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!”