Himmler’s men, an Oberführer and Standartenführer—Brigadier General Hoth and Colonel Skorzeny, respectively—scrambled over the deck rail. Brasch knew nothing of Hoth, but Skorzeny was already a legend among veterans of the Eastern Front. A former bodyguard to the führer, he stood six-four and was one of those very rare individuals who led a life of mortal danger without ever knowing fear. Brasch had never met him, but he could recite half a dozen stories of his exploits against the Soviets. Some of them may even have been true.

The giant storm trooper slapped a deckhand on the back, and the sound of the blow against the sailor’s leather jacket cracked in Brasch’s ear.

“Who is that giant oaf?” asked Hidaka.

“His name is Otto Skorzeny. And a piece of advice, my friend—do not let him hear you say that. His concept of honor is even more outlandish than yours. He’ll kill you where you stand, and damn the consequences.”

“Really?” said Hidaka, intrigued. “Where do you know him from?”

Brasch laughed. “Everyone knows him. In America they have Superman comics. In Germany we just have Superman. And there he is, stomping all over your precious ship. He’ll probably dent it.”

They left the walkway, entering the bridge and making their way down to where the two guests waited. Hoth’s greeting was perfunctory. He was distracted by the surroundings. Skorzeny by way of contrast roared a welcome to Brasch as though they were the oldest of chums.

“I have wanted to meet you since I heard about your fucking madness at Belgorod. To pile up their dead and rain fire down on them like a Viking god. Take my hand, Brasch, but do not crush it, you are obviously not a mortal man.”

Unable to match Skorzeny’s ferocious hail-fellow-well-met routine, Brasch didn’t even try. He sketched a smile that was half grimace. “I was merely taking a piss when the Soviets interrupted with their damn charge. How could I sit down again? I had not finished shaking off.”

Skorzeny’s laughter roared out so loud that Brasch thought he must surely damage a lung. “That’s the spirit that wins the Iron Cross. Shoot them or piss on them—it doesn’t matter as long you kill them. Come along, Herr Major, introduce us to your comrades and show us around your magic boat.”

Brasch did as he was asked. Hidaka was so taken aback by the giant Nazi’s theatrical presence that he restricted himself to the briefest formalities. For that alone, Brasch was happy to have the Standartenführer on board. Moertopo looked like he would give his right arm to be anywhere in the world but there.

They moved through to the officers’ mess, where a light supper and a presentation of the previous weeks’ research awaited them.