When he stepped out the wind was at his back. The sea, twenty feet down, was coated with yellow powder and a rainbow slick of fuel. Flames darted and smoked along the swells, but hadn’t yet caught over much of the spill. Maybe the wind was driving the fire back. Savo was rolling slightly, but otherwise lay dead in the water. He searched the horizon for help, but it rocked empty, empty, empty.
Both engines off the line, #1 switchboard gone, #1 gas turbine generator wrecked, something wrong with the emergency switchboard… Savo’s former chief engineer swung to look forward.
Flames racked the starboard side, but he couldn’t see much. Just smoke, wreckage, flames, bent metal, pieces of aluminum, and here and there, bodies.
One was on fire a few steps away, hanging over the edge of a pit blasted out of the main deck. He pulled the pin and aimed the extinguisher. A frosty cone of carbon dioxide blasted out, instantly quenching the flames. He waved it over the body, then knelt to drag the recumbent form up onto the deck. When he turned it over, though, he might as well not have bothered. The upper chest and throat were hollowed away as if by some huge, sharp-bladed ice-cream scoop.
Forms in metallic-looking oversuits emerged from the smoke, rolled the corpse into a litter, glancing at him through curved faceplates, and trudged off again, vanishing.
Getting to his feet again, Danenhower leaned out over the lifelines, inspecting the hull. The floating yellow powder was moving. Water was sucking into the side. He could feel the incline already. They were heeling at least five degrees.
He unholstered his Hydra, then pushed his mask up. The first breath filled his lungs with reeking fumes. “Damage Control, Danenhower.”
“Go, Commander.”
“I’m out here looking at a four-foot hole at the waterline, frame 220. Major fires from here forward at least to the boat deck and quarterdeck area. RHIB’s gone. Multiple superstructure penetrations. Blast damage. Frag damage. Where the hell are the hose teams? All I see is casualty recovery.”
“Lost firemain pressure. No point exposing hose teams until we get that back. We’re preparing to counterflood, to fight this list.”
“I wouldn’t do that until you get power back. Every ton you take on is gonna give you more free surface. Number three GTG’s undamaged, right? All the way aft? I’d get that—”
“We’re working it, sir. Gotta go. DC out.”
The jaygee’s voice was succeeded by another. “N5, you there?”
He choked back a retch. Without the mask, the smoke was getting to him. “Here,” Danenhower said, coughing.
It was Enzweiler, the chief of staff. “That you, Bart? Where are you? We need you to coordinate damage reports from the task force.”
“We don’t control this fire, this flooding, we’re gonna all be in the water.” He clicked off and turned back to the hangar.
Four figures in flame-retardant suits were gathered just inside the doorway. In the reflective suits and heavy gloves, they looked like robots from an old Flash Gordon serial. One carried an axe. Another stood beside a hose reel.
No water pressure? He stared around.
He seized the heavy stainless nozzle from the reel and began unspooling the thick red rubber hose. The flight deck foam system didn’t depend on the firemain. Designed to fight aircraft fires, it tapped prepressurized tanks in the hangar. “Tail on to this,” he shouted, then doubled over, wheezing.
When he straightened they were ranged behind him. He pulled the mask down again, but still couldn’t stop coughing as he bulled his way through the door once more.
Outside was even heavier smoke, the radiant glare of growing flame. His throat felt seared. Through the speaking diaphragm in the mask he choked, “Let’s get some foam in there.” He pointed to the flames at their feet, an inferno that was starting to roar in earnest. “That’s a fuel fire down there. We’re gonna flood that compartment with foam. Got it? But be careful, watch your footing, for fuck’s sake don’t fall in.”
Without speaking again — his throat was too raw now, and the howl of the flames blotted out all sound — he signaled them to follow, ignoring the call note from the radio hooked to his belt.
Dan stood tiptoe on the bridge wing, peering aft. The whole starboard side was on fire, from the waterline up to the 04 level. The smoke had been white for the first few seconds, but was turning black now as the fuel floating alongside caught. It blew toward him, making his already-damaged bronchial tubes constrict. There were oblong holes in the steel splinter shield, as if they’d caught a load of square buckshot. Beside him “Ammo,” the lookout, stared at a body floating facedown in the burning water. Then jerked his gaze up again, scanning the horizon with binoculars.
The Mark I eyeball, about his only operational sensor left, gave him a blue sky airbrushed with lavender contrails. A blazing Pacific dawn, with the sun a thumb’s-width above a glowing sea of molten brass. And his only remaining operable weapons system was the 7.62 machine gun a little farther aft on the wing. Did those distant contrails, glowing lilac in the rising sun, mean another wave of supersonics were on their way? If so, Savo was finished.
At least four missiles had connected already. Two had hit high, obliterating the top of the hangar, the Stinger mount, one of the Phalanxes, the after stack and intakes, and maybe a third of the ship’s thirty-eight antennas. Another had struck at about main deck level. The last had punched through at the waterline, according to what the phone talker had just reported. Casualties were still being tallied, but at least a dozen were stacked up in sick bay.
Tearing his eyes from the sky, he ducked back in, holding his helmet secure with one hand, and dogged the door behind him. The air inside was nearly as smoky as out. Van Gogh was shouting into the IC circuit, trying to raise After Steering. “Rudder’s jammed full left, Admiral,” he yelled as Dan brushed past. The helmsman was crouched behind his console, low to the deck. No doubt to breathe as little of the foul air as possible, pending the return of steering control and propulsion.
Staurulakis was speaking urgently into the sound-powered handset at the CO’s chair, where he’d passed so many hours.… One arm was tucked into a sling — apparently she’d broken it — and both hands were streaked with blood. Cut? There was enough torn metal around. He unholstered his Hydra. “Fred? Can you hear me?”
“You’re faint, but I hear you, Admiral.”
“Any comms with the task force?”
“Uh, that’s a negative, sir. Tried the backups, but no joy. Probably out of touch until we get ship’s power back.”
He lowered the heavy little radio, feeling helpless. His job as task force commander was to fight his force as long as he could, and when he couldn’t, to extract as many of his units as possible.
But without comms he couldn’t do squat, other than worry. Were the carriers safe? Were his other ships damaged, burning, sinking, too?
He hated to admit it. And he didn’t want to. But there was only one thing left to do.
There were precedents.
In 1813. Oliver Hazard Perry, engaging the British on Lake Erie. With a flagship so damaged it could no longer fight, Commodore Perry had shifted his flag. He’d rowed across a mile of shot-torn water to the still-undamaged Niagara. Now commanding Niagara as well as the squadron, Perry had taken the fresh brig through the British line and won the battle.