The seas were running at two and a half meters. The bulk of the Yamato would pass through a single wave as though it were composed of nothing more than smoke. But over the long haul from Hashirajima the ceaseless roll of the northern Pacific had imparted a long and rhythmic plunging motion to the sixty-five-thousand-tonne battleship. Yamamoto, who had quietly ordered the ship brought around when he had finally laid eyes on Kakuta’s mysterious “seaplane,” stood transfixed in the freezing night air as the pilot hovered over the forecastle. The aircraft dipped when the bow dipped. Rose when it rose. It was almost as though the pilot were dancing with the hulking behemoth beneath his wheels.

Admiral Yamamoto, Captain Takayanagi, all of the officers who had assembled on the high walkway were mesmerized, watching to see if the strange wingless plane would falter, to be slapped from the sky by a rogue surge of the deck. How the pilot could see through the darkness and the typhoon of spray thrown up by that huge propeller was anyone’s guess.

But clearly, he could. With one last skillful dip, the craft settled onto the deck and the roar died away as the pilot cut power to the engine. As if by sorcery, giant propeller blades materialized above the cockpit, revealing how this miraculous device stayed aloft. A dozen sailors ran forward with ropes to lash the thing to the deck.

KRI SUTANTO, 0237 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942

“Ensign Tomonagi, come quickly, the captain is stirring.”

Tomonagi followed the crewman back into the wardroom of the Sutanto, where the man whom Moertopo had identified as the ship’s commanding officer was indeed throwing off his coma-like unconsciousness.

Tomonagi’s stomach heaved, and a thin, greasy film of sweat quickly lacquered his forehead. But Commander Hidaka’s instruction has been quite explicit.

“You two, quickly!” he barked at a couple of his own sailors. “Grab him and follow me.”

A handful of Indonesian ratings who tried to help with their skipper were roughly forced back by armed guards.

“We shall take care of him,” Tomonagi declared. “Go back to your duties.”

None of them understood a word he said, but the tone was unmistakable. Reluctantly they stood by as their captain was carried from the room, his body convulsing in the arms of the sailors who bore him away.

Tomonagi led the small party out into the fresh air and over to the plasteel safety rail. He looked around for witnesses but apart from another Japanese sentry, there were none. He nodded at the sailors, who heaved Captain Djuanda over the side. They heard the impact very clearly as his body hit the icy waters. There was no scream.

HIJMS YAMATO, 0328 HOURS, 3 JUNE 1942