Tokyo was still, as if the very heart of the Japanese Empire had paused to listen.
The Imperial Throne Room, ancient and quiet beneath towering rafters of lacquered cedar and gold-leaf dragons, was thick with solemnity. Lanterns hung motionless. The courtiers knelt like statues. And upon the dais, beneath the Chrysanthemum Seal of the Empire, sat Emperor Akihito.
He did not wear the ornate robes of past centuries, but a subdued imperial uniform—gray with crimson trim, embroidered subtly with the sacred chrysanthemum. His face was calm. But his eyes, dark and sharp, held the intensity of a man burdened by centuries of legacy.
A scroll was unfurled before him. His voice rang out, high and clipped but resolute:
"By decree of the Divine Throne, I appoint Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto as Governor-General of the Japanese Pacific States. He shall take command from General Hitoshi Imamura, whose acts have dishonored the empire and whose name shall not pass the lips of this court again."
The room held its breath.
"Admiral Yamamoto shall report directly to the Imperial Palace, and his capital shall be San Francisco. He is to restore order, civility, and honor to the Japanese presence in the Western Territories of America."
The decree was stamped in vermilion ink. The old war admiral—long thought retired—bowed deeply, his face impassive as the emperor's voice echoed like a tide retreating from blood-soaked shores.
The emperor's hand trembled as he sat back. It was not age, but shame.
A few days earlier, Akihito had received a hand-written letter from an old friend—Trade Minister Togo Masuri, a loyal bureaucrat in the JPS administration, now stationed in Sacramento. The letter had been hastily penned, written in haste and barely sealed. Within it, descriptions of horror: of torture camps in the Nevada deserts, of entire villages vanished, of girls sold as "gifts" to high-ranking officers.
Akihito had burned the letter after reading it—but he would never forget it.
He had made his choice. Yamamoto would cleanse the Western Provinces.
And behind him, Chief Inspector Hajime Sugiyama, a former Kempeitai intelligence officer and now head of the JPS's internal police, knelt in silence. He had already received classified orders: trail the Reich assassin rumored to have slipped across the Neutral Zone. Intercept. Investigate. If necessary, eliminate.
The old war with the Germans had ended.
But another war—quieter, more dangerous—was beginning.
Denver, JPS Neutral Border — That Same Night
Sarah Lin adjusted her cap low over her brow as the night wind whipped through the warehouse district. Her boots crunched gravel as she approached the rail car loaded with crates of rice and electronics.
Inside one of them, hidden beneath false bottoms, were the final parts she needed: vacuum tubes, a frequency modulator, and two condenser mics. All of it illegal. All of it punishable by public execution.
In the JPS, the only radios permitted were the state-controlled Nippon Broadcasting Units. Anything else—especially transmitters—was an act of treason.
She turned to the small group of people assembled behind her.
"Tonight, we split into twos," she whispered. "No radios on. No maps on paper. We rendezvous in Oakland in three days. Anyone gets stopped—you say nothing."
A boy no older than seventeen nodded, his jacket too large for his thin frame. Another woman, hardened by years of silence, handed Sarah a pistol.
"Keep it hidden," she said. "And don't hesitate."
Sarah tucked the gun into her waistband. She hated the weight. Hated needing it.
In the shadows beyond the warehouse, unseen by any of them, two JPS agents stood in silence—both reporting to Sugiyama.
They were not there for the radio.
They were there for the assassin.
Berlin — Himmler's Private Quarters
The room smelled of flowers and formaldehyde. Heinrich Himmler lay propped on crimson silk, pale as wax, coughing softly into a bloodstained handkerchief.
"Come closer, Imel," he rasped, gesturing with skeletal fingers.
Imel Dietrich approached, his heels clicking against the stone floor. He had expected weakness. But not this.
Himmler's once-piercing eyes were dulled by morphine, yet still gleamed with something darker: triumph.
"I've read your reports," Himmler said, smiling. "The American Neutral Zone. The rumors. The broadcasts. All of it."
Imel hesitated. "How, mein Reichsführer?"
Himmler laughed—and then coughed until blood painted his lips.
"I'm the Reichsführer," he whispered. "There is nothing I don't know."
A maid rushed in, wide-eyed, reaching to wipe the blood from Himmler's mouth.
Imel turned without thinking—and struck her across the face.
She crumpled, gasping. Moments later, two Leibstandarte SS guards stormed in, dressed in full parade regalia: black tunics, white belts, and silver runes.
"Get out," Himmler snarled, blood still at his lips. "All of you."
The guards hesitated. Then turned and dragged the maid with them.
When the doors slammed shut, Himmler looked at Imel with a feral smile.
"My time is ending," he said. "Yours is beginning. When I'm gone, you will be Reichsführer Imel Dietrich."
Imel blinked. "Mein Reichsführer…"
"Go to New York. Cut out the rot before it grows. The Reich must remain clean."
Imel stood frozen.
"Go," Himmler wheezed. "And don't return until you know who the traitors are."
Imel saluted sharply.
"Heil Hitler!"
The old man smiled one last time.
Berlin, Later That Night
The Dietrich home was dark. The storm outside matched the one inside.
"You're leaving again?" Bertha, his wife, hissed. "To New York? When will you choose us over them?"
Imel slapped her. Hard. She fell back, hand to her cheek, trembling.
From their bedroom, Josef clutched his sister Gisela, who sobbed into his shoulder.
Outside, Obersturmbannführer Felton lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as he watched the house. SS men patrolled the sidewalk. Brownshirts passed, shouting cheerful "Heil Hitler"s in passing. Felton returned them with a nod, eyes bored.
Minutes later, Imel emerged, dressed for travel. His face was stone.
Felton gestured. "All set, sir?"
Imel said nothing. The soldier grabbed his suitcase and tossed it into the trunk.
Bertha watched from the upstairs window, her hand on the glass, tears trailing silently down her face.
The car door slammed.
The convoy pulled away from Imel's home.
Berlin — Tempelhof Airport
July 1962
The sky above Berlin hung thick and gray, stained with the smog of industry and the quiet hum of imperial routine. Tempelhof Airport, once the pride of Weimar ingenuity, had become a bulwark of the Reich's global machine—militarized, fortified, and cold. From above, its vast runways stretched like the arms of a mechanical beast, lined with guard towers and searchlights, and dotted with propaganda murals of the Führer and Reichsführer alike.
The airport's main entrance was choked with traffic: diplomatic convoys, merchant lorries, and government sedans all inching their way through the congested drop-off line.
Even Imel Dietrich's black SS convoy, with flags fluttering and escort motorcycles flanking both ends, had to slow to a crawl.
The Sturmabteilung—the SA Storm Troopers—controlled the perimeter with characteristic arrogance. The men stood tall in their brown wool uniforms, buttoned high at the collar, wearing black leather jackboots polished to a mirror sheen. Each bore a red armband emblazoned with the swastika and a brown kepi cap tilted jauntily to one side. Their weapons—MP 49 submachine guns—were cradled like symbols of casual dominance.
A pair of them approached the lead car, one of them chewing a cigarette stub, smirking beneath his kepi.
"Papers," he said through the window with an almost amused tone.
Inside, Obersturmbannführer Felton silently passed two leather-bound identification booklets. The storm trooper flipped them open and stopped cold when he read the embossed names:
SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Imel Dietrich
SS-Obersturmbannführer Felix Felton
He looked up. Then quickly back down.
His smirk disappeared.
The other storm trooper peered over his shoulder, his eyes going wide. "Scheiße… it's him."
Without another word, both men stepped back from the car and slammed their boots together in a sharp salute.
"Heil Hitler!"
The rest of the checkpoint snapped to attention in a chain reaction. They'd all heard the whispers. Imel Dietrich—Himmler's shadow—was being called the acting Reichsführer behind closed doors.
"Clear the lane!" one of the SA officers barked into his radio. "Emergency route—now! Move those cars!"
Chaos erupted in the best-trained kind of way. Civilians were ordered off the tarmac, embassy vehicles were shoved aside, and a chorus of barking orders echoed down the corridor. Red lights flashed as Storm Troopers sprinted across the runway, clearing a direct path to the private Luftwaffe terminal.
More reinforcements arrived within moments—a full squad of SA men in matching brown uniforms sprinted from the terminal's side doors, forming two tight lines flanking the convoy's path. They stood rigid at attention, their MP 49s held vertically against their chests.
As Imel's car rolled to a stop at the terminal entrance, the back door was pulled open.
The moment his polished boot hit the tarmac, the entire unit saluted in unison, their voices ringing out:
"Heil Hitler!"
Felton stepped out behind him, quietly puffing on the last of his cigarette before tossing it aside. The driver rushed around to the back, hauling their two heavy suitcases from the trunk.
Imel ignored the salutes. His gaze scanned the runway, then the terminal building, as if weighing the obedience of the world. His face betrayed no emotion—only the deep exhaustion of a man holding up an empire on his shoulders.
Inside the terminal, the mood shifted to a hush. Soldiers, secretaries, and low-ranking officers all stood aside. But at the airline counter, a young blonde woman, no older than twenty, remained seated behind the check-in desk. She barely looked up from her ledger.
"Papers, bitte," she said flatly, holding out her hand.
The captain of the storm trooper escort blinked. His lips curled into disbelief.
Then, without warning, he slammed his fist down on the desk with a thunderous crack, causing the woman to jump.
"Are you telling me," he roared, "that you do not recognize the acting Reichsführer of our glorious nation?!"
Silence fell over the terminal like a guillotine blade.
The girl's face drained of all color. Her mouth opened but no words came. She stammered, looking to the others, but found no support.
The captain didn't wait.
"Take her away," he ordered coldly. "Re-education."
Two storm troopers immediately grabbed the woman, who began pleading and sobbing as they dragged her from the desk and out through a side door. Her cries echoed briefly before being silenced by the closing of heavy steel.
Imel said nothing.
The storm trooper captain turned back to him, brushing his gloves clean, and stood upright.
"Apologies, mein Herr," he said. "Please—allow me to personally escort you to your aircraft."
Imel gave a slow, curt nod.
Felton leaned toward him and muttered, "Idiots like that don't survive long under new orders."
They walked together across the tarmac, past more saluting brownshirts, and up the ramp toward the sleek black-and-silver aircraft marked with the Reichsadler insignia. A final squad of SA men snapped to attention at the plane's entrance.
The captain halted, clicked his boots, and saluted once more.
"Safe travels, Oberst-Gruppenführer. On behalf of the SA, may your mission bring glory to the Reich."
Imel returned the salute lazily, exhaustion painted behind his eyes. Felton followed silently behind as they entered the plane.
Inside, the cabin was outfitted for officials—leather seats, curtain-shielded windows, and a small cabinet stocked with cognac and maps. A steward saluted and shut the door behind them.
The plane engines roared to life.
As Berlin shrank below them and the clouds swallowed the Reich's capital, Imel closed his eyes for a moment.
His thoughts raced.
New York awaited. And with it, shadows and conspiracies stretching deep into the heart of the Reich's own foundations.
The war may have ended in 1947.
But something darker was only just beginning.