The young technical officer leaned to his task, which wasn’t all that easy in the steep swell. He linked the gyroscopically mounted cameras to the Trident’s radar in order to establish an initial contact, but with that achieved it was down to his dexterity with a trackball to achieve a laser lock that captured the aircraft for the camera.

A window on the center’s main screen, which had been filled with static, suddenly cleared. Grainy video of two big, four-engine, prop-driven planes filled it.

“That’s a couple of Emily flying boats, Captain,” said Rear Admiral Murray. “Recon planes.”

The clicking of fingers across keyboards became faster and a touch louder. The buzz of voices picked up a little.

“Weapons,” said Halabi. “Estimated time to fire mission?”

“Twenty-three seconds, ma’am.”

“Guns hot.”

“Guns hot, Captain.”

Halabi ignored the video, concentrating instead on the screen at her side that rendered the battlespace into animated form. Blinking icons that represented the two aircraft kept moving toward them and flashed blue for another twenty seconds. Then they turned red with a ping.

“Fire,” said Halabi.

The weapons boss punched two buttons. Halabi felt and heard the autocannon cycle through a brief burst of shell fire. It sounded like a very short, frenzied drumbeat, less than a second.

“That’s it?” asked Murray, somewhat incredulous. “You’re sure you got them.”

The Trident’s commander pointed to the flatscreen in front of them. “Quickly, Sir Leslie, or you’ll miss it.”

The Royal Navy liaison officer turned back to the video coverage. At that instant both planes disintegrated in a sudden and silent eruption of fire and light. The long, heavy-looking hulls detonated into a dozen pieces before dropping away as the wings folded up like a book snapping shut, and the last of the debris dropped out of shot on the screen.

“You were asking if I was certain,” said Halabi.

“My mistake,” said Murray, who had been subdued by the spectacle.

“Signals, what did they get off?” Halabi called across the CIC.

“Just a brief transmission, Captain. Less than two seconds.”

She gestured to the technician to play it on the CIC speaker system. A hiss of static flared and dropped away as a Japanese voice said a few calm words before being cut off in midsentence.

AIR STATION TWENTY-THREE, SUMATRA, 2155 HOURS, 20 JUNE 1942

The Japanese squadron had trained exclusively for night fighting since 1937. Ironically, and much to the men’s disgust, their special skills had kept them out of the most important battles of the war so far. There had been no call for them because the American and British fliers couldn’t take their pathetic oxcarts into the air at night, so there was no enemy to oppose. Squadron Leader Murata had insisted on training at the same fever pitch, however, even after it became obvious to them that they would most likely never fire a shot in combat.