Moertopo smiled at his memories of that near disaster. It had seemed like a wild ride at the time; maybe the wildest, with the autocannon hammering at a huge Caliphate mob and every available member of the crew firing in support with sidearms and grenade launchers and even a flare gun as the president had raced up the gangway. He well remembered Djuanda, the old pirate, smoking a ridiculously oversized cigar, bellowing orders at the wheelhouse crew and laughing like a maniac as he fired an antique, silver-plated Colt .45 into the murderous rabble surging up the dock. Say hello to the Virgins of Paradise, he’d yelled at the jihadi hordes. Tell them to save some pussy for me.

Moertopo really missed the old goat. They’d had many great days. And Djuanda would have known what to do about Hidaka. Probably would have drilled him with that damn Colt as soon he’d opened his eyes. Djuanda was a good judge of a man, and never slow to use his guns when the situation demanded. He hadn’t trusted Usama Damiri, either. How could you trust someone named Usama?

Moertopo felt ashamed at his own failure to live up to the buccaneering spirit of the Sutanto’s former commander, just as he was shamed by his reluctance to confront Hidaka over the old man’s death. An accident, the Japanese had called it. Said he’d woken up while nobody was looking and fallen overboard. He was groggy, disoriented, and the sea was heavy, with a lot of reflected waves and cross-chop making the deck quite treacherous underfoot. A tragedy, said Hidaka, a real tragedy. Moertopo had mutely agreed, even though he’d seen Djuanda keep his feet in a typhoon while drunk on a whole bottle of arak.

A knock at the cabin door interrupted Moertopo’s litany of woe. He sighed and carefully stubbed out the cigarette. He had a buzz from the hashish, and had hoped to quietly drift off into a drugged sleep. Stripped of all but the most basic components, the ship seemed hollow to him, and he preferred to spend his time drugged and insensible to her violation by the Japanese. Grumbling, he dropped his feet to the deck and peered at the figure in the doorway. It was Damiri.

“I have come to offer you one last chance to join us,” he said.

“Oh, fuck off,” Moertopo said wearily.

The other man sneered at him with a mixture of contempt and pity.

“Look at you, Moertopo. You’re a disgrace. They will bury you with a pig’s carcass one day.”

“Not for a long time, though,” he said, relighting his reefer. “And they won’t bury you at all, Damiri. There won’t be enough of you left. And the Japanese wouldn’t bother anyway. To them, you’re just a dog with a trick.”