At the bottom of the absurd story, beneath the words Related Links, sat four lines of blue text, underlined as he had seen before. Perhaps touching them might reveal more? Unfortunately he doubted his fingers were small enough to pick out an individual line. So he took a pencil out of his shirt pocket and tried that.

It worked! The spirits of his ancestors were smiling on him now.

He touched the line that had intrigued him as soon as he read it. America warns China.

The screen changed instantly, just as before. And just as before, the result was absurdly perplexing.

The U.S. secretary of state, a woman calling herself Jamie Garcia, had warned Chinese Premier Hu Dazhao that the gravest consequences would flow from any Chinese incursion into the Exclusion Zone around Java. She pledged that something called a "UN-mandated Multinational Force" would ensure the safety of ethnic Chinese refugees from something else called a "jihad." And she warned China that any further expansionist moves on its part anywhere in Southeast Asia would be severely challenged.

Hidaka rubbed his face, irritated beyond measure. There were so many things wrong with what he had just read, he wouldn't know where to begin. Certainly, Chiang Kai-shek would like to consider himself some sort of "premier," but in truth he was little better than a scabrous dog being hunted down by the Imperial Japanese Army. And this woman! Garcia? The American secretary of state was Cordell Hull. A vile creature known to all as an uncultivated savage who had attempted to humiliate the emperor with his outrageous schemes and demands. Even if that had somehow changed since they had sailed from Ominato, only a maniac would imagine a woman-a Mexican or an Indian one, at that, by the sound of her name-could ever attain such an important office.

Hidaka sipped the nearly forgotten tea and grimaced to discover that it had gone cold.

There were more Related Links at the bottom of this story-or perhaps fairy tale might have been a better name. He "linked" to a story about "Free Indonesian" warships that had joined this so-called Multinational Force. An Indonesian government-in-exile had insisted that two of its ships, the Sutanto and the Nuku, participate in the enforcement of any Exclusion Zone over the contested archipelago.

Something in that nagged at Hidaka. It was all as preposterous as the rest, but…

The Sutanto!

He leapt from the armchair, upsetting the cup of cold tea, which spilled onto the floor. Heedless of the accident, he rushed over to the unconscious sailors. One who had collapsed in the wardroom still sported a baseball cap on which was stitched a silhouette of a ship. And the caption 377 KRI SUTANTO.

He had been seeing that word all over the ship, and now he knew why. This was the Sutanto, presumably of the Free Indonesian Navy.

Without a doubt this had to be some sort of American trick, perhaps even a trap. But what could be the point? And why bait the trap so oddly? And where did the fantastic machines such as this glowing tablet come from anyway?

A thousand questions spilled from his one small success. He was nearly overcome by a wave of hopelessness, when a crewman called urgently.

"Commander! One of the men is waking. Look!"

"At last," Hidaka muttered. He moved to stand by the man's head. The barbarian was blinking rapidly. A storm of twitches and tics ran across his features, briefly seizing his whole body at one point. Without warning he vomited prodigiously, a yellow-green geyser, which erupted vertically from his mouth only to fall back and drench him. With distaste branded into every line of his face, Hidaka used the toe of his boot to turn the man's head to one side, lest he choke to death.

Hidaka unshipped his revolver from its holster as the foreigner began to cough out a series of unintelligible words. He tried to lever himself up off the floor, but Hidaka placed a foot on his chest and pressed him firmly back down. Incomprehension and a touch of fear crossed the man's face.

Good, thought Hidaka.

"Name!" he barked out, first in Japanese, then in English.

The man coughed and gagged on his own bile. He appeared to be trying to answer, so Hidaka only gave him a slight nudge with his boot.

"Name. And rank. And position aboard this vessel."

The man, who was dressed in soiled tropical whites and sandals, of all things, squinted at Hidaka as if trying to focus properly.

"Moertopo," he answered. "Lieutenant Ali Moertopo, executive officer."

He spoke English, then. Hidaka was quietly relieved.

The man, Lieutenant Moertopo, finally focused on Hidaka's pistol. He seemed genuinely surprised, and somehow affronted.

"What is going on?" he demanded with more authority in his voice than Hidaka cared for. "Who are you, and what are you doing aboard this ship?"

The demands were delivered in a weak, faltering voice, but there was no mistaking the challenge inherent in their tone. Hidaka flushed with anger that someone so obviously low-caste could think to presume upon him in such a fashion, but Admiral Kakuta had chosen him well for this mission. He swallowed his own indignation, carefully holstered the pistol, and dropped a handkerchief onto the man's chest.

"Clean yourself up, Lieutenant," he said. "You look a mess."

Moertopo thanked him, somewhat doubtfully, and wiped the vomit from his face and neck. His movements indicated to Hidaka that he was in considerable pain. It never registered on his face, however, granting him some esteem in the eyes of the Japanese officer.

Moertopo looked around slowly, taking in the bodies of his shipmates, laid out on either side of him. They were breathing and twitching, but would clearly offer no assistance.

"You have not answered my question," he said in English.

"My name is Hidaka. I boarded your ship with a rescue party three hours ago. Your shipmates are alive, but appear to have been incapacitated. You would have to tell me how that might be, Lieutenant. I am afraid I have no idea."

"You are Japanese, yes?"

Hidaka nodded, noting that the information neither alarmed nor upset his prisoner.

"We were on station, just north of the main task force, carrying out antisubmarine drills," Moertopo said.

"Why?" asked Hidaka. "And which task force?"

Moertopo gave him an odd look, as if the question had been meant to mock him.

"Why indeed?" he said, bitterness evident in his voice. "The Caliphate has no submarines. And the Americans certainly wouldn't trust us to protect them from the Chinese. It was laughable. They just wanted to get us out of the way."

"The Americans?"

"Sorry, the Multinational Force. But yes, basically the Americans. They said it was because we couldn't link properly to their CI network, but the truth is they simply don't trust us."

Hidaka wished he had some idea what the man was talking about, but he didn't let his confusion show. This Moertopo seemed quite happy to discuss state secrets with him, despite the fact that he seemed to have been allied in some way to the United States. Notwithstanding the pressures of time, Hidaka would need to play this very carefully indeed.

"Can you stand?" he asked. "Would you like some tea?"

The man nodded gratefully. Hidaka clicked his fingers at a sailor, who hurried over to help Moertopo into the armchair. After some hasty instructions the crewman set about drawing another two mugs of tea. Hidaka took a plain chair from the wardroom table and spun it around to face Moertopo. He sat to bring himself down to eye level with his subject.

"Lieutenant Moertopo," he said, forming the name carefully, "this task force, was it heading for Java?"

"Of course," the lieutenant replied, gratefully sipping his tea. "The president himself insisted that we play our part in any operations taking place in our home waters." As he spoke, a measure of pride worked its way through the layers of illness and discomfort.