The Command

Suddenly all the material about isotopes and half-lives and biological damage that had seemed so esoteric had become a deadly reality. Three hundred rads an hour was serious contamination. On Horn, the maximum permissible exposure was a hundred and fifty rads, and the dose to be rated as a casualty was two hundred and fifty. The book said half the men who got six hundred rads would die.

Radiation from a nuclear burst came in two forms. Initial radiation, emitted during the first seconds of the fireball’s existence, came from the actual fission of the warhead. It was powerful but transient, gamma rays and neutrons. No way to estimate how much the personnel topside had gotten from that source. The second wave was residual, from the base surge and the fallout cloud… mainly alpha and beta particles, slower acting but longer-lived.

Whatever had just gone off had obviously been intensely dirty, grossly radioactive, and Horn

had been caught square under the area of maximum fallout. But if they couldn’t stop the flooding, they’d all be in the water with it. He looked at his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since the detonation.

“You there? Concur with deep shelter?”

“Yeah.” He told her to get that word to the battle dressing stations, make sure they knew any wounded from topside were probably contaminated, too.

As he was talking, a decon team had come in. They stood waiting behind him. He told Danenhower to start double-checking Circle William settings, make absolutely sure some neglected fan or topside access wasn’t sucking contamination into the ship. Then he pushed back the chair and stepped into a trash bag one of the masked and suited team spread on deck.

Working from both sides with heavy shears, they cut his uniform off down to the skin, dropping the scraps into the bag. He stepped out of his shoes and stood naked except for the neck brace. Porter was talking into the phone, not looking at him. Letting the decon guys help him, he went clumsily through the portside hatch and up to the main deck level and aft, still inside the skin of the ship, until he got to after decon. He caught his breath as the spray of cold water hit him, and they started scrubbing.

* * *

This time the air in the engine room was much hotter. Cobie figured heat rose, it might not be so bad at the lower levels. At least she hoped not. They weren’t pulling a hose now, so it was easier to shuffle along. Fear gave her energy, but she felt fatigue growing under it. She kept pulling the mask straps tighter, till it felt like it was crushing the back of her head. Her skin itched where she’d buttoned the collar and wristcuffs of her coveralls. She wondered if that was the toxic gas, or what.

Main One was no longer the place she’d worked and stood watch in. Except for the dying glow of the remaining emergency lights it was completely dark. They had power back in the passageway but couldn’t put power back into the space. Not with wires dangling loose in saltwater. At least the fire was out now. She and Helm had to feel their way, point their lanterns where they were going to step. They got to the boiler flat and inched along to the ladder down to the PLCC flat. Then looked down to see the water surging there, black, oily-looking, absorbing light. She couldn’t tell how deep it was or what was underneath.

Mick put his face close and yelled through the speaking diaphragm, “Me first.”

She nodded. He slid down the ladder, letting boots, then legs, then lower body in little by little, like inching into a chilly pool. Only this one was covered with oil and smoking in the heat. If it reflashed they’d die screaming, clawing at their faces as the pure oxygen they were breathing ignited.

When he let go of the ladder, he was waist-deep. He glanced back, and she saw the fear in his eyes. Somehow it gave her the courage to go down after him. Only her boots slipped on the slick treads, her hands let go and she splashed down and floundered around, almost falling. It was up to her chest. Hell, almost to her neck, when the ship rolled and a black wave came out of the dark and surged up toward her face.

She pointed her lantern the length of the flat. Gauge faces flashed at the far end. The water sloped slowly back and forth above the counter level. She remembered how the Porn King used to sleep under it with his jacket over his head. Where was he? They should have seen his body by now, at least. Unless he was under this stuff.

Helm started wading toward the panel. She forced her fingers to un-clamp from the handrail and waded after him. Hoping she had a good seal on the OBA mask. They’d told her never to let the canister touch oil or fuel. But it was all over the water, a thick brown viscous coat of it. With hydraulic oil and that synthetic shit she wasn’t supposed to touch and everything else mixed in, too.