Weapons of choice

He gripped the stick, increased his speed, and dropped the flaps as the firepots blurred into one long yellow streak in the darkness outside the cockpit. Acceleration pushed him back into the seat.

He flicked a switch to turn on the blinking red lights at his wingtips. The rest of the squadron would follow these lights up into the sky. The tiny strip of light that was their airfield fell away below. The other planes strung out behind him, small snorts of blue flame coughing occasionally from the engine cowlings. Only moments after takeoff Murata spotted the three Imperial Japanese Navy destroyers, far ahead of them in the strait. If he could spot three relatively small vessels like that so quickly, there was little doubt he would find this mystery convoy before long.

Murata hoped the air controllers had done their job. It wouldn't do to be shot down by his own navy as he flew over them. But he needn't have worried. His Majesty's Imperial Japanese Navy was the finest in the world. Murata's squadron roared over them without incident.

He took a moment to appreciate the scenery in this, his last few minutes as an unblooded warrior. The world was a patchwork of shadows and deeper darkness. The island of Sumatra was a black void to his left, a line of mountains discernible only where the stars disappeared, cut off by the highest ridges. The waters of strait unfurled below like a great, wide ribbon of lesser blackness, shot through with diamonds as small waves threw back shards of light from the half-moon, hanging like an ancient blade in the night sky.

It took them less than an hour to reach their objective.

Murata waggled his wings, signaling to the other Zero pilots that they should form up on him and prepare for a strafing run. Below them, in the strait, the spreading wakes of the big, slow-moving ships taunted him. They weren't taking evasive action. They weren't firing at him. They must be asleep, he decided.

He smiled.

They simply could not be allowed to proceed as if they cared nothing for the might of imperial Japan. Murata took a deep breath, centering himself in his hara. The Zero became more than just a machine. It was a divine blade, an embodiment of the emperor's will. Descended from gods, destined to take dominion over the lesser peoples of the world, the spirit of the blessed Emperor Hirohito rode with him in this plane. Murata could actually feel the presence of divinity as he plunged down on the prey.

Then an explosion rocked him.

Ah, awake at last, white man.

For one brief shining moment, he knew the rapture of the samurai. Nothing could deflect him, the emperor's sword, from slashing into the enemy. Not high-explosive shells, nor twisting lines of tracer. Not 20mm Oerlikon cannon, or Bofors mounts, or even the bark and cough of five-inch guns on the enemy destroyers.

He almost laughed with glee, and then…

Murata gasped.

The explosions weren't flak bursts. They were the planes of his comrades, disintegrating in dirty, orange balls of flame. Within seconds the sky was empty, save for the burning wreckage tumbling toward the sea. Murata's eyes bulged at the sight. Wings sheathed in flame fluttered downward like cherry blossoms. Strangely beautiful cascades of fire rained down as aviation gas ignited. He was certain he saw the nose of a Zero, the propeller still turning. It flew past him like a blazing comet.

He had time to wonder why his own plane was suddenly so hot.

And then he was consumed in a fiery maelstrom.

The focus of activity in the Trident's CIC shifted from the antiair division to antisurface. Halabi brushed past Sir Leslie, jostling him slightly on her way over the small group of workstations. The Royal Navy's representative to Hawaii said nothing. He'd been silenced by the brutal efficiency with which Halabi and her crew had wiped out the Japanese squadron. The Zero had achieved a mythical status every bit as powerful as the RAF's own Spitfire. To see them swatted away like flies was a rather confrontational experience for the rear admiral.

"Excuse me," Halabi said as she brushed past him again.

"Yes, of course, Captain," he muttered in a distracted fashion. He watched, fascinated, as Halabi clasped her hands behind her back and considered the feed from the drone they had hovering above the three Japanese ships a few hundred kilometers ahead. The screen was split into two panels displaying low light and infrared. The enemy ships were steaming toward her at what must be their top speed. White water boiled at their sterns in the pale opalescent green of the low-light video, while hot smoke poured from the glowing stacks amidships of each vessel on the infrared window. Murray had trouble believing the God's-eye view of battle on the huge screen in front of him.

The destroyers were tagged as Hostiles 01 through 03. Flashing icons marked the spot where the Zeros had died. A time hack over the island of Singapore read 2321, indicating the amount of time the SAS had been on the ground.