Yamamoto put down his tea. Such things could not be known until they had come to pass. Resolution took hold of him, driving out his doubts and fears. His choice was clear. He must do everything he could to safeguard the emperor and the Home Islands. If he should fail, such were the fortunes of war.

A convoy of twenty-seven trucks arrived in the early evening to carry away the equipment that had been stripped from the Sutanto. At least three of the vehicles were filled with an eclectic assortment of twenty-first-century artifacts that had little or nothing to do with the ship’s military role. All of the printed matter was boxed up and carried away along with video game consoles, televisions, DVD players, camcorders, coffeemakers, waffle irons, rice cookers, digital watches, most of the ship’s pharmaceutical supplies, and 125 personal flexipads along with thousands of data sticks containing games, books, movies, music, and pornography. The seemingly endless list of exotic devices threatened to make Yamamoto’s head swim.

“Don’t be so glum, Lieutenant,” he said to Moertopo. “You’re not being robbed. Far from it, you’re probably being saved. That ship will be the Americans’ first target when they discover we have it. You must realize that yourself.”

They stood on the dock watching the operation with Major Brasch. Hidaka was down in the vessel, overseeing the removal process. Moertopo remained defiantly sullen.

“Nevertheless, it is my ship, Admiral. Surely you must understand that.”

“Of course,” said Yamamoto.

Brasch snorted in mild derision. “Sailors. You are like old women.”

Hidaka had grown expert in the use of his flexipad. He carried it around the ship, checking manifests and loading schedules against the actual progress. They were doing well. The Indonesians were actually brisk and enthusiastic as they went about the business of emptying the vessel. No doubt this was the result of the fact that they had been given more liberty, better conditions, and more frequent visits by the comfort women in the last few days.

It had worked wonders for their morale, especially the whores. Many of them were Englishwomen from Hong Kong and Singapore. The sailors seemed particularly appreciative of the chance to have their way with them.

Hidaka smiled as he paused outside the CIC, but his good mood quickly dissolved when he saw Sub-Lieutenant Usama Damiri advancing on him. Damiri, the Sutanto’s information systems officer, had proven to be much more supportive and competent than Moertopo, who preferred to spend his time in bed, smoking hashish and fucking blondes. But Hidaka found Damiri’s lack of deference irritating, and his constant demand to be consulted was dangerously impertinent. He’d cultivated the man as an alternative to Moertopo, and though it had borne results, they had come at a cost.

Damiri marched up to him. “We need to speak,” he said.