The Command

He reached up and hauled down a big red lever she recognized as the main firemain riser. When you did that, you were supposed to get a rush of water out of the firemain. Only nothing came out. There was no pressure. Which meant none of the ship’s six fire pumps was running.

Which meant they were really, really in deep shit.

“Grab an OBA and we’ll go in after him. Everything isolated?” He ran his light over the switches she’d thrown. “Good job. Get suited up.”

The breathing apparatuses were in racks along the port side, with the green curved oxygen-generating canisters that fit in them, plus hard hats and gloves. She got her mask on and pulled the straps as tight as they’d go. Inside the mask the dark seemed darker. The black rubber interior made her feel smothered. It was big for her face, but she thought she had a seal. She seated the canister, pulled the tab, and set the timer. A smoky smell filled the mask. She sucked it in reluctantly. There must have been oxygen in it, though, because although she felt woozy and scared she didn’t pass out.

A click at her waist. She looked down to see he’d snapped a line on her. Was giving her a thumbs-up. She nodded and returned it, though she was so terrified she could hardly breathe. But she had to see if the Porn King was down there. They’d do the same for her.

Clambering in the heavy gear, the heavy gloves, the hard hat, she followed Helm through the open hatch.

* * *

“This is it, sir. Confirmed the format in the pub.”

Dan was in Combat, reading the Camel’s draft message while the corpsman bandaged his arm. Track Alley was dark under the emergency lighting. The screens were blank. Horn was blind and deaf. But that was the least of his worries now. Damage reports were starting to come through. Flooding. Fire. Generators down. Engines down.

His neck was extended stiffly in a plastic brace. The pain had grown since he got up after the blast, and his neck felt warm. Strange tingles, not exactly unpleasant, like when they went to sleep, ran down his legs. The corpsman said he should be immobile. He didn’t sound happy about the symptoms. Dan had refused, allowing only the brace and a promise not to exert himself.

He ran his eye down the message. No one had ever sent one of these before, as far as he knew. A NUDET message reported a suspected nuclear detonation. Along with latitude and longitude of the burst, and wind direction and speed, so the course of the fallout plume could be predicted.

“Where’d this true wind come from?”

“Helo control. It’s what One-Niner-One launched on.”

Obliterated, he had no doubt, along with her crew and everyone on the Gold Team as well. At least it’d been quick…. He signed it and handed it back. “Sure you can send it, with the antennas down?”

“We’ll get it out somehow.”

“Let me know when you get a roger. I’m going to Central. If you can’t reach me, Claudia’s in command.”

He took a last look around, told the chief to keep trying to get the circuits up, and headed for the ladder.

Before he reached it, the corpsman was on him again. “Sir, I told you, you’ve got cervical damage. You need to be on your back in sick bay till we get you out to the carrier for X-rays.”

“If we don’t get this flooding stopped, we’ll all end up in the water,” Dan told him. “Haven’t you got anybody else to take care of?”

“I got to tell you this, sir. If you don’t minimize your motion, you could end up paralyzed.”

“I heard you. Now get out of my way.”

Aft and down, head stiffly erect in the brace that was already rubbing his skin raw. Through smoky passageways flickering with the beams of battle lanterns and slippery with water and firefighting foam. He stopped at Aux One to quiz an inspector coming out, face bright red with exertion, skin waxy white where his OBA mask had pressed. Then kept going, easing through scuttles, trying not to twist his spine, till he undogged the door and stepped into Central.

Porter was sitting at the damage control panel. She gave him a quick alarmed glance. “Skipper?”

“Just get me someplace to sit.” For a moment he couldn’t feel his legs, and it wasn’t a good feeling. He groped for the chair someone shoved under him, eyes on the panel. “Okay, what we got.”

Porter and the damage control assistant, Danenhower, outlined the damage, using the firemain diagram on the panel as a visual aid. The firemain was the principal means of fighting fire and flooding. A loop of eight-inch pipe circled the ship just below the main deck. Six fire pumps kept the pressure to a hundred and fifty pounds per square inch. Cross-connects running athwartships could divide it into smaller loops to isolate damage. Sitting here he could read the pressure in each loop and monitor the pump and isolating valve status, although you couldn’t actually operate them from here.