Weapons of choice

The incredible sacrifice of wave after wave of American pilots-all of them knowingly flying to their deaths-touched him in a way he had not thought possible. They had died with great spirit, just to give their dive-bombers a shot at Nagumo's carriers. In five minutes three of those carriers had been destroyed, and the war lost. The fourth soon followed. All because of a stupidly complex and wasteful plan for which he bore sole responsibility.

Yamamoto had to lean against his desk as waves of dizziness and nausea swept over him. He, and he alone, had brought unutterable shame upon the emperor and devastation on the homeland. He did not need to reread the brief account of the atomic blasts that would have devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Nor did he need to examine the photographs again. The images would stay with him for the rest of his life.

He wondered bleakly how long that might now be.

Would his new grand strategic design change anything? Or were they all trapped in a cycle of predestination. Was Japan doomed to lose this war and face subservience to a Communist China in the next century?

Yamamoto put down his tea. Such things could not be known until they had come to pass. Resolution took hold of him, driving out his doubts and fears. His choice was clear. He must do everything he could to safeguard the emperor and the Home Islands. If he should fail, such were the fortunes of war.

A convoy of twenty-seven trucks arrived in the early evening to carry away the equipment that had been stripped from the Sutanto. At least three of the vehicles were filled with an eclectic assortment of twenty-first-century artifacts that had little or nothing to do with the ship's military role. All of the printed matter was boxed up and carried away along with video game consoles, televisions, DVD players, camcorders, coffeemakers, waffle irons, rice cookers, digital watches, most of the ship's pharmaceutical supplies, and 125 personal flexipads along with thousands of data sticks containing games, books, movies, music, and pornography. The seemingly endless list of exotic devices threatened to make Yamamoto's head swim.

"Don't be so glum, Lieutenant," he said to Moertopo. "You're not being robbed. Far from it, you're probably being saved. That ship will be the Americans' first target when they discover we have it. You must realize that yourself."

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."