Weapons of Choice

by John Birmingham

  Hidaka leaned forward. “If I might, Admiral. This system’s operator, a junior lieutenant named Damiri, has proved much more cooperative and useful than Moertopo. He seems to have a genuine hatred of the Americans. I suspect he may prove a more willing collaborator. Moertopo is trying to play us for fools.”

  Yamamoto held the paper with his deformed hand and flicked through it again, stopping here and there to reexamine a particular point or argument.

  “I agree with you about Moertopo,” he said without looking up. “But we need his skills for now. If you wish to cultivate this other barbarian, go ahead. You have done great service to the emperor so far, Hidaka.”

  The Japanese officer looked as if he might burst with pride.

  As Yamamoto reread another section of their paper, he murmured, “I was sorry to hear about Herr Steckel, Major Brasch.”

  “I sent my condolences.”

  “Sometimes they are all we have,” Yamamoto said, letting the paper fall to his desktop. “And I agree with your recommendations, Commander Hidaka. I could have written them myself. They are bold and will meet much resistance, but I do not see any other way out of the trap we have constructed for ourselves.”

  Hidaka nearly levitated at the praise, but Brasch punctured his brief cheer.

  “You could surrender.”

  “It is lucky for you that Herr Steckel is no longer with us,” Hidaka sputtered. “I understand that defeatism is a capital crime in the Reich.”

  Brasch, as was his way, refused to rise to the provocation. He smiled in his slow, dreamy fashion, folding his arms as if discussing a football match in a beer garden.

  “There are so many ways to die in the Reich, my friend. What does it matter how one departs this life?”

  Hidaka, who had grown even more exasperated with the German’s morose fatalism these last days, could stand it no longer. His temper launched him to his feet.

  “The manner of one’s death is the most important thing in life,” he gasped. “I would not expect an ordinary gaijin to understand, but you are supposed to be the vaunted warrior of a warrior’s race. Instead you speak like the most ignorant barbarian. It is as if you do not care who wins this war.”

  “I care very much,” said Brasch.

  “Then you should behave as if that were true.”

  Yamamoto watched the exchange without any visible sign of concern, but he intervened as Hidaka’s irritation threatened to get the better of him.

  “You forget yourself, Commander,” he said sharply. “Resume your seat. A true samurai does not succumb to rage, like some wild dog. Even in the heat of battle, he is tranquil. His own death means nothing to him. Perhaps it is you who has something to learn from Major Brasch.”

  Brasch had the luxury of snorting at the proposition, while Hidaka was forced to choke on his own pride. Stiffly lowering his head, he first apologized to Yamamoto and then to the engineer for his outburst.

  The admiral stretched and stood, motioning for the others to remain in their seats. He stepped out from behind his desk and paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin resting on his chest. Shaking his head and pursing his lips, he was the very picture of a man caught in an unbearable dilemma.

  “This is how it will be from this moment forward,” he conceded unhappily, stopping to stare out a porthole. “We will need to throw our shoulders against the axis of history, and tip it over. But the very people we are trying to save will be the ones who most violently oppose us. I have no doubt my counterparts at Pearl Harbor are having this same discussion, perhaps even right this minute. And I fear they will seize the opportunity of this miracle—or mishap or whatever it may turn out to be—to reinforce their strategic advantages, no matter what their current tactical weaknesses may be.”

  Yamamoto turned from the porthole through which he had been gazing.

  “Major Brasch, what chance is there that you will receive a fair hearing in Berlin?”

  “They already think I am a madman,” he confessed. “And they may be right.”

  The admiral rolled on the balls of his feet, examining the carpet as though the answer lay there.

  “It is not a matter of belief alone,” he mused. “They will come to believe. At some point, one of these new ships will appear in the Atlantic and sink every battle cruiser Admiral Raeder sends against it. From what Moertopo tells us, the captain may even be a woman.”

  All three shook their head at that absurd notion.

  “So it becomes necessary to advance the moment of their belief,” the admiral continued. “I think you will need to return to your history lesson, gentlemen. Scour the electric library and learn all you can of events set to transpire the next few weeks in the European theater. We will need to intervene decisively in some issue, making use of the bounty that has come our way.”

  “Do you mean to take this ship into battle?” asked Hidaka with growing excitement.

  “Perhaps Lieutenant Moertopo and his men do deserve an opportunity to prove their loyalties,” Yamamoto mused.

  “But what if they are found wanting?” Hidaka asked.

  “We shall not let them fail us.” Then he noticed the expression on the German’s face. “You disagree, Major?”

  Brasch was lost in deep thought. He responded slowly to Yamamoto’s query.

  “Oh, no. You are right of course. I was simply wondering whether it was such a good idea, to risk such a valuable resource. And one that cannot be replaced.”

  Yamamoto considered the question a fair one.

  “The Sutanto is a card to be played,” he said. “But there is something to what you say. The value of this ship goes beyond the guns and rockets she carries. The information in her archives is potentially more valuable.”

  Hidaka leaned forward eagerly. “And not just that, sir, but a thousand little pieces of equipment we wouldn’t need on a basic mission. We should strip her down to the bones, leaving only what we require to make our point.”

  He dragged out the flexipad that he now carried with him everywhere and held it up.

  “There are nearly a hundred and fifty of these on the Sutanto,” he said. “Just one would be of untold value to our scientists and engineers. As Major Brasch has pointed out, we cannot hope to build one. But they are such powerful machines in their own right that they can help us develop—what did you call it, Major, precursive technologies.”

  “Precursor,” Brasch said in a monotone.

  “Yes. Moertopo tells me the number calculator in these machines can perform a trillion mathematical operations in the blink of an eye. Then there are the even larger computers, and the signaling devices, and the automatic rifles, and—”

  Yamamoto held up his hands.

  “I take your point, Commander. And on that point I have some good news for a change.”

  The other two men reacted in their own ways—Hidaka sitting up ramrod straight, while Brasch reclined in his lounge seat and raised an eyebrow.

  “I have been keeping something from you. We have found another ship,” said Yamamoto. “The Sutano’s sister ship in fact.”

  “But where?” gasped Hidaka.

  Yamamoto smiled. The small lines at the corner of his eyes crinkled with honest delight. “On top of a mountain in New Guinea,” he said, shaking his head at the outlandish notion.

  “My God,” breathed Brasch.

  “Indeed, Major. Her stern is buried in the mountainside. I’m told she looks like she’s sinking right into the earth. There is unfortunately no chance of digging her out. The metal has somehow fused with the rock. As did many of the crew. However, a unit of the Kempeitai is stripping her down.”

  “Were there survivors?” asked Brasch.

  “Initially.” Yamamoto nodded. “Oh, it’s not what you think, Major,” he hastened to add. “The conditions up there were quite inhospitable. Most of the crew died from exposure while still comatose. I understand we have saved five or six men. They are on their way here now.”

>   Hidaka was fairly bounding from his seat.

  “This is excellent news,” he said. “We have doubled our gains!”

  The grand admiral of the Combined Fleet sighed.

  “But we will soon lose the advantage of surprise,” he said. “Australian militia scurry about that country like ants. They will soon get word back to MacArthur or Nimitz. And then, my friends, the game will be on in earnest.

  “So, Hidaka, by all means, strip the Sutanto. You can start now if you wish. But I want an operational recommendation within two days. If we are to bring off a Kessen Kantai, we must strike before Nimitz.”

  Both men left the office to return to their research. Hidaka, with action in the offing, could hardly contain his natural restlessness. Brasch found it irritating, but said nothing.

  After they left, Yamamoto had a pot of tea brought in. He felt the loneliness of command more than ever in these strange days. There would come a juncture very soon where he would have to confide in the members of the general staff and the cabinet. For now, though, they were as paralyzed by shock as anyone. They trusted the commander in chief of the Combined Fleet to fashion their immediate response to the sensational events of the past two weeks. But would they agree to his grand strategy? Would the Germans? He had no idea.

  And what was worse, he had almost no confidence in the decisions he was making. He picked up the research report that had been prepared by Brasch and Hidaka. There, on the very first page, they had produced a comprehensive list of faults with both the Pearl Harbor and Midway operations. He detected the hand of Brasch in that. Hidaka would not have been so bold. But he understood that the German was testing the limits of their autonomy.

  And much of the criticism he agreed with emphatically. He had raised all the same objections to war with America. He had foreseen with remarkable prescience the inevitable consequences of waking a giant. But he had not foreseen the result of Midway. He had been so confident of his choices in that matter.

  His hands shook as he read the summary of what would have happened, had Kakuta not turned tail and run for home. The breaking of their naval codes meant Nimitz had known exactly what was heading his way. The repair of the Yorktown, which they had thought sunk or at least damaged beyond salvage, had added a crucial platform to the American order of battle.

  The incredible sacrifice of wave after wave of American pilots—all of them knowingly flying to their deaths—touched him in a way he had not thought possible. They had died with great spirit, just to give their dive-bombers a shot at Nagumo’s carriers. In five minutes three of those carriers had been destroyed, and the war lost. The fourth soon followed. All because of a stupidly complex and wasteful plan for which he bore sole responsibility.

  Yamamoto had to lean against his desk as waves of dizziness and nausea swept over him. He, and he alone, had brought unutterable shame upon the emperor and devastation on the homeland. He did not need to reread the brief account of the atomic blasts that would have devastated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Nor did he need to examine the photographs again. The images would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  He wondered bleakly how long that might now be.

  Would his new grand strategic design change anything? Or were they all trapped in a cycle of predestination. Was Japan doomed to lose this war and face subservience to a Communist China in the next century?

  Yamamoto put down his tea. Such things could not be known until they had come to pass. Resolution took hold of him, driving out his doubts and fears. His choice was clear. He must do everything he could to safeguard the emperor and the Home Islands. If he should fail, such were the fortunes of war.

  A convoy of twenty-seven trucks arrived in the early evening to carry away the equipment that had been stripped from the Sutanto. At least three of the vehicles were filled with an eclectic assortment of twenty-first-century artifacts that had little or nothing to do with the ship’s military role. All of the printed matter was boxed up and carried away along with video game consoles, televisions, DVD players, camcorders, coffeemakers, waffle irons, rice cookers, digital watches, most of the ship’s pharmaceutical supplies, and 125 personal flexipads along with thousands of data sticks containing games, books, movies, music, and pornography. The seemingly endless list of exotic devices threatened to make Yamamoto’s head swim.

  “Don’t be so glum, Lieutenant,” he said to Moertopo. “You’re not being robbed. Far from it, you’re probably being saved. That ship will be the Americans’ first target when they discover we have it. You must realize that yourself.”

  They stood on the dock watching the operation with Major Brasch. Hidaka was down in the vessel, overseeing the removal process. Moertopo remained defiantly sullen.

  “Nevertheless, it is my ship, Admiral. Surely you must understand that.”

  “Of course,” said Yamamoto.

  Brasch snorted in mild derision. “Sailors. You are like old women.”

  Hidaka had grown expert in the use of his flexipad. He carried it around the ship, checking manifests and loading schedules against the actual progress. They were doing well. The Indonesians were actually brisk and enthusiastic as they went about the business of emptying the vessel. No doubt this was the result of the fact that they had been given more liberty, better conditions, and more frequent visits by the comfort women in the last few days.

  It had worked wonders for their morale, especially the whores. Many of them were Englishwomen from Hong Kong and Singapore. The sailors seemed particularly appreciative of the chance to have their way with them.

  Hidaka smiled as he paused outside the CIC, but his good mood quickly dissolved when he saw Sub-Lieutenant Usama Damiri advancing on him. Damiri, the Sutanto’s information systems officer, had proven to be much more supportive and competent than Moertopo, who preferred to spend his time in bed, smoking hashish and fucking blondes. But Hidaka found Damiri’s lack of deference irritating, and his constant demand to be consulted was dangerously impertinent. He’d cultivated the man as an alternative to Moertopo, and though it had borne results, they had come at a cost.

  Damiri marched up to him. “We need to speak,” he said.

  “You mean you feel the need to bother me,” Hidaka corrected him. “I don’t see that we have any need to do anything other than finish our work here.”

  “You cannot denude the ship of all its defenses,” said Damiri.

  “Oh, really?”

  “But you do not understand—”

  “I understand that you are irritating me, Damiri, and slowing down progress.”

  The Indonesian planted his hands on his hips. Men swirled around them, carrying boxes and computer screens and chairs on wheels. There was very little elbow room in the confined space, and Hidaka was jostled a couple of times. This added to his ill temper.

  “Have you not read the e-mail I sent you?” Damiri asked.

  Hidaka sighed volubly. “I swear, Damiri. You and your e-mails. You are trying to bury me alive in them. What is it this time? If you’re still insisting on five breaks a day to worship your ridiculous God, you can forget it. Once is enough. He’s all-seeing. He’ll understand that you’re busy.”

  Hidaka was a little startled when Damiri poked a finger in his face and spat out furiously, “If you had read my e-mail, you would understand that, far from complicating your struggle against the Americans, Allah—praise be His name—could deliver you your victory.”

  Hidaka was tired and growing impatient. He was aware of the sly grins that appeared on the faces of the Indonesian sailors around him. Sub-Lieutenant Damiri’s sudden conversion to religious conviction was widely thought to be a sign of his difficulty in coping with the events of the past weeks. He’d also suffered a nasty blow on the head, and the other Indonesians seemed to think it had left him testy and irrational.

  Hidaka looked at his watch. If he wasted much more time with this loon, it would disrupt the schedule. He made to brush him off, but Damiri grabbed his wrist and held tight.


  “Just hear me out,” he said. “I know how you can use this ship to destroy Kolhammer’s fleet. But you’ll have to stop stripping her down like this.”

  Hidaka had been about to draw his revolver and shoot the insolent dog in the face, but he stayed his hand.

  Damiri inclined his head toward the door of the small Combat Information Center.

  “Not here,” he said. “In private.”

  Pleased with the rate at which the trucks were leaving the dock, Yamamoto was about to make his excuses and catch a few hours of much-needed sleep. More Germans were coming tomorrow. Personal emissaries from Hitler, this time. He still had to put the final touches on the message he wanted to send back with them.

  He’d been anxious all day and most of the night. His neck was stiff from craning around to search the sky for American missiles, even though Moertopo had said there was no chance he’d ever see them coming.

  The Combined Fleet remained at anchor in the darkness around them. Apart from the stars, the only lights visible were the hooded headlamps of the trucks. Yamamoto had borrowed a night vision headset to examine the other ships around Hashirajima. The carriers and great battleships slept behind their torpedo nets. They looked invincible, but he knew their armor plate would prove no better than a silk veil if Nimitz came upon them with his new weapons.

  Surely that day must be drawing close.

  Just a few more hours cooped up like chickens for the slaughter, he thought, and then they’ll be away.

  They sailed on the morrow. He could hardly contain his desire to be gone from the anchorage. As familiar and homely as it was, Hashirajima was such an obvious target. Moertopo had told him it was sure to be struck. And soon.

  The admiral bade Brasch and Moertopo farewell and was just turning to leave when he heard Commander Hidaka calling up to them from the Sutanto. Yamamoto peered into the night, but couldn’t make him out.

  “I think he wants to talk to you,” said Brasch.

  Perplexed and more than a little irritated at the prospect of losing more sleep, he frowned and waited. The young officer came running up to him with an Indonesian in tow.