After the first clip, further loads were triggered every five to fifteen seconds. Halabi and Howard exchanged a look. Metal Storm was meant to deal with missile swarms, which very rarely consisted of more than twenty or thirty targets. There seemed to be hundreds of warheads assaulting their protective cocoon at that moment. If they allowed this to continue, they would quickly deplete their defensive stocks.

Halabi nodded at the holobloc.

"I want you to pull in close on that ship, Commander, the one that seems to have tangled with Leyte Gulf. Best we know what we're dealing with before we deal with it."

Howard quickly adjusted the magnification, zooming in to a virtual height of only sixty meters above the heavily damaged bridge of the vessel before panning down her length to the stern, where the drones' low-light amplification lenses had no trouble rendering a crisp, clear monochrome view of the Stars and Stripes.

As more than a dozen pairs of eyes focused on the scene, Captain Halabi drew in her breath with a hiss. The Leyte Gulf had, indeed, become entangled with a vintage warship of some sort, and as they watched the rear turret of the old-time cruiser tracked around to bear on the stern of the Gulf.

"Weapons!" Halabi barked out.

"Aye, Captain," replied a brusque Glaswegian voice.

"Can we get a laser pod to lock on that rear gun turret?"

The chief weapons sysop, Lieutenant Guy Wodrow, frantically worked his laser station, but the grim set of his mouth gave the answer away.

"Sorry, Captain, but we're directly blocked by the Leyte Gulf herself. The Moreton Bay, too. Ipswich has a clear shot, but her laser packs are fully engaged for the next five to six seconds."

At that moment, weapons fire erupted in the holobloc image. Halabi spoke in a flat, monotone. "It doesn't matter now."

She watched without registering any emotion as the smoke cleared from the rear deck of the Leyte Gulf. Or what was left of it.

He found Captain Willet hovering over the holobloc, chewing on her bottom lip, which Harry recognized as a definite warning sign. In fact, the submarine captain looked ill. Her features were taut. Dark smudges stood out under her eyes, and her face had an unhealthy, malarial, tint. He knew he didn't look much better. Nobody he'd passed on his way up from the mess did.

Willet was deeply engaged in a conversation with the boat's chief petty officer, an Old Navy man with faded tattoos covering most of his forearms and the backs of both hands. The Havoc's CO waved the English warrior prince over to the impromptu O Group. Harry caught the last part of a question Willet had directed to her intel boss, Lieutenant Amanda Lohrey.

"What have we got then, Amanda? Lost Chinese. Javanese pirates?"

But there was only an embarrassed silence to answer her. Nobody seemed able to find the words to explain what the holobloc-and their own eyes-were telling them.

"Well?" pressed the Havoc's captain, who could see the display as well as anyone. She looked from one person to the next.

Her chief petty officer coughed, almost apologetically, but still said nothing.

"C'mon, Chief," she coaxed. "Give it up for your old lady."

CPO Roy Flemming blew out his cheeks and showed Willet his open palms. "Well, skipper, I'm only saying what I see, is all, and that doesn't mean anything. It's just what I see, okay. But that? That looks like a New Orleans-class heavy cruiser, U.S. Navy, vintage nineteen thirty-four. Three eight-inch turrets, two up front, or there would be, and one at the rear, two funnels, eight boilers-very environmentally unfriendly by the way, Greenpeace would have a fucking cow. Just under six hundred feet in length. Thirteen thousand tons in the old scale. Carried a crew of between eleven and twelve hundred… I only know because of my models."

Willet returned the chief's slightly belligerent look with a level gaze. Everybody knew of Flemming's unfortunate obsession with model building. Of the thirty-nine souls on board, only the newest arrivals and the fleetest of foot had avoided becoming trapped in a long and involved lecture on the subject. Even sitting third in line to the throne had provided no protection, as Harry had discovered at great length. Willet, however, who could and would pull rank to avoid such an entanglement, smiled, just a little, and nodded at the strange image of the conjoined ships. "Thanks, Chief. That's what I see, too. Right off a history stick. Except for that Nemesis cruiser poking out of it."

Harry, still tingling from a Promatil flush, kept his own counsel, and the other submariners who had gathered in front of the bloc remained silent as well. Willet seemed inordinately calm, poised there in her gray coveralls. Lieutenant Lohrey, her intel chief, was swallowing frequently. And the boat's XO, Commander Conrad Grey, seemed unable to blink while he stared fixedly at the display. Aside from Willet, only the chief, the oldest, saltiest member of the crew, seemed less than completely bewildered. He just looked pissed off. And he always looked pissed off, in Harry's opinion, so what was to notice?

"Is that the Leyte Gulf?" asked Harry, for want of anything better to say.

"Aye," said Flemming. "And she's been well mounted."

A seaman spoke up from a bank of workstations that lay beyond the periscope. "Flash traffic on Fleetnet, Captain Willet. Trident's CI with another data burst."

"About fucking time," muttered Flemming.

"Language, Chief," Willet scolded gently. "We have royalty present."

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Harry said, rolling his eyes.

"Opinions, suggestions?" Willet asked, throwing the floor open to her officers and guest. "Clock's ticking. Chief Flemming, you care to guess why a museum piece would suddenly sail off a memory stick and do something as perverse as that?" She nodded toward the ethereal copy of the Leyte Gulf and the old cruiser.

"No, ma'am," he answered. "I would not."

"You figure it has anything to do with the mace strike, or whatever it was, a few minutes ago?"

"Seems likely."

"You think the Chinese pulled something tricky?"

"No idea, Captain. Can't think of anyone else to blame, though."

"You think we're in the shit?"

"There's every chance in the world of that, ma'am."

"I think so, too, Chief." She sighed.

Everybody stared endlessly at the hologram as though they were trying to decipher a challenging puzzle. While they were thus engaged, Willet pulled her personal flexipad out of a breast pocket in her coveralls and tapped out a command. A panel of the data cube switched from a scrolling text readout to an old black-and-white two-dimensional photograph.

"That looks just like the ship in the bloc," said Harry.

"It is the ship in the bloc," replied a somber Flemming. "The USS Astoria. CA-Thirty-four. I've got her mounted at home in the billiards room. My Savo Island display. Along with the Vincennes, the Quincy, Chicago, and Canberra. That last one was ours," he added, looking straight at Harry. "HMAS Canberra. Sunk in Iron Bottom Sound at the Battle of Savo Island, ninth of August, nineteen forty-two."

Nobody said anything in reply. Harry simply stared at the holobloc as though it might be booby-trapped. The naval personnel looked by turns confused, intrigued, and sick.

"All right then," Willet said, sharply enough to snap everyone out of their daze. "Weapons!"

"Yes, Captain!"

"Give me firing solutions for the forward tubes focused on all non-task-force vessels. Do not, I repeat, do not arm the torpedoes. But full countermeasures are authorized.

"Comms?"

"Aye, Captain?"

"Reopen a link to the Trident. When they have a spare second, I need to confer with Captain Halabi. Keep hailing our own ships and fleet command. Intel?"