The calendar on Jason's desk read May 1, 1915.
Jason stared at the date.
To anyone else, it was just a Saturday in spring. But to Jason, the numbers were written in blood.
He picked up the morning edition of the New York Times.
On page one, right next to the shipping schedules, was a black-bordered advertisement.
NOTICE!
TRAVELLERS intending to embark on the Atlantic voyage are reminded that a state of war exists... vessels flying the flag of Great Britain, or any of her allies, are liable to destruction...
IMPERIAL GERMAN EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Jason crumpled the paper.
The Germans had warned them. They had put it right there in black and white. Don't get on the ship.
But people didn't believe it. They thought it was a bluff. They thought the Lusitania was too fast, too big, too civilian to be a target.
They were wrong.
Jason knew exactly where U-20 was right now. He knew the captain, Walther Schwieger, was prowling the Irish coast, looking for a trophy.
He looked at the telephone on his desk.
He could stop it.
One call.
He could call the Cunard Line office. He could use a voice disguiser. "There's a bomb in the cargo hold."
They would delay the sailing. They would search the ship. The Lusitania would miss its rendezvous with the torpedo by two days.
1,198 people would live.
Jason's hand hovered over the receiver.
He closed his eyes. He ran the simulation in his head.
Scenario A: He saves the ship.
The Lusitania arrives safely in Liverpool. The outrage never happens. American public opinion remains divided. President Wilson stays neutral. The war drags on into 1917, 1918, maybe 1920. Millions more die in the trenches. The Germans might even win, or force a stalemate that leaves the Kaiser in power.
Scenario B: He does nothing.
The ship sinks. Americans die. The public demands blood. The US enters the war sooner. The industrial machine Jason built gets unleashed. The Allies win.
It was the Trolley Problem. But the trolley was a submarine, and the tracks were the Atlantic Ocean.
Jason pulled his hand back.
He stood up. He felt sick.
He needed to see them. He needed to look the victims in the eye.
Pier 54 was a riot of noise and color.
The RMS Lusitania loomed over the dock like a floating city. Four massive funnels painted red and black rose into the sky. Steam hissed. Flags snapped in the breeze.
Thousands of people crowded the pier. Porters carried trunks. A brass band played "Tipperary."
Jason stood by the gangway, hidden in the crowd. He wore a heavy coat and a hat pulled low.
He watched them board.
He saw Alfred Vanderbilt, the millionaire, laughing with his valet. He wouldn't survive.
He saw Charles Frohman, the theater producer. He would drown.
He saw a young mother, holding a baby in one arm and dragging a suitcase with the other. A little girl, maybe five years old, trailed behind her, clutching a porcelain doll.
The little girl tripped.
The doll flew out of her hands. It landed at Jason's feet.
Jason froze.
He looked down at the doll. It had blue glass eyes and a painted smile.
He looked up.
The little girl was looking at him. She had the same blue eyes. She looked ready to cry.
"My dolly," she whispered.
Jason picked it up. The porcelain felt cold.
This was it. The moment of truth.
He could grab the mother. He could scream, "Don't go! The Germans are waiting! You're going to die!"
He could cause a scene. He could get arrested. But he would save this child.
But if he saved her... he doomed a million other children in France.
The math was cold. The math was evil. But the math was absolute.
Jason brushed a speck of dust off the doll's dress.
He walked over to the girl. He knelt down.
"Here you go," Jason said softly.
He handed the doll back.
The girl hugged it. She smiled at him.
"Thank you, mister."
"Emily! Come on!" the mother called from the gangway. "We'll miss the boat!"
"Bye bye!" the girl waved.
She turned and ran to her mother. They walked up the ramp. They disappeared into the ship.
Jason stood there. He watched them go.
He felt a piece of his soul crack and break off. It fell into the dark water below the pier.
He turned around.
He walked away. He walked through the cheering crowd, the music, the laughter.
He was the only ghost at the party.
May 7, 1915.
The telegraph room at 26 Broadway was usually loud. Today, it was silent as a tomb.
Jason stood by the window, watching the rain streak the glass.
He had been waiting for six days. He hadn't slept.
He checked his watch. 2:10 PM in New York. That meant it was 7:10 PM off the Old Head of Kinsale.
It was done. The torpedo had struck. The second explosion—the coal dust, or the munitions Jason himself had sold them—had ripped the bottom out.
The ship sank in eighteen minutes.
Clack.
The machine started.
Everyone jumped.
Clack-clack-clack.
Junior was standing by the receiver. He read the tape as it spooled out.
His face crumbled. He put a hand over his mouth.
"Oh, God," Junior whispered. "Oh, sweet Jesus."
"Read it," Jason commanded. His voice was hollow.
"LUSITANIA TORPEDOED," Junior read, his voice shaking. "SANK IN 20 MINUTES OFF IRELAND. HEAVY LOSS OF LIFE. 1,000 PLUS FEARED DEAD. VANDERBILT MISSING. FROHMAN MISSING. WOMEN AND CHILDREN TRAPPED."
A gasp went through the room. Secretaries started crying. Men took off their hats.
It was a tragedy. A massacre.
But to Jason, it was a signal.
He closed his eyes. He saw the little girl on the pier. He saw the blue glass eyes of the doll sinking into the black water.
I killed her, he thought. I let the German push the button, but I loaded the gun.
He opened his eyes.
The grief was gone. Replaced by the cold, hard steel of resolve.
"Clear the floor," Jason said.
The staff looked at him, confused.
"Sir?"
"Get out," Jason said. "Go home to your families. Pray for the dead."
He turned to his private secretary.
"Get me the White House. Get me Colonel House."
"Now, sir?"
"Right now."
The room emptied.
Jason picked up the phone.
"Colonel," Jason said when the advisor answered. "It's Prentice."
"We heard," House said. His voice was grim. "The President is devastated. He's drafting a note of protest."
"A note won't stop a torpedo, Colonel," Jason said. "The neutrality is over. The American people will demand war by morning."
"The President still hopes for peace—"
"There is no peace!" Jason shouted into the phone. "They just drowned a thousand Americans! The time for notes is over. It's time for steel."
He gripped the phone tight.
"Tell the President... the factories are ready. I have the shells. I have the fuel. I have the trucks. Mobilize the economy. Give the order."
"Ezra..." House hesitated. "Are you pushing for war?"
"I'm pushing for the end," Jason said.
He hung up.
He walked to the window.
Below, on Broadway, newsboys were already shouting the headlines.
LUSITANIA SUNK! HUNS MURDER BABIES!
He could see the anger rippling through the crowd. Men were shaking their fists. A German bakery window was smashed.
The sleeping giant had woken up.
Jason pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
He had done it. He had manipulated history. He had traded 1,200 lives for an empire.
"I let them die," Jason whispered to his reflection.
A tear leaked out of his eye. Just one.
"I let them die to save the world."
He wiped the tear away.
"God forgive me," he said.
He turned back to the empty room.
"Because history won't."