“They’ll kill you, Moertopo. Your value to them declines each day as they become more familiar with your technology. One day you will be of no use to them at all. And then . . .”

The German shrugged.

A cold ball of acid seemed to burn at the Indonesian’s gut.

“Why are you saying these things?” he asked, his voice nearly squeaking with indignation and fright.

“Because they’re true,” smiled Brasch.

Moertopo’s hand shook as he tried to take another puff on the cigarette. Twice he opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came. He knew that what Brasch had said was true. There were days he wondered why he was even alive now. The night, which had seemed so pleasant and tranquil, now seemed darker and more malevolent. Shadows pooled under bushes, hiding assassins. He shuddered.

“Don’t worry,” Brasch said. “We’re all dead men anyway.”

His face seemed to freeze in the flash of a photographer’s globe, but the blaze of white light did not fade. It grew stronger. And the thunder of the apocalypse shook the ground underfoot. Moertopo threw himself at Brasch.

“Hiroshima,” he screamed.

“Wha—”

They crashed to the wooden deck and Moertopo flinched, expecting to see his skin blacken and begin to smoke, just before a blast wave pulverized them against the rock wall to their rear. Giant explosions hammered at the island again and again. And when he found that he was still alive after a few seconds, he realized how foolish he’d been.

“Are you all right,” he shouted at Brasch.

The engineer was already climbing to his feet. His eyes bulged as he took in the sight before them. The idyllic panorama had been utterly transformed. The sleeping fleet, the silver moonlight, they were gone. The anchorage was now a cauldron in which half a dozen ships blazed like Roman torches.

“It’s started,” said Moertopo.

Shouts and cries reached them as the Japanese soldiers guarding their quarters realized they were under attack. A siren began its mournful wail, and the first lines of trace fire weaved up from the deck of a destroyer about three kilometers away.

A sergeant of the guard appeared at a run, panting and gesturing for them to follow him to a shelter.

“There’s no need,” said Moertopo.

Brasch regarded him with a strange expression. It took the Indonesian a second or two to recognize the look. It was respect.

He smiled.

“There’s no need to run or hide because they don’t miss, Major. If we were meant to die, it already would be so.”

USS HILLARY CLINTON, 2141 HOURS, 20 JUNE 1942