Hidaka unshipped his revolver from its holster as the foreigner began to cough out a series of unintelligible words. He tried to lever himself up off the floor, but Hidaka placed a foot on his chest and pressed him firmly back down. Incomprehension and a touch of fear crossed the man’s face.

Good, thought Hidaka.

“Name!” he barked out, first in Japanese, then in English.

The man coughed and gagged on his own bile. He appeared to be trying to answer, so Hidaka only gave him a slight nudge with his boot.

“Name. And rank. And position aboard this vessel.”

The man, who was dressed in soiled tropical whites and sandals, of all things, squinted at Hidaka as if trying to focus properly.

“Moertopo,” he answered. “Lieutenant Ali Moertopo, executive officer.”

He spoke English, then. Hidaka was quietly relieved.

The man, Lieutenant Moertopo, finally focused on Hidaka’s pistol. He seemed genuinely surprised, and somehow affronted.

“What is going on?” he demanded with more authority in his voice than Hidaka cared for. “Who are you, and what are you doing aboard this ship?”

The demands were delivered in a weak, faltering voice, but there was no mistaking the challenge inherent in their tone. Hidaka flushed with anger that someone so obviously low-caste could think to presume upon him in such a fashion, but Admiral Kakuta had chosen him well for this mission. He swallowed his own indignation, carefully holstered the pistol, and dropped a handkerchief onto the man’s chest.

“Clean yourself up, Lieutenant,” he said. “You look a mess.”

Moertopo thanked him, somewhat doubtfully, and wiped the vomit from his face and neck. His movements indicated to Hidaka that he was in considerable pain. It never registered on his face, however, granting him some esteem in the eyes of the Japanese officer.

Moertopo looked around slowly, taking in the bodies of his shipmates, laid out on either side of him. They were breathing and twitching, but would clearly offer no assistance.

“You have not answered my question,” he said in English.

“My name is Hidaka. I boarded your ship with a rescue party three hours ago. Your shipmates are alive, but appear to have been incapacitated. You would have to tell me how that might be, Lieutenant. I am afraid I have no idea.”

“You are Japanese, yes?”

Hidaka nodded, noting that the information neither alarmed nor upset his prisoner.

“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?”