He clicked the 1MC mike. “Electric plant is in a half power lineup on the port SSTG,” he announced. That was MacHinery’s cue to start one of the massive feed pumps to put water into the almost dry boilers.
He saw the pump energized indication and watched as boiler water levels climbed off the bottom.
There was a damage control saying in the submarine force, Pacino thought.
“Chief, can you take over here?” Pacino called.
“I got it, L.T.,” MacHinery said. “Good job, sir.”
“Chief, we’re taking on water aft,” Pacino said. “Deck is tilting since I emergency blew. See if you can find where the flooding is. I’ll call you from forward and maybe I can get the drain pump running.”
As Pacino passed through the forward hatch of the reactor compartment tunnel, he almost ran into Senior Chief Corpsman Thornburg.
“Doc,” Pacino said. “How are we doing?”
Thornburg shook his head solemnly. “I’m setting up triage in the crew’s mess,” he said. “Some folks are walking wounded, but we’ve lost some people.”
“Keep working, Doc,” Pacino said, clapping the chief’s shoulder. “I’ll be in control.”
Weapons Officer Captain Lieutenant Ballerina Katerina Sobol lay face down in the central command post, unconscious. Her breathing was slow and deep, her pulse likewise slow. She lay like that for a long time until the pool of blood reached the level of her mouth and nostrils, and she began to inhale blood.
She woke suddenly, spitting and coughing. She tried to sit up, but the vertigo of her sudden movement made her fall back down again, back into that bloody pond. She pulled her face out, wiping off the blood with her sleeve, and blinked in the light of the emergency lanterns at the four corners of the room. They were weak and trying to illuminate the space through a light haze of smoke. Sobol took in a breath but couldn’t smell anything burning. She reached up to her head and found the bleeding gash. It hurt, but it was superficial. She reached up to a handhold at the attack center console, where she had been strapped in by a five-point harness to her seat, but the seat had been ripped from the deck and the seatbelts had broken off, dumping her to the deck. She pulled herself up, noticing for the first time the distinct list to starboard. At least an alarming ten degrees, in an environment where even one degree of tilt was noticeable. She looked around the space. The watchstanders, the captain, and the first officer were all still buckled into their seats, but no one seemed awake.
She stepped to the command console and felt Captain Alexeyev’s cheeks. His eyepatch had flown off in the high-G shockwave and it was nowhere to be seen. His skin was warm. She felt his neck for a pulse, and it was strong and slow. She lightly slapped his face.
“Captain.
There was no response. She tried to awaken the first officer. “Madam First! Madam Lebedev!
Nothing. The right-hand seat of the command console was the watch officer’s chair. Captain Lieutenant Vilen Shvets, the communications officer, was out cold. She tried to rouse him, with the same result. She looked down at the console displays, but they were all black. She looked around the room, and every console was dark.
“Second Captain,” she said loudly to the AI system. “Second Captain, respond!”
There was no answer.
She forced herself to recognize the good news. She seemed to be the only one conscious after the nuclear explosion. And no one seemed to be dead, at least not yet. But the ship, she thought. The ship was dying.
