Brasch finished the drink in one long pull and eased himself out of the bunk. His vision was too blurred to read his watch, so he asked Steckel for the time.

“Zero four thirty-eight, Herr Major, as usual.”

Is that a hint of peevishness I detect in his voice? Brasch wondered idly. Well, damn him anyway. Brasch pointed to the chair where his pants and yesterday’s shirt hung. The attaché fetched them without uttering a word.

“Find me some breakfast, Steckel. Some real breakfast, with sausages, and none of their damn rice. I’m sick of it. We might as well get working on this puzzle box again, eh?”

“Yes, Herr Major, right away, I have already seen to it.”

“And coffee?”

“Right here, sir.”

Brasch gratefully accepted the mug. Perhaps Steckel wasn’t such an odious fellow after all.

“Is Captain Kruger with us yet, Steckel?”

“Still asleep, Herr Major. He turned in only three hours ago.”

Brasch thought he detected a trace of censure in the man’s voice. He seemed to think Brasch should be working twenty-five hours a day. He had no idea what it cost the engineer to get out of bed at all.

“What about Commander Hidaka?” he asked. “I’ll bet he’s awake.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t believe I have seen him off-duty yet. But then, I’m not here as much as you.”

“That right,” said Brasch. “You’re not. Come on. Let us join the other master race, shall we?”

Steckel, who was uncomfortable with Brasch’s less-than-reverent tone when discussing matters of genetic purity, covered his disquiet by retreating into form.

“But you have not shaved, Herr Major!”

Brasch stopped exactly where he stood, with one foot half in his boot. He stared at Steckel for some time before breaking out in a loud, raucous laugh.

“Herr Major?”

Brasch shook his head.

“It does not matter, Herr Steckel. Believe me.”

The Sutanto lay at anchor in a secluded section of the moorage off Hashirajima Island, blocked from view by a screen of light cruisers and surrounded by three lines of torpedo nets. A squadron of Zero fighters circled perpetually high above. Admiral Yamamoto had decreed there was never to be a second when the precious ship lacked air cover.

There would be no Doolittle Raids over Hashirajima.

No deck lights burned on the Indonesian vessel, and blackout curtains had been draped across all her openings, allowing work to continue twenty-four hours a day. Contrary to rumor, Commander Jisaku Hidaka was not awake for every one of those hours, but he did drive himself for as long as humanly possible each day. Like Steckel, he made it clear he found Brasch’s apparent lack of commitment perplexing, and occasionally disturbing.

“Good morning, Commander,” Brasch said in nearly flawless Japanese.