They stood on the dock watching the operation with Major Brasch. Hidaka was down in the vessel, overseeing the removal process. Moertopo remained defiantly sullen.

"Nevertheless, it is my ship, Admiral. Surely you must understand that."

"Of course," said Yamamoto.

Brasch snorted in mild derision. "Sailors. You are like old women."

Hidaka had grown expert in the use of his flexipad. He carried it around the ship, checking manifests and loading schedules against the actual progress. They were doing well. The Indonesians were actually brisk and enthusiastic as they went about the business of emptying the vessel. No doubt this was the result of the fact that they had been given more liberty, better conditions, and more frequent visits by the comfort women in the last few days.

It had worked wonders for their morale, especially the whores. Many of them were Englishwomen from Hong Kong and Singapore. The sailors seemed particularly appreciative of the chance to have their way with them.

Hidaka smiled as he paused outside the CIC, but his good mood quickly dissolved when he saw Sub-Lieutenant Usama Damiri advancing on him. Damiri, the Sutanto's information systems officer, had proven to be much more supportive and competent than Moertopo, who preferred to spend his time in bed, smoking hashish and fucking blondes. But Hidaka found Damiri's lack of deference irritating, and his constant demand to be consulted was dangerously impertinent. He'd cultivated the man as an alternative to Moertopo, and though it had borne results, they had come at a cost.

Damiri marched up to him. "We need to speak," he said.

"You mean you feel the need to bother me," Hidaka corrected him. "I don't see that we have any need to do anything other than finish our work here."

"You cannot denude the ship of all its defenses," said Damiri.

"Oh, really?"

"But you do not understand-"

"I understand that you are irritating me, Damiri, and slowing down progress."

The Indonesian planted his hands on his hips. Men swirled around them, carrying boxes and computer screens and chairs on wheels. There was very little elbow room in the confined space, and Hidaka was jostled a couple of times. This added to his ill temper.

"Have you not read the e-mail I sent you?" Damiri asked.

Hidaka sighed volubly. "I swear, Damiri. You and your e-mails. You are trying to bury me alive in them. What is it this time? If you're still insisting on five breaks a day to worship your ridiculous God, you can forget it. Once is enough. He's all-seeing. He'll understand that you're busy."

Hidaka was a little startled when Damiri poked a finger in his face and spat out furiously, "If you had read my e-mail, you would understand that, far from complicating your struggle against the Americans, Allah-praise be His name-could deliver you your victory."

Hidaka was tired and growing impatient. He was aware of the sly grins that appeared on the faces of the Indonesian sailors around him. Sub-Lieutenant Damiri's sudden conversion to religious conviction was widely thought to be a sign of his difficulty in coping with the events of the past weeks. He'd also suffered a nasty blow on the head, and the other Indonesians seemed to think it had left him testy and irrational.

Hidaka looked at his watch. If he wasted much more time with this loon, it would disrupt the schedule. He made to brush him off, but Damiri grabbed his wrist and held tight.

"Just hear me out," he said. "I know how you can use this ship to destroy Kolhammer's fleet. But you'll have to stop stripping her down like this."

Hidaka had been about to draw his revolver and shoot the insolent dog in the face, but he stayed his hand.

Damiri inclined his head toward the door of the small Combat Information Center.

"Not here," he said. "In private."

Pleased with the rate at which the trucks were leaving the dock, Yamamoto was about to make his excuses and catch a few hours of much-needed sleep. More Germans were coming tomorrow. Personal emissaries from Hitler, this time. He still had to put the final touches on the message he wanted to send back with them.

He'd been anxious all day and most of the night. His neck was stiff from craning around to search the sky for American missiles, even though Moertopo had said there was no chance he'd ever see them coming.

The Combined Fleet remained at anchor in the darkness around them. Apart from the stars, the only lights visible were the hooded headlamps of the trucks. Yamamoto had borrowed a night vision headset to examine the other ships around Hashirajima. The carriers and great battleships slept behind their torpedo nets. They looked invincible, but he knew their armor plate would prove no better than a silk veil if Nimitz came upon them with his new weapons.

Surely that day must be drawing close.

Just a few more hours cooped up like chickens for the slaughter, he thought, and then they'll be away.

They sailed on the morrow. He could hardly contain his desire to be gone from the anchorage. As familiar and homely as it was, Hashirajima was such an obvious target. Moertopo had told him it was sure to be struck. And soon.

The admiral bade Brasch and Moertopo farewell and was just turning to leave when he heard Commander Hidaka calling up to them from the Sutanto. Yamamoto peered into the night, but couldn't make him out.

"I think he wants to talk to you," said Brasch.

Perplexed and more than a little irritated at the prospect of losing more sleep, he frowned and waited. The young officer came running up to him with an Indonesian in tow.

"Admiral, Admiral! You have to hear this. Damiri here has an idea that might just rid us of these new Americans."

"Really," said Yamamoto, not bothering to hide the surprise or the doubt that he felt.

Moertopo, he noticed, had gone rigid, as though he had been electrocuted. The Indonesian commander turned to him and hissed as the others approached at a trot, "Do not trust this man, Admiral. The journey here has addled his mind. And it was no good to begin with. He is a fanatic, or has come to imagine himself so."

Yamamoto heard Brasch laugh a few feet away.

"When will you understand, Moertopo? You have fallen in among fanatics."

Hidaka drew up a few feet away and bowed. He was puffing. The other man was younger and thinner. It was difficult to make out his features in the dead of night, but it looked like he sported a wispy beard, and he had a look of wiry muscularity about him. Before anyone else could speak, Moertopo stepped forward and slapped the man.

The other Indonesian laughed, and spoke in his native language. "You are a dog, Moertopo. You were a dog for Djuanda, for the Americans, and now for these infidels. If you lay your hand on me again, I shall cut it off."

"That's enough," barked Yamamoto. "What's going on here? If you're about to drag me into some squalid mess room quarrel, I'd advise you to think again."

"My apologies, sir. I am Sub-Lieutenant Usama Damiri," the thin man said in English. "And I have held my tongue long enough while this fool"-he pointed at Moertopo-"has lain about like a scabrous dog in heat."

Hidaka was forced to block Moertopo's path as he lunged forward.

"Do that again, and I will cut you down where you stand," said the Japanese officer. "Your comrade here has been of more help in the last three minutes than you have managed since you woke up."

Work continued down at the ship, but some of the sailors had begun to notice the confrontation.

Moertopo turned to Yamamoto. "Don't listen to this man, I beg you, Admiral. He doesn't have your best interests at heart. He is unbalanced. He thinks God has sent us here to smite the unbelievers, which, I might add, includes you. He is mad, or very quickly getting that way."