Weapons of choice aot-1

by John Birmingham

  "Good work, Ensign Tomonagi," he said in a clipped, excited voice. "Good work to all of you."

  The crewmen drew themselves up, basking in the praise.

  "Ensign, detail half of your men to search the ship again. Tell them to look for more of these devices." He held up the portable tablet with the glowing plate. "Assign someone to drag those monkeys in here. I will run the operation from this room now."

  "Hai!"

  Hidaka took a chipped mug-a sure sign that he was dealing with barbarians-then picked up the glowing device and walked over to a comfortable-looking armchair. He sat with his legs crossed in a very English manner and sipped the tea while staring at the artifact. The technical magazine referred to this sort of device as a "flexipad." The tablet was quite light, given its size, and it was constructed of a material he'd never encountered before. A sort of rubbery leather?

  Hidaka sighed deeply as he read the foreign language from top to bottom. He was still no clearer about the content of the tract. There was a picture-of a tank, and another of a venerable bearded gentleman, which he had to assume were associated with the text-but beyond that there was only puzzlement.

  For ten minutes he sat and stared at the device, hardly aware of the crewmen's grunting as they dragged the four alien sailors into the wardroom and laid them out on the threadbare carpeting alongside their utterly senseless fellows. Try as he might, he couldn't escape the fact that the only promising clue lay in that little Union Jack and the underlined word English. But what on earth did it mean? What did any of this mean? And how could he uncover the truth without setting off more alarms and causing possibly irreparable damage? Perhaps it was even booby-trapped.

  Hidaka became so lost in his own thoughts that without realizing it, he brushed the flexipad screen with his thumb. He flinched slightly, expecting the same blaring alarm that had startled them on the bridge. But nothing happened.

  Encouraged, he warily poked the very tip of his little finger at the screen again, touching the picture of the venerable gentlemen, and suddenly the fellow filled the whole screen and began to speak. Hidaka was caught by surprise again but managed to smother his reaction this time. The bearded man spoke for nearly half a minute in some diabolical language that sounded to Hidaka like a choking animal attempting to clear its throat. At the end of the little movie, which amazed him with its colors and clarity, the picture shrank back to its former size and location.

  Well, that was something. It took the emboldened Hidaka less than a second to tap the screen where the tiny British flag was displayed. In the blink of an eye the display transformed itself into English. A wide grin broke out on the commander's face.

  Excellent! Most excellent.

  But his good mood turned gray again as he read the text. It seemed to relate to a struggle-a civil or maybe a religious war of some kind, he thought-being raged on a group of islands. As he read on, the bearded man was identified as the emir of the Caliphate, Mullah Ibn Abbas, and the island of Java was mentioned three times as the location of the most violent clashes.

  That simply could not be. There was no "Caliphate," and Java itself had been wrested from Dutch control more than two months ago. It was now part of the empire. Chagrined, Hidaka squeezed his eyes shut, then returned to the article.

  There were detailed accounts of bitter street fighting between Indonesian marines and elements of the Indonesian army that had defected to Caliphate forces. Something called suicide bombers were reported to have breached the marines' command center and killed many senior officers, gravely disrupting the secularist defenses.

  Hidaka felt as if he had picked up some sort of trashy American novel-this had to be fiction. What were Indonesians? Or secularists? Or Caliphates? Or suicide bombers? What sort of crazy man, given the alternative, would fly his plane into the enemy rather than just bombing them? A desperate one perhaps, he conjectured, but crazy nonetheless.

  At the bottom of the absurd story, beneath the words Related Links, sat four lines of blue text, underlined as he had seen before. Perhaps touching them might reveal more? Unfortunately he doubted his fingers were small enough to pick out an individual line. So he took a pencil out of his shirt pocket and tried that.

  It worked! The spirits of his ancestors were smiling on him now.

  He touched the line that had intrigued him as soon as he read it. America warns China.

  The screen changed instantly, just as before. And just as before, the result was absurdly perplexing.

  The U.S. secretary of state, a woman calling herself Jamie Garcia, had warned Chinese Premier Hu Dazhao that the gravest consequences would flow from any Chinese incursion into the Exclusion Zone around Java. She pledged that something called a "UN-mandated Multinational Force" would ensure the safety of ethnic Chinese refugees from something else called a "jihad." And she warned China that any further expansionist moves on its part anywhere in Southeast Asia would be severely challenged.

  Hidaka rubbed his face, irritated beyond measure. There were so many things wrong with what he had just read, he wouldn't know where to begin. Certainly, Chiang Kai-shek would like to consider himself some sort of "premier," but in truth he was little better than a scabrous dog being hunted down by the Imperial Japanese Army. And this woman! Garcia? The American secretary of state was Cordell Hull. A vile creature known to all as an uncultivated savage who had attempted to humiliate the emperor with his outrageous schemes and demands. Even if that had somehow changed since they had sailed from Ominato, only a maniac would imagine a woman-a Mexican or an Indian one, at that, by the sound of her name-could ever attain such an important office.

  Hidaka sipped the nearly forgotten tea and grimaced to discover that it had gone cold.

  There were more Related Links at the bottom of this story-or perhaps fairy tale might have been a better name. He "linked" to a story about "Free Indonesian" warships that had joined this so-called Multinational Force. An Indonesian government-in-exile had insisted that two of its ships, the Sutanto and the Nuku, participate in the enforcement of any Exclusion Zone over the contested archipelago.

  Something in that nagged at Hidaka. It was all as preposterous as the rest, but…

  The Sutanto!

  He leapt from the armchair, upsetting the cup of cold tea, which spilled onto the floor. Heedless of the accident, he rushed over to the unconscious sailors. One who had collapsed in the wardroom still sported a baseball cap on which was stitched a silhouette of a ship. And the caption 377 KRI SUTANTO.

  He had been seeing that word all over the ship, and now he knew why. This was the Sutanto, presumably of the Free Indonesian Navy.

  Without a doubt this had to be some sort of American trick, perhaps even a trap. But what could be the point? And why bait the trap so oddly? And where did the fantastic machines such as this glowing tablet come from anyway?

  A thousand questions spilled from his one small success. He was nearly overcome by a wave of hopelessness, when a crewman called urgently.

  "Commander! One of the men is waking. Look!"

  "At last," Hidaka muttered. He moved to stand by the man's head. The barbarian was blinking rapidly. A storm of twitches and tics ran across his features, briefly seizing his whole body at one point. Without warning he vomited prodigiously, a yellow-green geyser, which erupted vertically from his mouth only to fall back and drench him. With distaste branded into every line of his face, Hidaka used the toe of his boot to turn the man's head to one side, lest he choke to death.

  Hidaka unshipped his revolver from its holster as the foreigner began to cough out a series of unintelligible words. He tried to lever himself up off the floor, but Hidaka placed a foot on his chest and pressed him firmly back down. Incomprehension and a touch of fear crossed the man's face.

  Good, thought Hidaka.

  "Name!" he barked out, first in Japanese, then in English.

  The man coughed and gagged on his own bile. He appeared to be trying to answer, so Hidaka only gave him a slight nudge wi
th his boot.

  "Name. And rank. And position aboard this vessel."

  The man, who was dressed in soiled tropical whites and sandals, of all things, squinted at Hidaka as if trying to focus properly.

  "Moertopo," he answered. "Lieutenant Ali Moertopo, executive officer."

  He spoke English, then. Hidaka was quietly relieved.

  The man, Lieutenant Moertopo, finally focused on Hidaka's pistol. He seemed genuinely surprised, and somehow affronted.

  "What is going on?" he demanded with more authority in his voice than Hidaka cared for. "Who are you, and what are you doing aboard this ship?"

  The demands were delivered in a weak, faltering voice, but there was no mistaking the challenge inherent in their tone. Hidaka flushed with anger that someone so obviously low-caste could think to presume upon him in such a fashion, but Admiral Kakuta had chosen him well for this mission. He swallowed his own indignation, carefully holstered the pistol, and dropped a handkerchief onto the man's chest.

  "Clean yourself up, Lieutenant," he said. "You look a mess."

  Moertopo thanked him, somewhat doubtfully, and wiped the vomit from his face and neck. His movements indicated to Hidaka that he was in considerable pain. It never registered on his face, however, granting him some esteem in the eyes of the Japanese officer.

  Moertopo looked around slowly, taking in the bodies of his shipmates, laid out on either side of him. They were breathing and twitching, but would clearly offer no assistance.

  "You have not answered my question," he said in English.

  "My name is Hidaka. I boarded your ship with a rescue party three hours ago. Your shipmates are alive, but appear to have been incapacitated. You would have to tell me how that might be, Lieutenant. I am afraid I have no idea."

  "You are Japanese, yes?"

  Hidaka nodded, noting that the information neither alarmed nor upset his prisoner.

  "We were on station, just north of the main task force, carrying out antisubmarine drills," Moertopo said.

  "Why?" asked Hidaka. "And which task force?"

  Moertopo gave him an odd look, as if the question had been meant to mock him.

  "Why indeed?" he said, bitterness evident in his voice. "The Caliphate has no submarines. And the Americans certainly wouldn't trust us to protect them from the Chinese. It was laughable. They just wanted to get us out of the way."

  "The Americans?"

  "Sorry, the Multinational Force. But yes, basically the Americans. They said it was because we couldn't link properly to their CI network, but the truth is they simply don't trust us."

  Hidaka wished he had some idea what the man was talking about, but he didn't let his confusion show. This Moertopo seemed quite happy to discuss state secrets with him, despite the fact that he seemed to have been allied in some way to the United States. Notwithstanding the pressures of time, Hidaka would need to play this very carefully indeed.

  "Can you stand?" he asked. "Would you like some tea?"

  The man nodded gratefully. Hidaka clicked his fingers at a sailor, who hurried over to help Moertopo into the armchair. After some hasty instructions the crewman set about drawing another two mugs of tea. Hidaka took a plain chair from the wardroom table and spun it around to face Moertopo. He sat to bring himself down to eye level with his subject.

  "Lieutenant Moertopo," he said, forming the name carefully, "this task force, was it heading for Java?"

  "Of course," the lieutenant replied, gratefully sipping his tea. "The president himself insisted that we play our part in any operations taking place in our home waters." As he spoke, a measure of pride worked its way through the layers of illness and discomfort.

  "And you were sailing from?"

  "Dili," he said and then, "East Timor," as it became obvious Hidaka was confused by the answer. "We were training in preparation for deployment."

  "Lieutenant Moertopo, you will have to excuse my ignorance, I have been at sea for many months. But I must say, your ship has me baffled. I have never seen its like before."

  Moertopo snorted in a thin imitation of good humor. Obviously the effort taxed him severely.

  "That is not surprising… I am sorry… Mr. Hidaka."

  "Commander. Go on."

  "Commander. We're the last of the old Parchim-class missile corvettes, purchased in bulk from the East German navy in the nineteen nineties. They've been refit-"

  "Excuse me," Hidaka interrupted. "Did you say the nineteen nineties?"

  "Yes. I forget the exact year. It was before I was born. But President Habibie bought thirty-nine of them. Most rusted away for want of funds to maintain them. Saboteurs destroyed some early in the war, but the Sutanto and the Nuku escaped. Did you know we carried the president himself and his family away from Tanjungpinang to Singapore?" Moertopo asked proudly.

  But Hidaka wasn't attending to the question. He was staring at the young naval officer in sheer disbelief.

  "No, I did not know that, Lieutenant," he said distractedly. "Do you know your current location, roughly?"

  Moertopo shrugged. "You would know better than I, Commander. Clearly you haven't been unconscious for Allah knows how long."

  "Yes, yes, but roughly."

  "Somewhere in the Wetar Strait I would hazard. Near the rest of the task force. Tell me, have you all been affected? Is the Nuku okay?"

  Hidaka was truly flummoxed. He shook his head in a distracted fashion. "The Wetar Strait, you say?"

  "Yes. But enough of this pointless questioning-we're just wasting time," Moertopo said as he struggled to get to his feet. "I should see to my shipmates. We may need to consult your surgeon, or the Americans, if they haven't been attacked, too. Do you know if they have? Or what sort of weapon it was. A neural attack maybe."

  "I am sorry, Lieutenant. What sort of attack?"

  "That would mean that it was the Chinese, not the Caliphate," he said, not really helping Hidaka at all.

  The commander's heart was racing now. He had often wondered how he might fare in combat, and now he had reason to doubt his own courage. He was becoming increasingly unnerved by this encounter. Gooseflesh was crawling up his arms, and he shivered involuntarily.

  "Do you know the date today, Lieutenant?"

  Moertopo glanced at his watch. "It is the fifteenth today."

  "Of?"

  Lieutenant Moertopo gave Hidaka a quizzical look.

  "Of January."

  "And the year? Please… humor me."

  Moertopo shrugged and, without being sure why, glanced at his watch again.

  "Twenty twenty-one."

  "Shit," said Lieutenant Commander Hidaka.

  But he said it in Japanese.

  12

  HIJMS RYUJO, 2358 HOURS, 2 JUNE 1942

  Admirals don't normally answer summons from lieutenant commanders. But Hidaka had been so inured to censure, so insistent that Admiral Kakuta make the trip to this Sutanto, that the commander of the Second Carrier Striking Force had relented.

  So it was that he found himself on the bitterly cold flight deck, cloaked in fog, when the strange lights appeared.

  All of his doubts about Hidaka's mental stability evaporated when the giant mechanical dragonfly materialized out of the gloom. Instead, Admiral Kakuta had reason to doubt his own sanity. A monstrous insect was the only image he could conjure up in the face of the abomination. It approached with a sort of thudding buzz, and hovered over the deck. A great gale blew away the fog. An icy, knifing wind painfully lashed at his exposed skin. Grit, spray, and even oil from the deck stung his eyes, forcing him to turn away.

  As he huddled, shamefully, against the polar blast, he tried to sort his impressions into some comprehensible form. It had to be an aircraft of sorts. Not a dragonfly or a demon. But it had no wings, and the blurring of the air above the blinding lights suggested a propeller of some type.

  Kakuta felt it settle with a slight thump on the deck, and immediately the frightful sound tapered off to a dull roar and an odd, mushy, thud
ding. He thought he heard a high-pitched whine and the sounds of hydraulic equipment. The shouts and curses of the Ryujo's crew were blessedly familiar, even if they betrayed astonishment and distress. When the admiral felt it was safe to straighten up, he turned to face the thing squarely. There were two men in the…

  Cockpit?

  He assumed it had to be.

  A man in an oversized white helmet, his face obscured by a dark lens, occupied one berth. Ensign Tomonagi sat beside him. The junior officer scrambled out quickly as the massive propeller…

  Yes, most certainly a propeller!

  … ceased its rotation altogether. The ensign was shaking, no doubt with excitement and more than a little fright, at having been strapped into a plane without wings.

  Kakuta had been enraged that a simple recon task had put them hours behind schedule, but his fury was crimped off by the appearance of the craft. Something very unusual had happened out there.

  "Ensign. Explain this!" he barked at Tomonagi.

  "I cannot, sir," the ensign replied. "Commander Hidaka has all the information. He sent me to assure you that your presence on the captured destroyer is vital."

  "But what is this thing? And who is that pilot?" Kakuta demanded.

  "It is called a helicopter," Tomonagi said, having some trouble pronouncing the word. "And the pilot is a Flight Lieutenant Hardoyo. He will take you back to the Sutanto."

  Kakuta examined the machine with a very wary eye. The fog and darkness gave its queer lines a sinister appearance. Dozens of men were gathered around it, though at a safe distance, their breath pluming in front of them as they swapped wild theories about its origin. The pilot waved to one or two, who pointed at him.

  "Lieutenant Commander Hidaka is juggling with hot coals," said Kakuta. "He should be back here reporting to me, so we can continue toward Dutch Harbor with all speed. The operation has no margin for delays like this."

  Tomonagi drew a breath. He was shivering visibly. "Commander Hidaka says you will not believe his report unless you are there to see with your own eyes what he has found. He asked me to tell you that he does not believe the attack on Dutch Harbor, or even on Midway, will proceed once you have had the chance to inspect the vessel yourself."