“My apologies, sir. I am Sub-Lieutenant Usama Damiri,” the thin man said in English. “And I have held my tongue long enough while this fool”—he pointed at Moertopo—“has lain about like a scabrous dog in heat.”

Hidaka was forced to block Moertopo’s path as he lunged forward.

“Do that again, and I will cut you down where you stand,” said the Japanese officer. “Your comrade here has been of more help in the last three minutes than you have managed since you woke up.”

Work continued down at the ship, but some of the sailors had begun to notice the confrontation.

Moertopo turned to Yamamoto. “Don’t listen to this man, I beg you, Admiral. He doesn’t have your best interests at heart. He is unbalanced. He thinks God has sent us here to smite the unbelievers, which, I might add, includes you. He is mad, or very quickly getting that way.”

Yamamoto turned to Hidaka for help. The commander nodded. “It’s true. He thinks his God has sent him here to atone for his sins. And he thinks we’re all heathen dogs who are doomed to perish in a—what did you call it, Damiri? Yes, a jihad. A religious war. He doesn’t deny that at all. But he says he has a way to destroy, or at least cripple the Americans. And I believe him.”

Moertopo cursed and stalked away a few feet.

“I cannot believe this insanity has followed me here,” he said, but nobody was listening now.

Yamamoto regarded Damiri with a new measure of interest, if not respect.

“Tell me your plan, Lieutenant. I hope it’s good, or you should prepare yourself to meet this God of yours.”

Damiri smiled contemptuously. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Yamamoto could make out his face quite well now. He was intrigued to see that the young man was not at all frightened of him.

When Damiri explained what he wanted to do, Yamamoto understood why.

Chapter 33

33

KRI SUTANTO, HASHIRAJIMA ANCHORAGE, 2043 HOURS, 11 JUNE 1942

Lieutenant Moertopo lay in his bunk, smoking a clove cigarette laced with a small amount of hashish. It was his only comfort now. The luxury quarters and flexible geisha babes had been withdrawn since that madman Damiri had replaced him in the Japs’ affections. Allah only knew what they’d do with him when the Sutanto put to sea under Damiri’s command.

For now, he spent most of his time in here, his old cabin. He was still the senior officer. He should have been placed in Captain Djuanda’s small but comfortable stateroom, but Hidaka was in there. That wasn’t surprising. It’d been fitted out at great expense for the rescue of the president and his family from Tanjungpinang—an adventure that was literally a world away now.