Ghost Fleet : A Novel of the Next World War (9780544145979) by August P. W.; Cole Singer Page A

fuel. “Maybe a hundred rounds before it jams,” he shouted. Shit. At the machine cannon’s rate of fire, that was possibly three seconds’ worth of shooting.
    Worm gave a quick look at the plane’s cockpit screens to make sure the aircraft was running the preflight checks. At least something was working as it should.
    For a second, maybe two, Worm allowed himself to think of his fiancée. She’d be out surfing about now, working off some of the dark energy her dreams often left her with. They were supposed to meet at the Moana Surfrider hotel 43 that night for a drink. She hadn’t told him which of the bars she’d be in, though; she never did. He would have to find her, and then they would sip mai tais and fantasize about what it would be like to get married there. He had promised her a fairy-tale ending to her story.
    The image was dashed as the canopy closed down. Worm flashed a thumbs-up to the crew chief below and mouthed a word.
    Payback
.
    Â 
    Â 
    USS
Coronado
, Joint Base Pearl Harbor–Hickam, Hawaii
    Â 
    An antitank rocket fired from a nearby freighter hit the USS
Gabrielle Giffords
, 44 moored nearby. It was unnecessary; the
Giffords
was already taking on water from an explosion below the water line, as were most of the U.S. Navy warships in the harbor.
    â€œIs ATHENA online yet?” shouted Captain Riley. The Automated Threat Enhanced Network Awareness program was like the ship’s nervous system, tying together sensors and network nodes with software that was as close to artificial intelligence as the Navy would permit aboard a warship. The ship’s autonomous battle-management system allowed a short-handed ship like the
Coronado
to track targets and coordinate with other forces faster than a human crew could manage.
    â€œAlmost ready,” said one of the crew. “It’s still booting up.”
    â€œWake the bitch up! I want targets. And I want this ship protected,” said Captain Riley.
    â€œSir, even when it’s online, ATHENA’s going to have trouble in port,” said Simmons.
    â€œWe’re already in trouble,” said Captain Riley.
    â€œThe data flow might overwhelm it. If ATHENA crashes, it’ll drag down the rest of the ship’s systems, or we might get some blue-on-blue, given the range we’re dealing with,” said Simmons. “Let the crew fight the ship. Trust them.”
    Captain Riley squinted the way he did when he knew someone else was right. “Good call, XO,” he said. “When ATHENA comes up, keep it in watch mode.”
    This gave Captain Riley, still in his skivvies, the chance to deliver the order he’d yearned to give all his life. “Main gun, batteries release! Engage enemy ship, the fucker that fired at us,” he shouted.
    The
Coronado
’s 57 mm main gun came to life; the turret pivoted, pointed an accusing finger off the port side, and then fired across the harbor at the Directorate freighter from which the rocket’s smoke trail still extended.
    After seven rounds, the main gun’s firing paused. And then the realization sank in among the bridge crew. The tiny cannon’s five-pound shells were far too small to do any real damage to a hundred-thousand-ton freighter twice the size of a World War II battleship. The LCS had a main gun fit for chasing away pirates, but not much more.
    Tracer rounds began to flash toward the
Coronado
, yellow lines reaching out from the freighter and two other ships in the harbor. Their fire hadn’t had much of an effect, but it had gotten the other side’s attention. Heavy machine-gun rounds clanged into the
Coronado
’s superstructure. A sailor struggling to untie the ship’s forward lines from the pier’s cleats disappeared in a puff of red.
    Simmons peeked his binoculars through the open bridge hatch and panned them quickly around the harbor. He frowned. He could see small boats being launched from the