The Combined Fleet remained at anchor in the darkness around them. Apart from the stars, the only lights visible were the hooded headlamps of the trucks. Yamamoto had borrowed a night vision headset to examine the other ships around Hashirajima. The carriers and great battleships slept behind their torpedo nets. They looked invincible, but he knew their armor plate would prove no better than a silk veil if Nimitz came upon them with his new weapons.

Surely that day must be drawing close.

Just a few more hours cooped up like chickens for the slaughter, he thought, and then they’ll be away.

They sailed on the morrow. He could hardly contain his desire to be gone from the anchorage. As familiar and homely as it was, Hashirajima was such an obvious target. Moertopo had told him it was sure to be struck. And soon.

The admiral bade Brasch and Moertopo farewell and was just turning to leave when he heard Commander Hidaka calling up to them from the Sutanto. Yamamoto peered into the night, but couldn’t make him out.

“I think he wants to talk to you,” said Brasch.

Perplexed and more than a little irritated at the prospect of losing more sleep, he frowned and waited. The young officer came running up to him with an Indonesian in tow.

“Admiral, Admiral! You have to hear this. Damiri here has an idea that might just rid us of these new Americans.”

“Really,” said Yamamoto, not bothering to hide the surprise or the doubt that he felt.

Moertopo, he noticed, had gone rigid, as though he had been electrocuted. The Indonesian commander turned to him and hissed as the others approached at a trot, “Do not trust this man, Admiral. The journey here has addled his mind. And it was no good to begin with. He is a fanatic, or has come to imagine himself so.”

Yamamoto heard Brasch laugh a few feet away.

“When will you understand, Moertopo? You have fallen in among fanatics.”

Hidaka drew up a few feet away and bowed. He was puffing. The other man was younger and thinner. It was difficult to make out his features in the dead of night, but it looked like he sported a wispy beard, and he had a look of wiry muscularity about him. Before anyone else could speak, Moertopo stepped forward and slapped the man.

The other Indonesian laughed, and spoke in his native language. “You are a dog, Moertopo. You were a dog for Djuanda, for the Americans, and now for these infidels. If you lay your hand on me again, I shall cut it off.”

“That’s enough,” barked Yamamoto. “What’s going on here? If you’re about to drag me into some squalid mess room quarrel, I’d advise you to think again.”