Abandon credibility, full steam ahead, back to 1944, when the desperate Nazis dispatch U-boats to the coast of Maine, knock out a radar station, liberate a POW camp, occupy 5000 square miles, and threaten to fire V-2 rockets on Boston. Their price for leaving Beantown unscathed? Safe passage back to Der Fatherland, with the 1200 pounds of yellow uranium ore that they've hijacked off the Maine Central Railroad. Incredulous already? But you haven't even heard yet about who's really behind this operation--or Hitler's motives in going along with it. Well, maybe you'd rather not, especially since Hirschhorn's telling--jumping from the Boston mayor to Naval Intelligence to down-East doings to etc.--is, at best, pedestrian. At worst, it is unnecessarily goresome or ludicrously physiological (Hirschhorn, author of Pride of Healers, p. 55, is an M.D.), as in a below-the-belt torture of a Nazi spy, or in an average guy's sexual daydream (""dreaming of the optimal coefficient of friction between satisfied stratified squamous vaginal epithelium and turgid penile skin""), or, in that dramatic moment when the hero's colleague bleeds to death before his very eyes: ""How could blood, he wondered, so thin and watery in the living body to carry vital oxygen through the finest microscopic capillaries, turn into an obstructing gelatinous mass when exposed to the same oxygen outside the body?"" Dandy hematology--idiotic fiction.