They were trapped without hope of getting home, but he had no idea what to do next. His intercom beeped and Commander Judge appeared on the screen, saving him the trouble of pondering the matter any further.

“Admiral, it’s the Sutanto,” he said. “She’s turned up and she’s in trouble.”

KRI SUTANTO, 1515 HOURS, 25 JUNE 1942

The Japanese had conferred a new rank on Usama Damiri, in honor of his bravery and sacrifice in the service of the emperor. He was now Captain Damiri of the Imperial Japanese Navy (Auxiliary Forces). He snickered at the idea as shells exploded harmlessly in the waters around him. The Sutanto plunged on through the rain of salt water, her little autocannon firing at her pursuers, which were two thousand meters abeam on both sides of the ship.

Every time the deck gun spoke, it raised small buds of fire on the decks of the Japanese destroyers. Every time they returned fire, they missed. Damiri hoped they wouldn’t get lucky—or unlucky, as the case would be.

As amused as he was by the insistence of the infidels that he accept the commission into their service, he couldn’t fault the courage of the skeleton crew on those three vessels. They knew they wouldn’t survive this mission, and yet they were all volunteers.

“We have the Clinton on channel three, my sheik.”

Damiri’s mouth was dry. Not with fear, of course, but with excitement and anticipation. They were so close now. If he could plunge a dagger into the heart of the infidel empire now, it might never arise to oppress the Dar al-Islam. He took a deep breath to steady himself before taking up the microphone. The other two martyrs on the bridge watched him expectantly. He invested his performance with as much ersatz desperation as he could muster.

“Mayday mayday, this is the Sutanto under Acting Commander Damiri. Come in please, Clinton. We are under attack by pirate forces. We have casualties and require immediate assistance.”

Damiri fed a random layer of electronic interference into the signal. It would help if they were scratching their heads at the other end. Typically, a woman’s voice answered.

“Sutanto, this is Clinton. We have you on the arrays. Can you confirm you are under attack by three surface combatants?”

Damiri flicked a series of switches to fire off the only two antiship missiles he’d been allowed to keep. They smoked off the rails and lanced away, homing in on the nearest ship. It was an old Wakatake-class destroyer, built in 1922. The contrails of white smoke arced over the waves and touched down on the forecastle of the doomed ship, exploding in a vivid flickering flash.

“Only two now,” he radioed back.

There was a moment’s delay.

“Got that one, Sutanto, good shooting. Hang on tight. Cavalry’s on its way.”

Usama Damiri smiled. He knew now that this would be his last day on earth.