Weapons of choice

A single man, a Siberian or a Mongol by his features, accelerated from the foremost rank, heading straight for their dugout. He launched himself into the air, clearing the windbreak of dead Communists, slamming into Brasch, his hands closing around the engineer's neck, his teeth finding purchase in the unshaven bristles of his throat.

KRI SUTANTO, HASHIRAJIMA ANCHORAGE, 0438 HOURS, 6 JUNE 1942

"Herr Major, Herr Major, wake up sir, wake up. You are disturbing the others."

The Siberian's rough, choking grasp became a lighter, more considerate touch, shaking his shoulders, dragging him up out of the nightmare that had haunted him for weeks.

"Willie?" Brasch was disoriented. His heart still raced, almost as it had that day outside Belgorod. "Willie, is that you?"

"No, sir. It is I, Herr Steckel. From the embassy."

Brasch came upright and instantly a sharp, nearly blinding pain bit into his scalp. He cursed.

"Careful sir, there's not much headroom in here."

Brasch rubbed his head and blinked the crust of sleep from his eyes. The first thing he noticed, as always, was the warmth. He'd never expected to be warm again. Then he became conscious of his freedom of movement. He wore only a light vest and undershorts. Finally, he remembered. He was no longer at the Eastern Front. He was in the Far East, on the ship of wonders. A rush of half-formed thoughts and feelings blew through his sleep-disordered mind. Dominating them all, however, was a profound blankness and disbelief in the simple fact that he was still alive. He had numbered himself among the dead for so long, he felt ill at ease to be among the living once more.

"I am sorry, Herr Steckel. Please excuse me," he rasped. "My throat is dry. Some water, if you have it."

Steckel passed across a glass of chilled water. They had been through this ritual every night since the engineer's arrival. At first the diplomat had been awed and humbled just to draw breath in the same room as the legend of Belgorod. But two weeks of tending to this shattered husk of a man had obviously drained him of any such respect.

Brasch finished the drink in one long pull and eased himself out of the bunk. His vision was too blurred to read his watch, so he asked Steckel for the time.

"Zero four thirty-eight, Herr Major, as usual."

Is that a hint of peevishness I detect in his voice? Brasch wondered idly. Well, damn him anyway. Brasch pointed to the chair where his pants and yesterday's shirt hung. The attache fetched them without uttering a word.

"Find me some breakfast, Steckel. Some real breakfast, with sausages, and none of their damn rice. I'm sick of it. We might as well get working on this puzzle box again, eh?"

"Yes, Herr Major, right away, I have already seen to it."

"And coffee?"

"Right here, sir."

Brasch gratefully accepted the mug. Perhaps Steckel wasn't such an odious fellow after all.

"Is Captain Kruger with us yet, Steckel?"

"Still asleep, Herr Major. He turned in only three hours ago."

Brasch thought he detected a trace of censure in the man's voice. He seemed to think Brasch should be working twenty-five hours a day. He had no idea what it cost the engineer to get out of bed at all.

"What about Commander Hidaka?" he asked. "I'll bet he's awake."

"Yes, sir. I don't believe I have seen him off-duty yet. But then, I'm not here as much as you."

"That right," said Brasch. "You're not. Come on. Let us join the other master race, shall we?"

Steckel, who was uncomfortable with Brasch's less-than-reverent tone when discussing matters of genetic purity, covered his disquiet by retreating into form.

"But you have not shaved, Herr Major!"

Brasch stopped exactly where he stood, with one foot half in his boot. He stared at Steckel for some time before breaking out in a loud, raucous laugh.

"Herr Major?"

Brasch shook his head.

"It does not matter, Herr Steckel. Believe me."

The Sutanto lay at anchor in a secluded section of the moorage off Hashirajima Island, blocked from view by a screen of light cruisers and surrounded by three lines of torpedo nets. A squadron of Zero fighters circled perpetually high above. Admiral Yamamoto had decreed there was never to be a second when the precious ship lacked air cover.

There would be no Doolittle Raids over Hashirajima.

No deck lights burned on the Indonesian vessel, and blackout curtains had been draped across all her openings, allowing work to continue twenty-four hours a day. Contrary to rumor, Commander Jisaku Hidaka was not awake for every one of those hours, but he did drive himself for as long as humanly possible each day. Like Steckel, he made it clear he found Brasch's apparent lack of commitment perplexing, and occasionally disturbing.

"Good morning, Commander," Brasch said in nearly flawless Japanese.