“Here it is, ma’am,” she said, stifling a yawn as she handed Halabi the data stick. “It’s only preliminary. If we all go at it tomorrow, we can get a lot more for you.”

The British officer wasn’t alone. Colonel Jones was perched on the edge of a desk, and another marine—a doctor to judge by her insignia—was nursing a glass of something on the couch, resting her eyes. Rachel knew that American ships were supposed to be dry, but she was certain she could smell bourbon. The doctor sat up and smiled at her. It was too late for formalities.

Halabi gestured for Rachel to sit down.

“Would you like some coffee, Lieutenant?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I plan to sleep soon, if that’s all right.”

“Good luck to you,” Halabi said sympathetically. “I’d like you to fill in Colonel Jones and Doctor Francois concerning that note you sent me after your briefing.”

Rachel felt more than a little uncomfortable with the request. She’d beamed Halabi the message as an afterthought.

“All I said,” she began, “was that we’d have little trouble defeating the Axis navies if we engaged them ourselves. Even with the damage we took at Midway. Their weapons and doctrine are generations behind our own. But just as they’re generations behind us, so are the Allies, not just technically, but culturally, as well. We can help here. We could probably rescue those guys in the prison camps, for instance, and they’d be insanely grateful. At least at first.

“But if we’re here permanently, we pose a significant threat to their way of life just as surely as would defeat by the Axis powers. Not as dire a threat, of course. But a threat nonetheless.”

“How so, Lieutenant?” came the deep bass rumble of Colonel J. Lonesome Jones. She suspected he already knew the answer.

“This is nineteen forty-two,” she said. “Begging the colonel’s pardon, sir, but by the standards of this time, you are not an African American—”

She was going to continue, but she didn’t have to. Johnson finished the thought for her.

“No. I’m a nigger.”

“And I’m a little coolie girl,” said Rachel. “And Captain Halabi is a half-breed, and some of us are wogs and kikes and dagos. These guys aren’t Nazis, but they’re not going to understand us. And my guess is that what they don’t understand and cannot control, they’ll eventually treat as threatening.”

“There’s nothing eventual about it,” said Francois from the couch. She rubbed her eyes. They looked very red and watery to Rachel.

“It’s already begun,” the doctor went on. “The riot down in Honolulu today, Borghino getting shot, Anderson and Miyazaki getting whacked. I tell you . . . what they did to that woman . . .”