“You mean you feel the need to bother me,” Hidaka corrected him. “I don’t see that we have any need to do anything other than finish our work here.”

“You cannot denude the ship of all its defenses,” said Damiri.

“Oh, really?”

“But you do not understand—”

“I understand that you are irritating me, Damiri, and slowing down progress.”

The Indonesian planted his hands on his hips. Men swirled around them, carrying boxes and computer screens and chairs on wheels. There was very little elbow room in the confined space, and Hidaka was jostled a couple of times. This added to his ill temper.

“Have you not read the e-mail I sent you?” Damiri asked.

Hidaka sighed volubly. “I swear, Damiri. You and your e-mails. You are trying to bury me alive in them. What is it this time? If you’re still insisting on five breaks a day to worship your ridiculous God, you can forget it. Once is enough. He’s all-seeing. He’ll understand that you’re busy.”

Hidaka was a little startled when Damiri poked a finger in his face and spat out furiously, “If you had read my e-mail, you would understand that, far from complicating your struggle against the Americans, Allah—praise be His name—could deliver you your victory.”

Hidaka was tired and growing impatient. He was aware of the sly grins that appeared on the faces of the Indonesian sailors around him. Sub-Lieutenant Damiri’s sudden conversion to religious conviction was widely thought to be a sign of his difficulty in coping with the events of the past weeks. He’d also suffered a nasty blow on the head, and the other Indonesians seemed to think it had left him testy and irrational.

Hidaka looked at his watch. If he wasted much more time with this loon, it would disrupt the schedule. He made to brush him off, but Damiri grabbed his wrist and held tight.

“Just hear me out,” he said. “I know how you can use this ship to destroy Kolhammer’s fleet. But you’ll have to stop stripping her down like this.”

Hidaka had been about to draw his revolver and shoot the insolent dog in the face, but he stayed his hand.

Damiri inclined his head toward the door of the small Combat Information Center.

“Not here,” he said. “In private.”

Pleased with the rate at which the trucks were leaving the dock, Yamamoto was about to make his excuses and catch a few hours of much-needed sleep. More Germans were coming tomorrow. Personal emissaries from Hitler, this time. He still had to put the final touches on the message he wanted to send back with them.

He’d been anxious all day and most of the night. His neck was stiff from craning around to search the sky for American missiles, even though Moertopo had said there was no chance he’d ever see them coming.