The antique fighter roared down the length of the Clinton’s flight deck, waggling its wings in a salute. It reached the bow and immediately opened up with all six machine guns. Kolhammer frantically flicked between a dozen battle-cam views on the nearest screen before he found a top-down view of the old F-4F boring in toward the jihadi boat. White light twinkled along the leading edge of its wings. Long, ropy strands of gun smoke trailed behind. Thousand of rounds of good old-fashioned fifty caliber whipped the midnight-blue sea around the Sutanto into a fury of white water. The first shells bit into the metal skin of the ship, and the pilot adjusted the angle of his shallow dive to keep the fire pouring into the decks. Shards of red-hot metal erupted from the small superstructure as the Sutanto shuddered under the assault.

The gap between the Wildcat and her prey closed rapidly.

Seven hundred meters.

Six hundred.

Five hundred.

Smoke and flames streamed from a dozen breaches in the ship’s plating.

Four hundred.

Three hundred.

The Wildcat’s guns ran dry and the plane peeled away.

Nothing happened for two seconds, and then the Sutanto went up in a stunning eruption that Kolhammer felt in his guts as the pressure wave slammed into the Clinton. His ears popped painfully. Vision swam. Gray spots bloomed. Sailors tumbled to the floor and the great, titanic mass of the supercarrier trembled with the shock. She rose up a little as if riding over a wave, and then plunged down again, intact and safe.

The Sutanto was gone, and with her the little aluminum monoplane that had saved them all.

Well, not all, Kolhammer realized as he straightened up.

The blast wave had been strong enough to tear apart two nearby liners and a hospital ship. Another two civilian vessels had collided in their panic to get away, and one of them was going down quickly. Secondary explosions tore through the crippled liners. Oily smoke and flames poured from the foredeck of the hospital ship and the sea for miles around was in turmoil with dozens of ships, modern and contemporary, scattering to the four points.

“Damage?” cried Kolhammer.

Commander Judge scanned a nearby screen, glancing out the blast windows as though he didn’t trust the data over the evidence of his own eyes. Video coverage from drones stationed overhead and feeding from mast-mounted cams through the modern ships began to appear on screens all over the bridge.

“Jesus, it went off like a baby nuke.”

Kolhammer couldn’t tell who’d said that. One of his people, he supposed, given the reference.

“We came through without major structural damage,” Judge reported. “But we’ve lost three surface assets and another two are in danger.”

“Projected casualties?” demanded Kolhammer.

“Heavy. Five to six thousand. Search and rescue are under way. No threats on the board. We’re scanning clean to eight hundred kilometers.”