The Clinton’s CI was screaming for attention, demanding autonomy and a Cooperative Battle Link with the other fleet Intelligences. But despite its insistence, very few human operators were filing damage reports or raising alarms. The ship seemed to be half asleep.

Kolhammer turned to the screen that was carrying video from the Combat Information Center. Lieutenant Kirsty Brooks was weaving about in front of the cam, looking as if she’d been poleaxed. Feeling a small measure of control returning to his rebellious nerves, Kolhammer stood slowly and looked from Brooks to the scene outside his bridge. Despite his restricted vision he could tell—even without the aid of sophisticated electronics—that a battle was beginning. Guns hammered in the dark, speaking to each other with angry flashes of light. Goose bumps crawled up his forearms and neck.

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” he asked as calmly as possible.

Brooks shook her head, blanched, and vomited discreetly to one side. “We . . . uh . . . have the hostile on screen now, sir.”

Another window opened up. A hard, clear image filled it, of an old fossil-fuel-powered warship. As they watched, the ship’s forward gun mount spoke, and a second later the same hammer blow sounded through the hull of the carrier.

“Admiral,” said Lieutenant Brooks from the screen in front of him. “Sir, we have multiple contacts throughout the body of the task force. Presumed hostile. Sensors indicate gunfire and some torpedo launches. Buggy readings, sir, we can’t get a fix on weapon types, but these are hostile forces. Kandahar, Providence, and the Siranui have all taken fire. Leyte Gulf is critical. I’m afraid the Fearless is gone, sir. Destroyed. Trident’s CI has sent a data burst, which we’re breaking down now.” She examined a screen off to her right for a moment. “Definitely hostile, sir. We’re getting a significant volume of fire. Little Bill wants you to release the codes for a mace run and to engage Metal Storm and the laser packs.”

In his peripheral vision Kolhammer noticed a few men and women on the bridge quietly cursing and turning to each other. Some turned to the strip window, although the image on screen was far superior to anything the naked eye could make out. The little gray ship heaved over to present a broadside to the Clinton.

“Admiral,” said Brooks. “We have indications that that ship has torpedo capability. They may be trying to bracket us, sir.”

The fog in Kolhammer’s mind began to clear rapidly as a cold wind blew through him.

“Lieutenant Brooks!” he barked. “Guns free! Autonomy Level One. Initiate a fleetwide CBL.”

But it was too late.

HMAS MORETON BAY, 2247 HOURS, 2 JUNE 1942