Kolhammer rubbed his tired eyes and wished that he could just crawl under the covers of his bed and wake up back home next to Marie. He still felt her absence like a hole in his heart every minute of the day. For all of the mind-bending complexities of the Transition, it was still the intimate, personal consequences that had the power to undo him. In his worst moments he suspected that if he alone could somehow sneak back to be with her, he might just abandon everything here. Duty, honor, friendship. Everything. Just for the chance to be with his wife. After all, this was not his war.

He had an awful feeling that the blood and horror of the past weeks was going to be matched by a crude ugliness of spirit once it became obvious to the wider world that they were not going back where they came from. The murders of Anderson and Miyazaki seemed to lend credence to that fear.

Francois had been in his ear about the investigation, or the "so-called" investigation, as she constantly referred to it. Nimitz had been more than helpful and sympathetic, but everything just seemed to jam up in the lower levels. He hadn't met the detective who'd caught the case but he'd heard all about him from Francois. Buster Cherry was not a figure to inspire confidence. Kolhammer was deeply worried that the killing was only the start of their problems here.

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.

He made sure the radio microphone was dead before turning to his comrades.

"Allahu akbar!" he cried.

"God is great," they shouted in unison.

Commander Konoe coughed quietly into his handkerchief. It came away spotted with dark, glutinous blood. He folded the small square of cotton and dabbed at the sweat that threatened to run into his eyes, all the time staring at the spot where the Huyo had sacrificed herself. Nothing remained of the gallant destroyer beyond a patch of burning oil and some floating debris. He couldn't quite believe how quickly she'd gone when the barbarian rockets had slammed into her.

He only hoped that when his time came, he could acquit himself with such bravery.

He leaned into the speaking tube. Every breath was a rasping torture. The sickness was advanced, and the exertions of the last days had not helped. Not that it mattered.

"Fire the forward mounts," he croaked.

The 4.7-inch battery of the Karukaya barked and he nodded as the shells exploded harmlessly astern of the Sutanto. He couldn't quite believe the Americans would be able to follow the course of this counterfeit duel from so far away. But the grand admiral himself had assured Konoe that it was so, and that his contribution to ultimate victory would not go unnoticed in the imperial palace.

How proud his parents would be when they received a letter from the emperor's own assistant private secretary, thanking them for their son's sacrifice.

He swelled with pleasure at the thought. Not just for himself, but for the other men on board. He very much wanted to make one last round of the ship, to speak with each of them before they died, but duty demanded his presence on the bridge. There were so few men to run the ship, to fire her weapons and fabricate the radio traffic that would attend such a dramatic chase. Nothing could be left to fate.

"Fire," he ordered again.

A young midshipman rushed into the bridge with a note for Konoe, telling him that the American planes had arrived. They were so quick! The young boy was suffused with an almost saintly glow. Konoe experienced a fleeting sense of shame in the face of the middie's piety. The commander had volunteered for this mission because he had less than six months to live anyway. The wasting illness that had taken his mother and older brothers was almost done with him, too. But this youngster had willingly thrown himself into the teeth of the enemy.

"Good work, Sato!"

The midshipman straightened himself up and snapped out a parade-ground salute.

Konoe returned the gesture. Then he died.

"Aircraft inbound, my sheik, bearing two-three-one thirty-two kilometers out. Raptors, judging from their speed."

Damiri thanked the young petty officer.

It would not be long now.

Static flared on the radio and a woman's voice crackled from the torn fabric of the speaker box.

"Sutanto, Sutanto, this is Flight Lieutenant Anna Torres off the USS Hillary Clinton. We have you on visual. Commencing payload run."

"Hurry up Clinton, hurry please. We are running low on ammunition." Damiri babbled, hoping that he wasn't overplaying the act.

"Be cool Sutanto. The bad guys are toast."

Damiri rolled his eyes and smiled at his comrades on the bridge. They all turned binoculars on the remaining Japanese ships, which were performing beautifully. Their guns fired ceaselessly, raising geysers of water all around the Indonesian vessel.

Damiri felt compelled to wish them all the best in Hell.

But he didn't pick up the radio. There would have been no point.