“Captain Halabi,” an ensign called out. “We’ve acquired significant and increasing volumes of naval gunfire. Some of it incoming. Basic munitions, nothing augmented. It hardly seems directed at all. Laser packs are cycling through the priority targets, but there’s a lot of it, ma’am. They just neutralized a very large volley from two platforms. Posh determines that Siranui was the target. Metal Storm will be coming online soon.”

As if to punctuate this statement, they heard the first clip from the Trident’s secondary Close-In Weapons System tear into the night. Even though the CIC was sheltered deep in the central hull, there was a quick metallic ripping noise as 734 projectiles were vomited from two concentric, counter-rotating muzzle rings. This was caseless ammunition, fired electronically rather than by percussion, using a square-shaped combustible propellant wrapped around a fifty-grain bullet. The propellant burned bright yellow so that the effect, when viewed with the naked eye, suggested a small comet leaving the stubby gun mount and streaking away on a thin stream of light, to explode upon contact with its designated target.

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.”