“It should be sufficient,” said Wang calmly. “More than enough to make this our day in the end.”

Another wave of Red Banner missiles was loosed at the Puffins, which were now coming within range, followed by the machine cannon opening fire. The Zheng He mounted three Type 1170 close-in defense systems, each with an eleven-barrel 30 mm machine cannon. But the cannon were now indistinguishable from one another, merging into a single tearing sound as all thirty-three gun barrels fired at once.

Wang offered a look of calm and put his hand on his aide’s shoulder as if to reassure him, buying himself a few seconds to take in the scene.

Three angry red fingers pointed out from the ship, followed by scores more. The tracer rounds from the other 30 mm gun systems throughout the fleet were visible even in the bright of day. The way the lines waved and weaved through the clouds of white smoke exhaust left by the defensive missiles reminded Wang of his grandchildren playing with flashlights in the dark. He didn’t need to monitor the count on the display screen to know its hard truth: not all of the enemy’s swarm could be shot down before they began diving toward their targets.

The Puffins came in low, designed to detonate their 275-pound warheads just at the water line of the targets. A sickening series of booms began, one after another, in quick succession. Wang watched a pair of missiles disappear from sight as they slammed into the Huangshi, a Type 54A frigate, rupturing its bow with a fiery spout. The open bow filled with water as the ship plowed forward, its momentum ensuring its demise. As the bow went deeper into the waves, the frigate’s stern lifted, flashing its spinning props. Then the Huangshi’s steel hull shook from an internal explosion, likely a detonation in its engine room.

“ ‘If one is not fully cognizant of the evils of waging war, he cannot be fully cognizant either of how to turn it to best account,’ ” he quoted Sun-Tzu aloud. No one heard him above the noise.

His eyes caught a blur of movement, and then the entire Zheng He shuddered and the klaxons rang out. A damage-control display showed a strike in the far stern. He walked the bridge deck to assess, his view obscured by smoke. Then the wind shifted and blew the smoke in the other direction, revealing a ten-meter hole of twisted metal and a small fire burning in the deck below. Not sufficient to take them out of action.

Wang turned away from the scene to see how the fleet’s other ships were faring. His role was to stay above it all, to maintain his wits while others let the moment consume them.

As he panned his binoculars, the Admiral Ushakov, one of the massive Sovremenny-class destroyers the Russians had sent, was settling in the water, four open holes along the portside water line. It would not survive, he knew.

But Wang also knew that its missile batteries were already empty, eight of the cruise missiles in the counterbarrage already on their way to the American fleet. He walked back to his ready room. The human decisions had been made; all he could do now was wait with composure.

Simmons silently observed the video feed on one of the wall monitors displaying his father’s damage-control party rushing to apply what was essentially a bandage to the composite superstructure, covering up the missile impact point near the laser turret with epoxy. He knew what his father was thinking, that it was fortunate the stinging chemical binders were more powerful than whatever smells were wafting over from the sad stink of the America.

“Sir, we’ve got sixty-plus targets incoming,” said the radar officer. “Flight profile of cruise missiles. Arrival within two minutes.”

On another monitor, Simmons watched as a wounded sailor in a litter being carried across the void between the two hulls started to scream and wave his arms. The litter stopped and then reversed direction, pulled back toward the America. He couldn’t blame them. They knew what was coming for all of them, and he would have wanted to end his days on his own ship too.

The Port Royal tossed lines and began to pull away from the America at flank speed.

“Detach lines from the America?” asked Cortez

“No, we’re staying here. America can’t take another hit; that’s our job now,” said Simmons. “That’s why I placed our damaged side on the interior.”

The screen showed the Port Royal firing a long series of SM-3 missiles and then disappearing behind a cloud of brown smoke from its own weapons fire.

“Captain, she fired off her entire magazine,” said the Zumwalt’s tactical action officer. “First intercept in twenty-five seconds.”

“We’re back where we started, it seems,” said Simmons to Cortez. The XO knew he was referring to the attack they’d weathered together at Pearl Harbor.

“Maybe they need to put us on different ships next time, sir,” said Cortez, offering a smile.

“I’ll make sure of it,” said Simmons. “You’ll get your own ship after this.”

“Splash seven bogeys,” said the radar officer, narrating the Port Royal’s progress in whittling down the enemy cruise missiles. As he spoke, he made gentle waving movements with his right arm, using a cuff on his forearm to switch between the system’s radar bands to cover all the incoming data.

As the enemy’s missiles advanced closer, the various assault ships in range fired off medium- and short-range Seasparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles in hopes of plinking more of the cruise missiles.

“Eleven enemy missiles left,” the radar officer reported.

“ATHENA, full autonomous mode! Authorization Simmons, four, seven, Romeo, tango, delta,” said Simmons.

The smallest weapons became the most important once again. On the Port Royal, the revolving 20 mm Gatling guns of the ship’s close-in weapons system added the metallic roar of a chainsaw biting into metal.

On the Zumwalt, the undamaged laser-point defense turret fired steadily. The twin Metal Storm guns tracked the incoming missiles and fired another wall of bullets into their path. They pivoted, reactivated, and again fired off thousands of rounds in the time it took to clap your hands once.

“Metal Storm magazines emptied. We’re out,” said the weapons officer. “Five incoming missiles left: two at us, two at Port Royal, and one’s split off for the San Antonio,” he said, indicating the closest of the amphibious ships they’d been trying to screen.

“We could get your dad out on deck and have him throw up a screen of foul language,” said Cortez.

Simmons looked at Cortez, taking in his relaxed demeanor. The XO became more poised as the situation worsened. Simmons realized that Cortez was the kind of officer he himself had always wanted to be.

He reached out and gripped the young officer’s artificial arm. “It’s been an honor.”

Roscoe Coltan cursed at his raft for the hundredth time as it nearly swamped when he tried to get on his knees for a better view of the ships. He recognized the big one that looked like a jagged piece of metal as the Zumwalt, the fleet’s ugly duckling, he’d heard. It was tied up next to a mini — aircraft carrier that poured smoke into the air.

In the distance there was the shriek of engines coming in low: cruise missiles. A flash of light as a Gatling gun of some kind fired from one of the other ships, an Aegis destroyer of some sort. Then the water all around him burst into hundreds of ripples. He didn’t know whether to cheer the weapons on or curse them until one of the missiles exploded.

“Splash one, assholes!” Roscoe cheered.

He stared at the silent Zumwalt, willing the ship to offer up some defense. “C’mon, brothers, do something!”

Suddenly there were two simultaneous explosions on the aft and bow sections of the Zumwalt. The sound of the twin detonations reached him a moment later.