“Captain Kato. It is I, Kakuta.” He sounded tired now. “Please contact the fleet, and bring them around. You may use the low-frequency radio. The attack on Dutch Harbor is not to proceed. I repeat, the attack on Dutch Harbor is not to proceed. I shall inform Admiral Hosogaya myself . . . Just obey!” he added firmly, when he saw that Kato was preparing to argue.

KRI SUTANTO, 0024 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942

“Amazing . . . simply amazing,” muttered Kakuta as Lieutenant Moertopo cut the link that connected them with the flexipad on the Ryujo’s bridge.

“The admiral expresses his heartfelt amazement at this most sophisticated machine,” Hidaka translated.

“I suppose it must be a shock,” said Moertopo, who had been confronted by a surprise much more profound than one’s first exposure to a simple flexipad. The dermal patch on his neck held back the physical sensation of nausea, but he still felt sick in his mind.

“Admiral, I suggest that we have some of the men go up on deck to ensure that Captain Kato has followed your orders,” Hidaka said, translating again for the benefit of the Indonesian.

“That won’t be necessary, Admiral,” Moertopo interjected. “I can do that from here.” In a few seconds he linked to the Sutanto’s sensors and handed the pad back to Kakuta, who was then able to watch a radar image of the entire fleet, slowing and turning for home. Hidaka explained the meaning of the image that filled the flexipad screen. At this point in history, Japan had not invested deeply in radar technology. Moertopo noted with a degree of satisfaction that neither man was able hide his admiration.

“I can get you an image of any individual vessel you’d care to observe from the mast-mounted cameras,” said Moertopo. “It doesn’t matter that it’s dark and foggy outside. The cameras can pick out your ships, anyway.”

He took the pad back, entered a few instructions, and, just as he had promised, the screen filled with a black-and-white image of the Ryujo herself, coming around on the new heading, leaning into the swell, throwing up a prodigious bow wave.

“Again. I am astounded, Lieutenant,” said Hidaka with real reverence in his tone.

“I doubt you could be more astonished than I.”

They sat at the wardroom table, sipping fresh tea from the ship’s finest china, last used when the Sutanto had spirited the Indonesian president and his family away from the Caliphate rebellion. In deference to the Indonesians, who were dressed for the tropics, the ship’s climate control had been set to approximate a warm spring day in Bali. The Japanese had stripped off the outer layers of their arctic-weather gear but were still sweating in the heavy uniforms they wore underneath.