Weapons of choice

She holstered her weapon and scooped up the girl. As they passed Duffy and Ivanov, Julia heard the surgeon whisper.

"C'mon precious. Let's get you a hot bath and some chocolate."

The child spoke for the first time.

"I like chocolate."

As tears welled up in the surgeon's eyes, she hugged the bony child to her.

"Of course you do, darlin'. Everyone loves chocolate."

43

USS HILLARY CLINTON, 1512 HOURS, 25 JUNE 1942

When the news came, Kolhammer was in his stateroom and very much looking forward to the moment when the safety of this convoy was no longer his concern. He had nearly thirty-eight thousand liberated prisoners under his care and despite the best efforts of the medics, they were still dying at the rate of nearly a hundred a day. Captain Francois told him that was better than they could have expected, given the terrible conditions in the camps, but Kolhammer prayed that they wouldn't lose too many more.

He hadn't spoken to the combat surgeon about the incident at Cabanatuan. There were rumors that things had gotten way out hand in there just after she'd turned up. But Kolhammer had personally spoken to half a dozen of the camp's female inmates and none of them said they could recall anything untoward happening.

He doubted that, but as long as nobody was complaining he didn't see much point chasing up ghost stories. He had more pressing issues to worry about. They couldn't put off the inevitable. He knew that when they returned to Pearl he was going to get hammered from all sides. He'd been able to push through the rescue mission because nobody yet knew what to do about the Multinational Force. But he understood that with each day that passed, the novelty and shock of their presence would recede and the politics of the situation would quickly assert themselves. Roosevelt's commanders were already fighting among themselves, trying to gain control over his fleet. The British government was still demanding that their ships-and the Australians', for that matter-be detached from the Multinational Force and placed under London's control immediately. And it seemed that absolutely nobody among the contemporary Allies would consider just leaving the force intact.

They still hadn't located any of trace of the British and French ships Vanguard and Dessaix. And given the discovery of the Nuku on top of that mountain in New Guinea, and the loss of the Garrett in the Southern Ocean, he was a lot less sanguine about the prospects of their turning up safely or having been left behind.

Kolhammer rubbed his tired eyes and wished that he could just crawl under the covers of his bed and wake up back home next to Marie. He still felt her absence like a hole in his heart every minute of the day. For all of the mind-bending complexities of the Transition, it was still the intimate, personal consequences that had the power to undo him. In his worst moments he suspected that if he alone could somehow sneak back to be with her, he might just abandon everything here. Duty, honor, friendship. Everything. Just for the chance to be with his wife. After all, this was not his war.

He had an awful feeling that the blood and horror of the past weeks was going to be matched by a crude ugliness of spirit once it became obvious to the wider world that they were not going back where they came from. The murders of Anderson and Miyazaki seemed to lend credence to that fear.

Francois had been in his ear about the investigation, or the "so-called" investigation, as she constantly referred to it. Nimitz had been more than helpful and sympathetic, but everything just seemed to jam up in the lower levels. He hadn't met the detective who'd caught the case but he'd heard all about him from Francois. Buster Cherry was not a figure to inspire confidence. Kolhammer was deeply worried that the killing was only the start of their problems here.

They were trapped without hope of getting home, but he had no idea what to do next. His intercom beeped and Commander Judge appeared on the screen, saving him the trouble of pondering the matter any further.

"Admiral, it's the Sutanto," he said. "She's turned up and she's in trouble."

KRI SUTANTO, 1515 HOURS, 25 JUNE 1942

The Japanese had conferred a new rank on Usama Damiri, in honor of his bravery and sacrifice in the service of the emperor. He was now Captain Damiri of the Imperial Japanese Navy (Auxiliary Forces). He snickered at the idea as shells exploded harmlessly in the waters around him. The Sutanto plunged on through the rain of salt water, her little autocannon firing at her pursuers, which were two thousand meters abeam on both sides of the ship.

Every time the deck gun spoke, it raised small buds of fire on the decks of the Japanese destroyers. Every time they returned fire, they missed. Damiri hoped they wouldn't get lucky-or unlucky, as the case would be.