Weapons of choice

"We were on station, just north of the main task force, carrying out antisubmarine drills," Moertopo said.

"Why?" asked Hidaka. "And which task force?"

Moertopo gave him an odd look, as if the question had been meant to mock him.

"Why indeed?" he said, bitterness evident in his voice. "The Caliphate has no submarines. And the Americans certainly wouldn't trust us to protect them from the Chinese. It was laughable. They just wanted to get us out of the way."

"The Americans?"

"Sorry, the Multinational Force. But yes, basically the Americans. They said it was because we couldn't link properly to their CI network, but the truth is they simply don't trust us."

Hidaka wished he had some idea what the man was talking about, but he didn't let his confusion show. This Moertopo seemed quite happy to discuss state secrets with him, despite the fact that he seemed to have been allied in some way to the United States. Notwithstanding the pressures of time, Hidaka would need to play this very carefully indeed.

"Can you stand?" he asked. "Would you like some tea?"

The man nodded gratefully. Hidaka clicked his fingers at a sailor, who hurried over to help Moertopo into the armchair. After some hasty instructions the crewman set about drawing another two mugs of tea. Hidaka took a plain chair from the wardroom table and spun it around to face Moertopo. He sat to bring himself down to eye level with his subject.

"Lieutenant Moertopo," he said, forming the name carefully, "this task force, was it heading for Java?"

"Of course," the lieutenant replied, gratefully sipping his tea. "The president himself insisted that we play our part in any operations taking place in our home waters." As he spoke, a measure of pride worked its way through the layers of illness and discomfort.

"And you were sailing from?"

"Dili," he said and then, "East Timor," as it became obvious Hidaka was confused by the answer. "We were training in preparation for deployment."

"Lieutenant Moertopo, you will have to excuse my ignorance, I have been at sea for many months. But I must say, your ship has me baffled. I have never seen its like before."

Moertopo snorted in a thin imitation of good humor. Obviously the effort taxed him severely.

"That is not surprising… I am sorry… Mr. Hidaka."

"Commander. Go on."

"Commander. We're the last of the old Parchim-class missile corvettes, purchased in bulk from the East German navy in the nineteen nineties. They've been refit-"

"Excuse me," Hidaka interrupted. "Did you say the nineteen nineties?"

"Yes. I forget the exact year. It was before I was born. But President Habibie bought thirty-nine of them. Most rusted away for want of funds to maintain them. Saboteurs destroyed some early in the war, but the Sutanto and the Nuku escaped. Did you know we carried the president himself and his family away from Tanjungpinang to Singapore?" Moertopo asked proudly.

But Hidaka wasn't attending to the question. He was staring at the young naval officer in sheer disbelief.

"No, I did not know that, Lieutenant," he said distractedly. "Do you know your current location, roughly?"

Moertopo shrugged. "You would know better than I, Commander. Clearly you haven't been unconscious for Allah knows how long."

"Yes, yes, but roughly."

"Somewhere in the Wetar Strait I would hazard. Near the rest of the task force. Tell me, have you all been affected? Is the Nuku okay?"

Hidaka was truly flummoxed. He shook his head in a distracted fashion. "The Wetar Strait, you say?"

"Yes. But enough of this pointless questioning-we're just wasting time," Moertopo said as he struggled to get to his feet. "I should see to my shipmates. We may need to consult your surgeon, or the Americans, if they haven't been attacked, too. Do you know if they have? Or what sort of weapon it was. A neural attack maybe."

"I am sorry, Lieutenant. What sort of attack?"

"That would mean that it was the Chinese, not the Caliphate," he said, not really helping Hidaka at all.

The commander's heart was racing now. He had often wondered how he might fare in combat, and now he had reason to doubt his own courage. He was becoming increasingly unnerved by this encounter. Gooseflesh was crawling up his arms, and he shivered involuntarily.

"Do you know the date today, Lieutenant?"

Moertopo glanced at his watch. "It is the fifteenth today."

"Of?"

Lieutenant Moertopo gave Hidaka a quizzical look.

"Of January."

"And the year? Please… humor me."

Moertopo shrugged and, without being sure why, glanced at his watch again.

"Twenty twenty-one."

"Shit," said Lieutenant Commander Hidaka.

But he said it in Japanese.

12

HIJMS RYUJO, 2358 HOURS, 2 JUNE 1942

Admirals don't normally answer summons from lieutenant commanders. But Hidaka had been so inured to censure, so insistent that Admiral Kakuta make the trip to this Sutanto, that the commander of the Second Carrier Striking Force had relented.

So it was that he found himself on the bitterly cold flight deck, cloaked in fog, when the strange lights appeared.