The morning sunlight struggled through the fog-covered bulletproof windows of the San Francisco Nazi Pacific Embassy, turning the marble floor a dull gray.
Obersturmbannführer Felton sat alone at the head of a long oak table, his uniform jacket unbuttoned, a half-burned cigar hanging from his lip as he read the morning dispatches.
Across the front page of Der Beobachter der Ordnung blared the headline:
"Terrorist Attack in Paris Leaves Dozens Dead — Security Control Transferred to the Schutzstaffel Forces."
Felton grunted, tapped the ash into a crystal tray, and muttered,
"What a mess. Every time they tighten their grip, something slips through the cracks."
Around him, the embassy's war-room filled with murmurs of interpreters and attachés preparing for the arrival of the Imperial Family Of The Empire Of Japan — an event that had the entire Pacific coast on alert. At the head of the table, standing in front of a large wall map of San Francisco Bay, was Vice General Takuma Nishimura, Deputy commander of the First Imperial Guards Division. Sharp-eyed and impeccably uniformed, was going over the security charts one by one.
"The Crown Prince and Princess will land at fourteen hundred hours," Nishimura said, tapping a pointer against the map.
"These sectors—here, here, and here—are under the First Guard's direct control. The kempeitai have secondary authority. The embassy's own internal detail will coordinate with the Central Directorate through Nazi ambassador Felton's office."
Felton nodded absently, puffing another cloud of smoke as aides scribbled notes.
"For emergencies," Nishimura continued, "Sector Red-One will be the critical response team. Evacuation route goes through the San Francisco East Tunnel to the naval base. Communication line Gamma-Three is to remain open at all times."
The meeting went on for hours. Reports. Maps. Evacuation drills. Code phrases.
Until, finally, a clerk hurried in carrying a black telephone on a silver tray.
Nishimura answered, his tone changing instantly.
After a short, tense conversation, he hung up and said flatly:
"The Crown Prince and Princess are airborne. Everyone to your stations."
⸻
The Arrival
Outside, San Francisco throbbed with anxious order. The skies were sealed, flights grounded; no vessel was permitted to leave or enter the bay. Military convoys rolled through full streets, lights flashing. Crowds pressed against barricades in the rain for a glimpse of royalty.
Felton, standing beside the Trade Minister and the Military Governor Admiral Yamato, could already hear the distant hum of engines. A row of Imperial Japanese flags lined the runway like blood-red and white sentinels, while dozens of Imperial Guards in Dark blue tunics with red stripes/piping, often with black mohair frogging (braiding) on the sleeves for officers armor stood ready—each motionless, rifles upright, their faces unreadable behind visored helmets.
When the silver Imperial Skyliner descended through the mist and touched the runway, the entire field seemed to hold its breath. Behind it, two modified escort planes, dark and sleek, banked gracefully and landed in formation.
From those aircraft, eight hundred Imperial Guards deployed with mechanical precision, forming two lines on either side of a freshly rolled red carpet. Their boots struck the pavement in rhythm, a living drumbeat of authority.
The cabin door opened.
General Takeshi Mori stepped out, saluted sharply, and turned.
Then appeared the Crown Prince Akihiro and Princess Michika, radiant even beneath the gray light.
Gasps rose from the spectators. Cameras flashed. The imperial couple walked down the steps, Michika's gloved hand resting lightly on her husband's arm. The princess smiled faintly and whispered, "It's colder here than I imagined."
Akihiro smirked. "The Reich may command half the world, but they can't command the weather."
They greeted the assembled dignitaries briefly. Felton bowed, offered formal congratulations, and prepared to exchange a few words — but Nishimura was suddenly beside him again, expression unreadable.
"Apologies, Oberkommandant," he said curtly. "The Crown Prince and princess must proceed to the motorcade."
Felton could only nod as the royals were ushered into a black, sealed limousine.
Before stepping inside, Princess Michika turned and beckoned quietly to the Trade Minister, an old friend from her early years in the palace.
"Ride with us," she said softly.
He bowed and joined them, the door closing behind him.
The convoy of vehicles then rolled away under the guard of armored escorts and, running imperial guards on foot sirens echoing across the runway.
Felton exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he watched them go.
Behind him, his own aide—Agent Klaus Bergen, a sharp-featured intelligence officer—had been studying another pair of men among the crowd: Vice Admiral Arimoto, and the recently arrived SS-Standartenfuhrer Otto Halden, envoy from the Southern Eastern Europe Nazi High Command. Their brief, hushed meeting earlier had not escaped Bergen's attention.
"They met again, sir," Bergen whispered.
Felton didn't look away from the horizon. "Keep eyes on them. No moves, not yet. I don't play a game until I see the whole board."
He flicked his cigar into a puddle, got into his car, and left the airport.
His thoughts churned: Imel gone, the Southern eastern Europe Waffen SS High Command tightening their grip on Europe, and now thoughts that the Southern eastern Europe Waffen SS commanders were plotting their own empire. The board's getting crowded, he thought. Too many players, not enough rules.
The motorcade slowly pulled away from the airport as Crown Prince Akihiro and Princess Michika stood and waved to the endless sea of people pressed behind fences and soldiers, Japanese flags fluttering wildly in the coastal wind as cameras flashed nonstop, the sound of cheering echoing off hangars and terminal buildings. Imperial Guards stood rigid on the running boards, eyes forward, hands never straying far from their weapons. The city of San Francisco was effectively frozen in place, traffic halted or funneled under military control as the imperial convoy made its way toward the hotel district.
Inside a small café several blocks away, Jack sat rigid in his chair, coffee growing cold in his hand as the radio blared praise after praise about the graciousness of the Crown Prince and the elegance of the Princess. Around him, people smiled, laughed, spoke warmly about how lucky they were to witness history, how kind the imperial family looked, how peaceful everything felt. Each word made Jack's jaw tighten further. He stared at the newspaper image of Akihiro smiling and felt something dark coil in his chest. Without a word he stood, dropped money on the counter, and walked out, the bell above the door ringing sharply behind him. He didn't look back. His mind was already elsewhere—angles, distance, timing—where a man could stand and make history scream instead of smile.
Meanwhile Leo and Kenzie were crawling into the city from the outskirts, boxed in by congested streets clogged with vehicles, pedestrians, supply trucks, and military convoys. Japanese Imperial soldiers from the mountain divisions stood at intersections barking orders, redirecting traffic with mechanical precision, rifles slung but always ready. Kenzie leaned back, cigarette between her fingers, watching the city grind around them.
"So," she asked casually, smoke curling from her lips, "you ran in the East. I've never been there. What's New York really like?"
Leo kept his eyes on the road, voice low. "It's not a city anymore. It's a fortress. Every building flies a swastika. German everywhere. Streets renamed. Curfews enforced to the minute. You breathe wrong and someone notices. Resistance doesn't survive there—if they catch you, they don't just kill you. They make sure everyone knows what happens when you resist. Torture first. Public executions if it suits the message."
Kenzie let out a dry laugh as a Japanese soldier waved their car forward. "Sounds real civilized," she said. "These guys aren't much better. They smile while they do it, that's all. Pillage, kill, disappear people. Same game, different flag."
Leo said nothing as he turned toward the safe house, a plain structure overlooking routes the imperial family would soon travel. Observation only—for now.
Across the city at the Nipplin Building, Sarah's workday ended abruptly. A Japanese official entered the economy department and commanded attention. Typewriters fell silent instantly. Assistant Trade Minister Masao Takeda stepped forward, posture perfect, and addressed the room.
"By order of Trade Minister Togo Masuri, all departments are dismissed for the week in honor of the Imperial Family's arrival. Full pay will be provided. Please enjoy the holidays graciously gifted to us."
Everyone bowed. Sarah followed, but inside she burned. She had finally begun uncovering meaningful patterns—trade discrepancies, unexplained transfers—things she could pass to her janitor handler. Now the trail was cut clean. There was nothing she could do. She left the building and was immediately swallowed by crowds and soldiers, streets overflowing with controlled chaos.
When she reached home, Jack was gone. A short note waited for her.
Playing cricket. Back in a few days.
She stared at it longer than she should have.
Jack was instead holed up in a cheap hotel room directly across from the Nazi Pacific Embassy, maps and surveillance notes spread across the bed, binoculars resting near the window. The Crown Prince would speak here soon. Jack watched the entrance, silent, patient.
Back in Paris, Obergruppenführer Imel sat behind his desk when SS guards brought Lucy in. She looked broken—dark circles under her eyes, hair unkempt, makeup streaked from crying, her posture small and defeated. The guard closed the door behind her.
Lucy collapsed into tears immediately, begging forgiveness, rambling about mistakes and how she could fix everything. Imel simply watched, smoking his cigarette.
When she finished, he spoke calmly. "Good. Then you will do as you're told. When we are finished here, you will return to Berlin and deal with Riefenstahl personally." He rose from his chair. "Get yourself presentable. We have business."
She was escorted out, barely holding herself together.
Moments later SS-Gruppenführer Müller entered, rain still clinging to his coat. "We have the boy's name," he reported. "Citywide search underway."
Imel extinguished his cigarette. "They want us chasing him," he said flatly. "So we will. But understand—this path was laid for us. Walk it carefully."
On the outskirts of Paris, in a dim warehouse, the delivery boy Étienne Moreau shook uncontrollably as he clung to the leg of a plainclothes German, begging to be saved. His clothes were filthy, his face hollow from days without sleep. When the man reached into his coat, Étienne recoiled, convinced he was about to be executed.
Instead, the man produced an envelope.
"Money. A train ticket. New identification," he said calmly. "You leave in three hours. Breitspurbahn to Britain. You'll meet a contact—initial C. He'll take it from there. Do you understand?"
"Yes—yes—thank you," Étienne sobbed.
The man glanced at his watch. "You have barely enough time. Paris is hunting you. Run."
Étienne fled into the night.
The man watched him disappear, muttered a curse, then stepped to a nearby pay phone. He dialed.
"SS-Untersturmführer Karl Weiss reporting," he said when the line connected. "The package is en route."
The phone was handed to Reinhard Heydrich, seated comfortably in a German-only luxury hotel, silverware still in hand. He listened, wiped his mouth, and replied simply, "Good," before hanging up and resuming his meal.
High above Europe, a Wehrmacht transport aircraft cut through turbulent clouds toward Paris. Inside, officers reviewed documents under dim lights. One broke the silence.
"If the SS staged this," he said, "Berlin will burn."
Another responded coldly, "Our orders are clear. Link up with Reichenau and Brenner, extract everything, and proceed independently."
The engines droned steadily forward as Paris waited below, already tightening its grip around secrets it could no longer contain.