". Lightholler had never seen one in flight.

"I make four of 'em," Hardas said.

"I thought the japs put those crates out to pasture a long time ago," his companion drawled.

Lightholler gave the stranger a quick once-over. He was a mess. Unshaven, unkempt. A shock of brown hair. Faded dust jacket, torn jeans. Your average red-neck poster boy. He returned his gaze to the night skies. "Same here," he said. "I didn't think they were using prop planes any more."

"Must've been all they could muster at short notice," Kennedy said.

The aircraft skimmed below the dirigible, ducking out of sight.

"Where are they going?" Morgan asked over their shoulders.

On cue, two of them reappeared. There was a brilliant flash from one of the plane's gun turrets. Morgan gripped Kennedy's shoulder tightly.

Kennedy shrugged him off. "It's just a warning, Darren. They want us to turn back."

"But this is a civilian vessel," Morgan began to protest.

"A Confederate civilian vessel, and one that just took off from a captured aerodrome," Hardas responded.

"Jesus," Morgan said. "We have to turn around."

"We're miles out." Kennedy turned to face him. "You want to go back?"

Morgan glared at him, shifted his glance to the stranger and then back. "There are still people we can deal with in New York."

"Not after tonight," Kennedy said firmly. "But we have another option."

The Shenandoah was slowing down. The bright lights of Manhattan Island swung back into view, glowing through a cerement of blackened smudge.

"Give me a minute," he said, starting towards the front of the gondola.

"Where are you going?" Lightholler asked.

"I'm hoping the Shenandoah's captain was planning on doing a supply run en route." Kennedy disappeared through a door in the front of the cabin.

"I don't get it," Morgan said.

"If the Shenandoah's making a supply run, there ought to be some transport planes in the hangar."

"You're shitting me."

No one answered. They turned back to the window and continued to observe the spectral sight of New York's flames in uneasy silence.

Kennedy returned shortly. "I've requisitioned the Shenandoah's scout planes. The captain says he can spare us one of his crew to act as a pilot. You've flown a scout, haven't you, David?"

Hardas curled up the corner of his mouth. "It's been a while."

"How many hours have you logged?"

"Enough."

Morgan, ashen, spoke up. "Please tell me you're kidding, Major."

The five of them were now assembled near the cockpit's entrance. Hardas's new acquaintance had rejoined his companions and they were standing near the cabin's rear hatchway in earnest conversation.

On both sides of the gondola, their escort was apparent. Three seaplanes to either side, flying in loose formation.

"I want you two to go with the pilot," Kennedy said, addressing Shine and Morgan. "Captain Lightholler and I will go with you, David."

"Wait a minute here," Morgan said. "This is crazy. You want us to take our chances in a couple of scouts against six Jap fighters?"

"I'm willing to cut you loose, Darren." Kennedy's voice was soft and coaxing all of a sudden.

Morgan eyed Shine warily.

"Nothing more than that," Kennedy added briskly. "But this is the only way we're going to get out of New York, and you know what happens next, don't you?"

The edge of Morgan's lips pulled back, baring the tips of even white teeth; his anger was palpable, yet directionless. A moment passed and his shoulders sagged.

And you know what happens next. What did Kennedy have on Morgan, on all of them, Lightholler wondered?

"There are four scout planes in the hangar and five of us. Six including the Shenandoah's pilot," Kennedy continued.

"Eight," a voice said. It was the man who had been talking to Hardas. Lightholler hadn't noticed his return. "There are eight of us. My pals and I don't care to return to New York just to spend the rest of this war in some internment camp."

"Then there may be a problem," Kennedy said. "We're CBI."

Hardas loomed ominously at Kennedy's side. Shine, clearly the major's real threat, hadn't moved a muscle.

"Doesn't mean much to me, apart from the fact that you guys are pretty tight with our Kraut buddies back there. But you've got no problem here." The man nodded to his friends who'd slouched out of their seats to join him. "No problem at all, Mr Kennedy."

A smile formed on Kennedy's face.

"We're pilots," one of the others added. He was short and stocky, more muscle than fat, with strands of wavy blond hair plastered over his balding head. "With the 32nd Squadron. We just got our papers. We're supposed to join up with the 15th at Baton Rouge." He stuck out a burly hand, which Kennedy accepted immediately. "I'm Tucker, this here is Rose." He indicated the man who had remained silent. "You've met Newcombe."

"What are you suggesting?" Kennedy asked.

Lightholler observed the exchange. This was the same Kennedy he had encountered in his hotel. He was back in his element. Skin-of-his-teeth, seat-of-his-pants; but with a plan of sorts, Lightholler suspected.

"My boys and I will fly your men," Newcombe said. "Name your destination and we can settle the price."

"We don't need your help," Hardas sneered. "I can fly."

"Hell, Commander, suit yourself. There are four planes, we just need one. Sure you can fly, but can you take off from an airship at night and evade our friends out there?"

"Money isn't going to be an issue. If we're going to do this, we'd better get moving," Kennedy said. "Four planes, eight men."