“We’re still out of contact with our subs, Admiral. Sensors can’t find Chicago or Denver anywhere. Garrett, Vanguard, Dessaix, Sutanto, Nuku, and Nagoya are also still missing. There’s no available datum point indicating those ships have been sunk. They’re just missing. The Leyte Gulf isn’t responding. Drone surveillance indicates counterboarding operations are under way. Fearless has been destroyed.”

Brooks allowed herself a quick, rueful expression at that before continuing.

“The Kandahar has taken some fire and reports a torpedo strike. The damage is serious but contained. Eighty-six confirmed KIA. Moreton Bay reports multiple hits. The Siranui has suffered a major impact on her bridge. Captain Okada is dead, along with his exec and five other officers. Sub-Lieutenant Miyazaki has assumed control and authorized the CI to respond at Level One. The Havoc is undetected and has launched one Type Ninety-two heavy torpedo, killing the boat that torpedoed us.”

Kolhammer nodded. He’d been certain the Havoc had sunk that ship. At least he’d gotten that right, he thought dolefully, as Brooks spoke again.

“Begging your pardon, Admiral, but we’re running through our defensive stocks at an unsustainable rate. There’s just too much incoming. We’re taking it out, but if it keeps up at this pace we’ll have exhausted Metal Storm within another seven minutes. The laser pods will be okay for another ten, but they’ll need to power down pretty shortly after that. All other force elements are reporting the same. The Moreton Bay has already run through her stock of MS munitions. Trident has taken up a position shepherding her, but they’re getting hungry, too.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll take it under consideration,” he said. “What can you tell me about who we’re fighting?”

Brooks’s air of detachment faltered at that.

“I can’t with any certainty, sir. They’re not returning any signatures from our combatant database. Their signals and electronic profiles don’t match anything Chinese or Indian or even Islamic Republic. Weapons suites are . . . well, Stone Age. That was a dumb iron bomb we got hit with topside before.”

“Delivery system?”

“I’m streaming video from the topside cams and drones. It’s a museum piece.”

Three windows opened up on screen. Each carried low-light-amplified footage from various angles showing an old propeller-driven monoplane nosing down a few thousand feet over the Clinton’s flight deck. The acid level in Kolhammer’s stomach rose painfully, leaving a sour taste at the back of his throat. He understood Brooks’s reluctance to make a call on the attacker’s ID. But he recognized it immediately.