Burden of Proof

Chapter Six

Duty days normally dragged, but weekend duty days were worse. Most of the crew were off the ship pursuing entertainment or simply some degree of freedom, leaving the duty section to stand watches and contemplate the ability of the Navy to turn even a Saturday into tedious drudgery. Paul yawned and checked his watch. Almost time for eight o'clock reports. I guess I'll wander out to the quarterdeck. He left his stateroom, moving with casual ease through the quiet passageway.

From somewhere, a muffled boom vibrated through the hull. Paul stopped, frowning down at the deck. What the hell was that? Was it onboard us or something that happened on the station?

A moment later, the rapid ringing of the ship's bell over the all-hands speakers shattered the calm. "Fire, fire, fire! Fire in compartment 2-110-3-Echo, Forward Engineering. This is not a drill!"

The alarm began repeating as Paul broke into a run, ducking through two hatchways and out onto the quarterdeck where Chief Imari was standing the watch as officer of the deck inport. "How bad is it?"

Chief Imari, her face pale, shook her head. "We don't know. Damage Control Central lost some sensors in Forward Engineering when that explosion went off — "

"That was an explosion?"

"Yes, sir. Apparently, it ruptured the fuel lines near the compartment. Somehow, the stuff ignited. We've got a high-intensity fire going and — " A shrill tone sounded and Chief Imari stabbed a finger at the comm panel. "This is the officer of the deck."

The petty officer in Damage Control Central spoke rapidly and with an edge of panic. "Chief? This is DC Central. The fire suppression systems ain't working."

"Say again. Calm down. Speak slowly."

"Uh, yes, Chief. I tried to activate the fire suppression systems in Forward Engineering. They're off-line."

"How can they be off-line? Shouldn't the fire have triggered them automatically?"

"I dunno why they ain't working, Chief. And I dunno why they didn't trigger on auto. I tried a manual start and nothing's happening."

Paul became aware that Lieutenant Silver, hastily adjusting his clothing, had appeared on the quarterdeck as well. "What's going on?"

"Explosion and fire in Forward Engineering," Paul summarized quickly. "Fire suppression systems aren't working."

Chief Imari was speaking again with forceful calm. "Is Forward Engineering isolated?"

"Yes, Chief," DC Central answered quickly. "All vent ducts, piping, hatches and other accesses are sealed."

Lieutenant Silver grinned. "Then it should burn itself out pretty fast. No oxygen."

Chief Imari twisted her lips, then glanced at Paul, who shook his head. "No. The fuel supplies its own oxidizer. It'll burn as long as there's fuel."

"Then, uh, we need to dump the fuel. Get rid of it."

Chief Imari answered directly this time. "No, sir. Dumping fuel is prohibited in the vicinity of the station at any time. Dumping burning fuel is out of the question."

Paul leaned forward to speak to DC Central. "This is Lieutenant Sinclair. Can we pump the fuel into another tank?"

"Negative, sir. Not with it burning on one end. If that fire raced up the transfer lines the whole ship might blow. That's fire's gotta be out, first."

Paul stepped back, looking around. It had been scant moments since the alarm sounded, yet it already felt like hours were being wasted. He focused on Lieutenant Silver, who was chewing his lip and staring at the nearest bulkhead. "What do we do?" Silver looked back but said nothing.

"Sir." Chief Imari gestured with one finger, pointing toward where Forward Engineering lay. "There's only thing to do. Put that fire out the old-fashioned way. The duty damage control party is forming up near Forward Engineering. They'll have to go in and knock that fire down."

Silver nodded quickly. "Yes. Sounds good. Get 'em in there."

DC Central spoke again. "Quarterdeck! The Damage Control team Leader hasn't reported in. They've got everybody else."

"Damn!" Chief Imari snarled. "That's Chief Asher. You'd think he'd have been the first one there since that's his equipment in Forward Engineering…" Her voice trailed off, and she stared at Paul. "That's his gear in Forward Engineering."

"Oh, hell. He might have been in there? DC Central, has anyone seen Chief Asher?"

"Negative, sir. That team needs a leader, sir, and it needs it now. Those fire temperatures will cause damage to the surrounding bulkheads if they last long enough."

Paul glanced quickly around. Silver's the command duty officer. He can't go to the scene because he has to coordinate the entire effort. Chief Imari is the officer of the deck, and Silver's primary assistant right now. That leaves me. "I'll go." Silver was staring at the bulkhead again. "Scott? I'll go. Okay?"

"What?"

"I'll go lead the Damage Control team. You're in charge here. I need your approval. Is that okay?"

"Uh… yeah. Okay."

Paul spun on one heel and dashed toward Forward Engineering. He took ladders at a reckless pace, hurling himself down the steps, and ducking through hatches. One shoulder slammed against a hatch as he went through and Paul moderated his pace just enough to maintain his balance. The last thing anybody needs is for me to knock myself out now. Memories from his damage control training swarmed chaotically through his mind, merging into a stream of images of smoke, heat, water and torn metal.

The Damage Control team, an even dozen sailors, looked around as Paul pulled himself into the compartment. "Who's the assistant team leader?"

A small brunette held up her hand. "Me, sir. Petty Officer Santiago. You comin' in with us?"

"Yeah. I hope you got a spare survival suit."

"If we don't, you ain't comin', sir. But we got the Chief's. Any idea where he is, sir?"

Paul paused just a moment as he pulled himself into the suit. "He might be in there."

" Dios." Santiago hastened to aid Paul's donning of the suit.

Paul activated the suit systems and watched data pop up on his faceplate display. The suit's air exchanger kicked in, blowing fresh air against his face. Everything seemed to be working properly, so he activated the local communications circuit. "Santiago. How'd you recommend taking this fire down?"

"Uh, sir, if it was me, I'd go in with both hoses on full spray, as fine a fog as we can put out. We can't smother that crap, so we gotta cool it enough that the fresh fuel comin' in stops ignitin'. That's what I'd do."

Paul nodded. The suit hindered the gesture a bit, being bulky enough to protect the wearer for a while against the extremes of space and hazards such as fires, but hopefully flexible enough to allow any necessary movement. "Then that's what we'll do. Get the hoses laid out and ready to go."

"Sir." A hull tech waved one hand. "That fuel's corrosive as hell."

"Right. Our suits should be able to handle it." I remember that from my training. At least, they're supposed to be able to handle it. "Everybody double check the seals on your suits."

"Buddy check!" Santiago snapped, quickly running her hands over the seaman next to her while he did the same to her. "You, too, sir." Paul held still while Santiago's hands pressed across his arms, back and legs. A ridiculous thought, that having Petty Officer Santiago pawing him would normally be a violation of a couple of articles of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, sped through his mind even as he knew that neither her actions nor his reactions were focused on anything but staying alive. "You're good, sir."

"Thanks." Paul forced himself to scroll carefully through communication options until he found the right one. "DC Central?"

"DC Central, aye."

"This is Lieutenant Sinclair. We're going to go into Forward Engineering with two hoses on full spray and attempt to cool the fuel down below its ignition temperature. I'll need all the fresh water you can provide to those hoses."

"Roger. Understand you need water maintained to the hoses. I'll notify the station to keep it coming."

Paul glanced at the hatch to Forward Engineering, which was beginning to glow noticeably. Man, when we pop that we better be careful… oh, jeez. "Santiago. Get the hatch into this space sealed. When we open up Forward Engineering it's going to flood this compartment with junk. DC Central, make sure all accesses and ventilation to this compartment are sealed."

"Roger. All accesses sealed, vents secured."

The low background hum of vent fans, a constant presence on the ship, cut off abruptly. Two sailors turned and made thumbs up gestures from the other hatch. "It's tight, sir."

"Okay, um… who's lead hose?"

Santiago crouched and hefted the hose. "That's me, sir. Uh, I'd recommend you not stand right in front of that hatch when we pop it, Mr. Sinclair."

Paul suddenly realized he was indeed standing right in front of the hatch, like the hero of some action-packed but stupid movie. He hastily moved back and to the side. "Thanks, Santiago. Okay, charge the hoses." The limp lengths of the hoses suddenly bulged into tight cylinders as water under high pressure surged into them. Petty Officer Santiago on one hose and a big male bosun mate on the other held their nozzles firmly as they jerked in response to the tightening hoses like eager horses fighting their bridles. The rest of the sailors formed up to help control and carry the hoses, except for two who stood back to help feed the hoses through the hatch once the others went in. "DC Central, Quarterdeck, this is Lieutenant Sinclair. We're popping the hatch to Forward Engineering."

The two hull technicians in the team punched the automated opener, and after getting no response hauled out tools, placed them in the manual opening slots, then pulled hard. The hatch resisted for a moment, then blew open so fast one of the hull techs barely avoided getting smashed. The hatch slammed back against the bulkhead, its interior surface a pitted, smoking ruin, then the entire Damage Control team staggered as a firestorm of heat and smoke fountained out through the hatch opening. Paul caught himself, leaning into the eruption and watching the tell tales on his face plate blink rapid warnings. If we hadn't been suited up when that hit, we'd have been fried instantly.

Both hoses lit off, hurling out a high velocity mist of fine droplets of water against the heat and smoke. Water mist flashed to steam, stealing heat from the fire, and beat back the smoke. "Fuel shouldn't be making that kinda smoke!" one of the hull techs shouted.

Paul watched the black and gray mass, then shook his head. "It's not the fuel making that. It's everything else in that compartment burning." Insulation, computers, wiring, plastic, and maybe at least one human. "And don't yell on the circuit."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Advance when you're ready, Santiago."

"Advance when ready, aye, sir." Santiago began duck-walking forward, staying low beneath the hottest air and moving the nozzle in a tight circular pattern that opened a hole in the inferno for her advance. The back-up hose paused while Santiago cleared the hatch, then followed, its spray covering and cooling Santiago as well as beating back the fire and smoke. Paul waited until about half the damage control team had entered, then pushed in himself.

His vision vanished so suddenly Paul almost panicked. Then he spotted the tell tales still glowing on his face plate and realized he hadn't gone blind, but that the smoke was so dense it had cut off sight completely. Paul's arms flailed out in search of contact with some surface, one hand brushing against something which he grabbed onto like a liferaft.

"Who the hell — ? Oh, Mr. Sinclair. Just a sec." A hand grasped his wrist just above where Paul's own hand was locked onto someone's shoulder, then guided Paul's hand to a taunt, rounded surface he recognized as one of the hoses. "You okay, now, sir?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Control your breathing. Don't hyperventilate. Don't let the team hear you sounding scared. Paul became aware the hose wasn't moving. Peering ahead, he thought he could vaguely make out swirls in the smoke that must mark the fog nozzles at work, spraying a so-far futile barrage against the firestorm. Okay. Think. Remember your damage control training. When fighting a fire, aim at the base of the flames, not the flames themselves. If we can get to where the fuel's coming in, we can cool it there and stop the fire at its source. "DC Central, this is Lieutenant Sinclair. We've got zero visibility in here. And I mean zero. We need guidance to the likely source of the fuel leak."

"Roger, sir. Providing virtual guidance now."

Glowing lines sprang to life on his faceplate, outlining the equipment, catwalks and bulkheads Paul would have been able to see if not for the smoke. He turned his head, watching the lines shift to show another part of the compartment. It resembled nothing so much as a first-person perspective video game, though the graphics were far more primitive and the stakes much higher than in any game Paul had ever played. "Santiago. Everybody else. Have you got the virtual guidance?" A chorus of affirmative replies followed. "That arrow should point toward the location where the fuel leak is coming in. Head that way."

"Aye, sir." The hose began moving slowly and jerkily under Paul's hand, and he followed along, crouching low against the heat. The virtual guidance showed they were traversing a catwalk along the upper portion of the compartment.

"Damn!" The hose jerked, then steadied.

"Santiago! You okay?"

"Yessir. So far. The damned catwalk's half blown away up here. I almost dropped through. I can make it along the bulkhead, though. I think."

"Roger. Be careful. Hose team, hold tight so that if Santiago drops we can pull her back." Paul scowled at the virtual guidance, which showed an intact catwalk running all the way along the bulkhead. No, wait. Of course it shows an intact catwalk. "Everybody, this guidance only shows what things looked like before the explosion and fire. They don't know what kind of damage might have happened, so it's not reflected on the guidance. Step carefully."

"Now you tell us," somebody muttered.

Paul found himself suddenly grinning widely at the gibe as he inched along through blinding black clouds of smoke shot through with gray swirls, feeling ahead with one hand while the other rested on the hose. He knew the smile was too wide, too tight to be natural. Waves of heat surged against him, so that even through the suit's protection he felt the warmth. A fine mist of what might be fuel droplets lay across his face plate for a moment, then flashed away in another burst of heat. An indicator on his face shield blinked urgently, warning of estimated time remaining until the suit systems failed under the stress of the heat. God, I'm scared.

"I'm across," Santiago reported. "Come one at a time. I don't trust what's left of that catwalk."

Paul checked the time, shocked to see only minutes had elapsed since they'd entered Forward Engineering. "Santiago, are you still in the lead?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you see any sign of the leak?"

"No, si — Son of a bitch!"

"Santiago! What happened?"

"I found that leak, sir. Jesus. It's like a torch. Burned me through the suit."

Paul felt a chill at odds with the inferno around them. "It penetrated your suit?" He began trying to plan how to get Santiago out of the compartment as quickly as possible in zero visibility across a damaged catwalk with a fire raging, before the hole in her suit allowed the toxic fuel, smoke and heat to kill her.

"No, sir. It did not. I think my arm's kinda boiled."

Paul exhaled heavily, not aware until then that he'd been holding his breath. "Can you still use it?"

"Yes, sir. I'm aiming my fog at the base of the leak. Okay?"

"Exactly right. Make sure the other hose keeps you cool."

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Sinclair? This is Chief Imari. We've got damage control parties sent from the Midway and the Belleau Wood standing by to assist. Should I send them down to you?"

Paul looked around, as if he could judge the situation visually, then raised his hand in an instinctive and futile gesture to wipe sweat from his brow. "No. I don't know how we'd get them in here without sacrificing another compartment to the smoke and heat, and I don't know how'd we employ them in here. I can only get one or two people right up at the leak that's feeding the fire."

"Could they come at it from another angle, sir?"

Good question, but Paul dismissed it almost instantly. "I don't know, so I wouldn't recommend trying. There's damage in here. This catwalk we're on is half-gone. I have no idea what things are like on the other side of the leak."

"Understood. No assistance to be sent in at this time. With your permission, I'll send the Midway team down to begin rigging a temporary airlock outside the compartment you entered Forward Engineering from, and hold the Belleau Wood people in reserve."

Of course. They'd need to get out once all this was over. Or before it was over, if things went really bad. "Thanks, Chief. That's a great idea." Paul began inching forward again, running one hand over the hose, then over a sailor.

"Who's that?"

"Lieutenant Sinclair."

"Oh. The damaged part's right ahead, sir. Stay close to the bulkhead."

"Thanks." Paul edged as close to the bulkhead as he could, watching the tell-tales on his suit display warning of the heat radiating from that surface. He stepped slowly and carefully, feeling the catwalk quivering under his feet. It sagged alarmingly under his weight at one point, leaving him wishing he was as light as Petty Officer Santiago, but on the next step the catwalk felt firmer. A few feet further on, and Paul's exploring hand encountered another sailor. "Santiago?"

"Uh, no, sir. Petty Officer Yousef. Back-up hose."

The big bosun mate, then. "Probably the only time you've ever been confused with Santiago, isn't it?"

"You got that, sir. She's right in front of me."

Paul slid forward even more cautiously, half-afraid of being partly boiled himself and half-afraid of shoving Santiago back into the torch that had already injured her. The fog from Yousef's hose cooled the air around him, beating back some of the smoke as well, so he actually caught a glimpse of Santiago's suit just before his hand reached her. "Santiago, it's Sinclair. Where's the torch?"

"I'm aimed right at it, sir."

Paul moved sideways around her, keeping as close to Santiago as possible without bumping into her. He felt heat beating at the side nearest the fuel leak and realized Santiago had been fronting that heat for several minutes, now. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay, sir. I can hold out a bit longer. How much do we have to cool that fuel before it stops flamin'?"

"Uh… I don't know." Paul studied his suit's tell tales. "It is cooling."

"Yeah. Real slow. Maybe I should go solid stream? Break it up?"

"No!" Paul had a vision of a solid column of water hitting the flaming fuel and casting it all directions like a bomb. "Just keep cooling the base. DC Central, can you copy my suit readings?"

"Affirmative, sir."

"Are we getting anywhere close to cooling down that fuel enough?"

"Sir, I think so, but — "

"Wait." On Paul's telltales, the torch heat readings had suddenly plunged, then jerked up again. "What was that?"

"It flickered, sir. You're getting there."

Santiago hunched forward a little more. "Santiago! Don't get too close!"

"I'm gonna put this bastard out, sir. Don't worry. I can handle this."

"Yousef! Get a little closer to Santiago! Cover her."

"Yes, sir." The fog from the back-up hose thickened a bit as Yousef followed Paul's orders.

Another plunge in torch temperature, another climb, then two more plunges in quick succession. "You're getting it, Santiago." A final plunge and it stayed lower. It took Paul a moment to realize that drop in temperature was still far too high. "Keep your hose on it, Santiago. Yousef, get up here and train your hose directly on the leak as well. I need a patch up here!"

"Aye, sir. Patch coming." Moments later, two suits came past, feeling their way over Paul, Santiago and Yousef, then vanishing into the murk. "Son of a bitch."

"What?" Paul leaned forward as if that would help him see.

"Sorry, sir. That's one nasty hole, and I'm getting fuel all over me feeling it out. Hey, Tatyana, gimme the half-meter square patch and get a brace ready." Silence followed for a few moments, except for an occasional grunt. "Yeah. Gimme the end of the brace… okay, it's set. I'll hold it while you tension it." In his mind's eye, Paul could see the other hull technician spinning the tensioner on the brace, lengthening it until it held the patch firmly in place. "Okay. Lemme kick it. Yeah. That's tight. I got some patching goo around the edge and it seems to be holding. Looks like we got that leak, sir."

"Great. Thanks. DC Central, you copy?"

"Affirmative. We've begun draining fuel from that tank. Are there still flames elsewhere in the compartment? We've lost all sensors."

Paul tried to imagine how bad it had been to kill every sensor in Forward Engineering, then slowly looked around, watching his suit's telltales shift as the temperatures he faced varied. "I think there's still some burning going on. We'll try to knock it down. Is there any way you can get the smoke pumped out of here so we can see what we're doing?"

"Not yet, sir. Based upon your suit readings the stuff in there is too thick to run through our ship purifiers without clogging them. We've got a mass air purifier heading this way, but it's still a few minutes out. Then they'll have to run the suction tube down to you and hook it up."

"Great. Santiago, Yousef, everybody else. Let's head for the hottest spot and try to break the fire up."

"Aye, aye, sir." Santiago moved about a meter, then stopped. "What the — Madre de Dios."

"Santiago? What's the problem?"

"I… I think I maybe found Chief Asher, sir."

Paul eased up beside her, then bent slowly through the still dense smoke until an object lying on the deck suddenly came into view less than an inch from his face shield. He jerked back at the sight, fighting down a tight feeling in his throat.

"You think that's him, sir?"

"It… it could be." Maybe a leg, maybe an arm. Heat and corrosive fuel, perhaps on top of whatever damage the explosion had done, had left very little to tell for sure. Don't throw up. Don't throw up. Think about something else.

"Lieutenant Sinclair?"

"Yeah!" The reply was too shrill, too stressed. Paul forced himself to speak more calmly. "Yes. Who's this?"

"Lieutenant Candon, off the Midway. We've almost got an airlock rigged. May I respectfully suggest you pull your team back and let one of the other damage control teams handle mop up?"

Paul licked his lips, fighting down what he knew was an irrational urge to ignore Candon's advice. But Santiago had been injured, he recalled with a guilty start, and everyone was exhausted from the heat. He checked the blinking warning against suit failure. Putting out the torch had eliminated the firestorm, but the heat was still intense enough to keep the warning fluctuating around perhaps a half hour's time remaining before suit systems might start being overwhelmed. It would take them a good portion of that time just to exit the compartment. "Yes. I think that's a good idea. Uh, we've got fuel on our suits."

"I understand you have fuel on your suits. We've set up a washdown system inside the airlock. Wait one." Paul waited for a moment, one hand on Santiago's shoulder and the other on Yousef's. "The air rig tube is here. They're mating it to the vent now. You should have some visibility by the time you get back this way."

"Understand air venting will start soon. Chief Imari? Is Lieutenant Silver still up there?" Paul found himself frowning as he asked the question, only now realizing he'd heard nothing from Silver since leaving the quarterdeck.

"Yes, sir, he is."

"Does he know our status and that we plan on pulling out now?"

"Yes, sir."

Paul waited again, but nothing more followed. I guess he's okay with it, then. "All right, everybody, change of plans. Somebody else will cool down those hot spots. We're out of here. Fall back slowly to the hatch." The catwalk quivered some more as Paul made his way back, first Yousef and then Santiago coming after him, their nozzles still trained toward the strongest sources of heat. There is going to be one major effort required to get all that water recovered so it can reused.

Conserving water was something of a mania on spacecraft, so pumping out so much seemed almost sinful. But as one of Paul's instructors had advised, plain old water was also the best heat-sink in the universe. Nothing beat it for cooling down a fire. You do what you have to do.

Reaching the hatch out of Forward Engineering offered little apparent change in conditions, but a major psychological boost. As he groped his way onward, Paul finally noticed a thinning in the gloom. Smoke visibly rushed away from him, moving toward the same bulkhead the Damage Control party was headed toward. By the time they reached the outer hatch, they could see it, as well as the nearby vent sucking up the smoke and routing it toward the air purifier where the particles making up that smoke would all be scrubbed out. "Lieutenant Candon? We're at the hatch."

"Roger. Go ahead and open it. The temporary airlock should hold six sailors at a time. How are your suits holding up?"

"They'll last." The automatic openers still worked here, swinging the hatch smoothly open. The Damage Control team members surged toward the opening, but Paul blocked them with an outstretched arm. "We won't all fit at once. Santiago, you first. I'll count off the next ones until the lock's full. Keep your suits sealed until they wash the fuel off you."

The wait seemed interminable as the first group went through washdown, then exited. When Candon finally gave the word for the next group, Paul sent them one at a time until only he was left. Judging enough space remained, he crowded in, unwilling to remain alone in the outer compartment with the hatchway into Forward Engineering gaping behind him. Paul looked back before closing the hatch. The smoke had cleared enough now that he could see partway into Forward Engineering. Black soot covered every surface, except where some still glowed with heat. The familiar shapes of equipment, ladders and piping had all been bent and warped from the heat, melting into odd shapes. In the aftermath of the fire, Forward Engineering seemed to resemble a Salvador Dali painting of hell.

Lieutenant Candon wasn't suited up herself. As Paul exited, she waved her own team forward. "Chief, do what the Michaelson 's DC Central orders. Let me know if there's any problems." She turned to Paul and shook her head. "Looks like it's pretty bad."

"It is." Paul slumped against the nearest bulkhead, suddenly intensely thirsty.

Another figure was before him, this one with medical insignia on the collar. "Lieutenant Sinclair? I'm Midway 's duty medical officer. I understand there was a sailor in the compartment? Did you find him?"

Paul looked away. "Yeah. We… think so."

"You think so? Oh." The doctor grimaced. "Beyond help, then. Are any of your team hurt?"

"Yes. Santiago, get over here and let the doc check your arm."

Santiago grinned with obviously false cheer. "It's okay, sir. I don't need no sick call."

"You told me the fire boiled your arm."

"It's better now, Mr. Sinclair. Really."

The doctor moved toward her, smiling reassuringly. "Can I have a look, anyway?"

Santiago looked around like a trapped animal, then slowly peeled back her suit to reveal a swollen, red arm. "Doc, I ain't gonna need no shots, am I?"

Paul found himself desperately fighting down laughter, afraid it might sound hysterical. Petty Officer Santiago, who'd led the way into a deadly fire, gone face to face with its source and insisted on fighting it even after being injured, was afraid of getting a shot.

Lieutenant Candon came over to Paul again. "I can take over here. You look pretty used up."

Paul hesitated, his tiredness and thirst warring with his sense of responsibility. "No. Thanks. But I better stay here. She's my ship."

"Understood. Can I get you anything?"

"Have you got any water?"

Candon laughed. "You just used up about ten years worth of an entire ship's water allotments! And you want more?"

Paul winced. "Hey, that's not funny."

"Yeah, it is. But you're in luck. We brought some of Midway 's finest bottled water with us. Have a liter."

Paul was raising the bottle to his lips when he noticed one of his damage control party staring at it. Oh, hell. "Lieutenant Candon, do you have enough water for my sailors here?"

"Sure thing. Come'n get it, you guys." While Candon passed out bottles to the eager sailors, Paul finally drank, not lowering his own bottle until it was empty. "You need another?"

"No, thanks." Paul glanced up as someone came down the ladder. "Kris. You're not on duty."

"Paul, you idiot, when there's an emergency everyone's on duty. They passed an emergency recall for the crew. I got back a few minutes ago and the captain told me to get down here and relieve you on the scene." Kris looked at Lieutenant Candon with a worried frown. As a Lieutenant Junior Grade, she was outranked by Candon.

But Lieutenant Candon just shook her head and smiled. "It's your ship. My orders are to render all requested assistance. At your service, ma'am."

"Looks like you're doing everything we need at the moment. Paul, take a hike. You look like ten kilometers of bad road."

"I wish everybody would stop telling me how bad I look," Paul mumbled. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"I don't know. The captain didn't say. I wouldn't leave the ship, though."

Paul glared at her. "Duh."

"I was joking, Lieutenant Junior Grade Sinclair. Go somewhere and sit down, for heaven's sake."

"Okay, okay." Paul straightened, and smiled toward his damage control team. "Thanks, you guys. You did a great job. Petty Officer Yousef? I'd appreciate it if you got me a list of everyone who's in this team."

"No problem, Mr. Sinclair." Yousef grinned. "It's been real, sir. And it's been nice. But it ain't been real nice."

"You can say that again." Paul saluted Kris. "I stand relieved."

She flipped a quick salute back. "I've got it. Get out of here before that doc tosses you into sickbay."

Paul pulled himself up the ladder, then paused, looking around. Where do I go? He eventually decided on the quarterdeck. Standing in one of the hatches leading out onto the quarterdeck, he leaned outward enough to see Lieutenant Silver talking animatedly to the XO, smiles alternating with a studiously serious expression. Feeling a sudden desire to be alone, Paul pulled back and headed down toward his stateroom, then at the last moment turned into the wardroom instead in hopes of finding hot coffee.

The coffee wasn't fresh but it was hot. Paul hunched forward in his seat, drinking slowly, looking up only when he heard the hatch open, then jumping to his feet. "Captain."

Hayes gestured Paul back to his seat. "Sit down. You've had a rough night. The fire's out."

"Yessir. The source, anyway. There were still a few hot spots in Forward Engineering when I left." The words suddenly sounded wrong, as if he'd abandoned his duty station.

But Hayes simply nodded. "The team from the Midway is cooling them down now. Franklin Station authorities are going nuts over all the water we just used."

Paul looked down. "Sorry, sir."

"Do you think I'm complaining? We're already pumping it out of Forward Engineering and back to the station recycling tanks. Do you have any idea how the fire started?"

Paul looked up again, wanting to know if the captain was watching him like a prosecuting attorney, but saw only a captain's concern there. "No, sir. All I know is there was an explosion, then this fire."

"Do you have idea why the fire suppression systems in Forward Engineering didn't work? Did you see anything that might explain that while you were in there?"

"No, sir. DC Central said the systems were out, and later said they'd lost all sensors in the compartment because of the fire, but I didn't hear anything about anyone finding out why the systems didn't work. And I didn't see anything in the compartment, sir. Nothing. The smoke was so thick we couldn't see a thing. Except, um…" Paul unsuccessfully tried to avoid a small shudder.

"What?"

"Chief Asher, sir. I think. Some of what was left of him."

Hayes closed his eyes for a moment. "Chief Asher was in Forward Engineering when the explosion happened?"

"He must have been, sir. I don't see how after the explosion he could have run as far inside the compartment as where we found his… remains." Paul gulped, fighting down a wave of nausea.

"Okay. Did you sign-off on any maintenance activity in Forward Engineering tonight?"

"Sir? No, sir. I hadn't seen Chief Asher since morning quarters."

"No other engineer came by and asked you to sign off on a work chit?"

"No, sir."

Hayes shook his head, his mouth a thin line. "I understand Chief Asher was a good sailor."

"I didn't know him much, sir, but I never heard anything bad about him."

"Asher was by the book? He didn't take shortcuts?"

"As far as I know, Captain. We never had any problems with him during duty days, and nobody ever told me he needed to be watched."

"How'd you end up leading that Damage Control team?"

Paul looked down at his coffee. "Uh, well, sir, Lieutenant Silver and Chief Imari and I were on the quarterdeck, and DC Central told us the team had to go in and knock down the fire but Chief Asher wasn't there to lead them. Chief Imari had the deck and Lieutenant Silver was command duty officer, so that left me."

"Lieutenant Silver told you to go down there?"

"Um, he, uh, agreed to it, sir." Paul blinked, then looked up again. "Captain, Petty Officer Santiago did a great job. She really deserves a medal. Petty Officer Yousef, too. The whole damage control team did well."

"I'll keep that in mind, Paul. Go ahead and rest for a while." Captain Hayes started to leave, then paused in the hatch. "What about you, Paul?"

"Sir?"

"How'd you do?"

Paul's gaze was fixed on his coffee again. He felt a great reluctance to speak, to talk of his time in Forward Engineering. Chief Asher was certainly dead, and offering up any praise for himself felt not only inappropriate but simply wrong. I don't want any commendation, not one earned by Chief Asher's death. "I did my job, sir."

Not long afterwards, Kris Denaldo came in. "Colleen Kilgary showed up to relieve me and check out Forward Engineering herself. Why isn't Silver doing that?"

Paul shrugged. "I guess because he's command duty officer."

"The captain, XO, and just about everybody else is back on the ship. Silver doesn't need to worry about running things anymore. What could he be doing that's more important than checking out his gear and trying to confirm what happened to Chief Asher?"

"Do I look like I can read Silver's worthless mind?" Paul glanced up at the resulting silence, seeing Kris watching him. "Sorry. I've been under a little stress."

"That's a given, and you're forgiven for that. But I read some real hostility there."

"I don't like him. Okay? Silver's a no-load."

"I heard he handled the fire okay."

"He was paralyzed! Chief Imari and I were pushing things. I never heard a word from him when I was down there."

"Really. Have you told anyone else this?"

"No." His earlier conversation with Lieutenant Sindh came back. "And I'm not going to. It'd just make me look like I was trying to claim all the credit."

"For heaven's sake, Paul, everyone knows you don't do that sort of thing. Do you really think they'd feel that way?"

"I don't want to find out." A vision from the burning compartment came back to Paul. "And I sure as hell don't want to seem to be trying to hog the spotlight from a tragedy that killed one of our own."

She nodded slowly. "I can understand that. Paul, you really ought to try to sleep."

"Have you got any tranquilizers?"

"I could get some."

"I wasn't serious."

"I was."

Paul shook his head and stood up. "No. I need to handle this without chemicals. I'll go lie down. I guess if anyone needed me they'd have come by already."

"If they do need you later, I'll make sure you know."

"Thanks."

Before reveille sounded the next morning, Paul stumbled into the wardroom in search of more coffee, his mood unimproved by a short, restless night which had featured only fitful sleep. Commander Sykes, seated in his accustomed place at the wardroom table, raised his coffee mug in greeting. "Good morning, young Sinclair."

"It's morning, sir." Paul got some coffee, took a big slug, then shuddered as the bitter liquid ran into his stomach. "What are you doing up so early, Suppo?"

"Early? I'm wounded. My work ethic is well known."

Paul managed a small smile. "Yes, sir, Commander. That's why I'm wondering why you're up so early."

"There will be, I assume, much ado today over the need for replacement parts. I prefer to be ahead of that game rather than being pulled along behind the mob." Sykes waved to a chair. "Take a seat."

"Thanks, Suppo, but — "

"Consider it an order, young Sinclair."

Paul frowned, but sat. "What's so important?"

"You are. I feel certain your haggard appearance has little to do with the stress of your firefighting efforts last night."

Paul closed his eyes, trying to breath calmly. "Chief Asher's dead."

"So I understand. I, like everyone else on the ship, regret that deeply. But what's bothering you isn't that kind of regret, is it?"

"Suppo, he was part of my duty section! My responsibility! And he died. So I'm also responsible for that."

Sykes sipped his coffee slowly. "In a moral and professional sense, yes, that's true. In a practical sense, I'm unaware of any action you took which led to that death."

Paul inhaled deeply. "I don't know of any, either."

"Being a limited duty officer, I have little familiarity with the handling of fires and other emergencies, but my understanding is that Chief Asher must have died within seconds of the explosion, if not immediately. Is that true?"

"I'm sure it is."

"Within seconds, then, meaning he died even as the alarm was sounded. What could you have done to save the man, Paul?"

"I… don't know."

"Yes, I believe you do." Sykes leaned back, gazing into the distance. "I believe you know there's nothing you or any other human being could have done to save Chief Asher. Since God, or whichever deity you care to cite, did not see fit to intervene, the man's fate was sealed before you even knew he was imperiled."

Paul sat still for a long moment, then shook his head. "I know that. I also feel like there should've been something…"

"A word of advice, if I may. Focusing on things you couldn't have done will bring you nothing but sorrow."

"What else should I focus on?"

"Things you can do. Investigating and determining the cause of the accident. Finding the answer to that may save lives in the future. I understand you spoke highly of the Damage Control team you led into the fire."

Paul smiled again, wider this time, and nodded. "Yeah. They were great, Suppo."

"You can work at seeing such actions are properly rewarded. Drafting and shepherding medal recommendations through the approval process is tedious, but it can both reward the deserving and give you a meaningful sense of accomplishment."

"That's true." Paul leaned back as well, closing his eyes. "Thanks, Suppo. Why aren't you a line officer?"

"My dear Mr. Sinclair, since I lack masochistic tendencies, I have no wish to expose myself to the daily miseries endured by line officers."

Paul actually found himself laughing briefly. "You have a point there. Can I ask you something else, Suppo?"

"If it's about spare parts, my office hasn't opened, yet."

"Do you think Commander Herdez would've approved of what I did last night?"

"Hmmm." Sykes took another slow drink. "Many details are not known to me or to her at this time, but she seemed appreciative of your work."

"What? She knows what happened already?"

"The grapevine works at speeds exceeding those of light, although I'm unfamiliar with the physics which permit this. Yes, Commander Herdez and I spoke of the matter not long ago. As I'm sure you can guess, Commander Herdez is reserving judgment on all issues until a thorough investigation has been conducted."

Paul nodded. Which is exactly what I should have expected. No more, no less.

"However," Sykes added, "she did state it was 'a good thing Sinclair was on duty.'"

"Really?"

"Or words to that effect. The statement does not bring you comfort?"

"I can't help wondering if I lived up to them. Living up to Commander Herdez's expectations is — "

"Probably impossible." Sykes gave Paul an unusually serious look. "Give yourself due credit for attempting to do so. And listen to the advice of your elders."

"I will, Suppo. Thanks."

The day from that point on seemed almost surreal to Paul. Life and routine continued, but the aftermath of the fire kept appearing. Liberty was cancelled for much of the crew on Sunday, as they were needed for the clean-up and assessment of damage to Forward Engineering. The regular duty section came on, with Lieutenant Kilgary as command duty officer. Paul overheard part of her turnover with Scott Silver, in which Kilgary kept pressing Silver for details that apparently weren't forthcoming. Captain Hayes, Commander Kwan and all the department heads remained onboard. The black cloud of sorrow which seemed to perpetually follow Commander Destin, the chief engineer, appeared to have grown into a virtual storm. About noon, a small caravan of medical personnel arrived, equipped with isolation suits, and went down to Forward Engineering. They left a couple of hours later laden down with a large sealed box whose proportions made it clear it contained the remains of Chief Asher. Many of the crew, somehow forewarned of the sad procession, lined the passageways to see it pass.

Most personnel avoided asking Paul about Saturday night's fire, something he appreciated. His friends made a point of having conversations about different issues.

Late in the afternoon, Paul received a page to report to the executive officer's stateroom. He went there quickly, afraid it was about the fire and so wishing to confront the meeting as fast as possible. "Lieutenant JG Sinclair, sir."

Commander Kwan looked up from his chair, then passed Paul a hardcopy printout. "Fleet staff wants a thorough investigation. They've appointed an investigating officer. He's the captain of another ship. Find out what he needs from us."

"Yes, sir. Uh, sir, my actions are also going to be investigated — "

"I know that. That shouldn't prevent you, as ship's legal officer, from seeing what the man requires for his investigation."

"Yes, sir." Paul headed back from his stateroom, paging Sheriff Sharpe as he did so. The ship's master-at-arms needs to be in on this. Once in his stateroom, he finally read the print-out.

He was still staring at it when Sharpe arrived. "You asked to see me, sir?" For once, Sharpe didn't display his usual irreverent attitude.

"Yeah."

"What's the matter, sir? Aside from the obvious, that is."

"They've appointed an officer to conduct a full investigation into the explosion and fire. Captain Shen of the USS Mahan."

"Captain Shen? Is he any relation to Lieutenant Shen, sir?"

"He's her father."

"The father of your main squeeze is the guy in charge of raking us over the coals? That's way harsh, sir."

"I was just thinking the same thing."

"And you're one of the prime objects of the investigation."

"Right again, Sheriff. Are you trying to cheer me up?"

Sharpe leaned against the hatch opening, staring contemplatively into space. "This Captain Shen. You ever meet him, sir?"

"Yeah. Once."

"What's he like?"

"He's Ms. Shen's father. What do you think?"

"Ouch. No offense intended to Ms. Shen, sir."

"None taken. She'll be proud to know she's remembered that way on this ship." Paul leaned back and looked upward. "What'd I do? Somebody up there seems awful mad at me."

"You're better off than Vlad Asher, sir."

Paul frowned, looking toward Sharpe again. "He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"

Sharpe nodded abruptly. "Yessir. A fine man. A fine sailor. I don't know what happened in Forward Engineering, but I can't believe it's his fault."

"Something screwy happened, that's for sure. Not just the explosion, but the fire suppression systems not working. What're the odds of that?"

"Dunno, sir. I'm not a snipe," Sharpe pointed out, using the common slang for engineering personnel.

"Do you know why Asher would have been in there at that time?"

Sharpe frowned at the deck. "Sir, with all due respect, that touches on testimony I might be called upon to give in the investigation. I shouldn't discuss it with you."

Paul nodded. "Or anyone else. I suppose the automated engineering logs will tell us something."

"Uh, no, sir, apparently not."

" What?"

"I have this reliably, sir. The engineering logs are badly damaged. They're not sure how much of them will be recoverable."

"How the hell could those logs have been damaged? They're supposed to survive having the ship blown apart."

"Sir, I don't know. There's some guesses about the explosion and the fire."

Paul stared at nothing for a moment, then shook his head rapidly. "That's just weird. But I suppose it's not impossible. I guess that's something the investigation will really have to dig into."

"Yes, sir. I really want answers to this one, sir."

"I understand. We'll get them, if I have anything to say about it. I'm really sorry, Sheriff."

"Thank you, sir. Can you tell me one thing? You saw him, right?"

"Yeah." Paul closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. The brief, close-up glimpse of Chief Asher's remains kept coming back to him as if burned into his memory.

"Could you tell if he'd suffered any?"

"Honestly, Sheriff, no. There wasn't much left." Paul looked away as Sharpe flinched. "Sorry. I don't know. But I can't believe he lived through that explosion. I don't think he ever knew what hit him."

"Thanks, Mr. Sinclair. I guess Petty Officer Davidas might have some company now."

"Yeah. I guess." Davidas had died over a year earlier in an accident onboard. Since then, the crew had attributed any odd happening to Davidas' mischievous ghost. "I haven't heard anyone laying this fire at the feet of Davidas' spirit, though."

"Hell, no, sir, begging your pardon. Fooling around with people's one thing, but Davidas always looked out for his shipmates. He wouldn't have hurt Chief Asher or anybody else on this ship."

Paul sighed. "Too bad Davidas' ghost wasn't in Forward Engineering on Saturday night."

"Yes, sir."

"Sheriff, I don't know what kind of assistance Captain Shen will ask for, but we're to make sure he gets everything he wants. Let me know if there's any problems, and I'll make sure the CO and XO make 'em right."

"Yes, sir. What if Captain Shen doesn't want me talking to you about the investigation?"

"Notify me and then go straight to the XO after that. I'm the only person between you and the XO in the chain of command, so that's how it'll have to be. I won't have it said that we hindered this investigation in any way."

"Aye, aye, sir." Sharpe nodded slowly. "Chief Asher'd want it that way. And one thing more, sir."

"Yeah, Sheriff?"

"Thanks for going in after him, sir. I know it was risky."

"Somebody had to put out that fire, Sheriff."

"Yes, sir, but it didn't have to be you. Thanks for trying, sir."

Paul looked away, bitterness rising in him. "It didn't make any difference." When no reply came, he looked back to see Sharpe watching him with a surprised expression. "What?"

"Sir, whether it made a difference or not isn't the point. You tried. Everybody's telling me Vlad Asher couldn't have made it no matter what. But you tried, sir. Thank you, sir." Sharpe straightened and saluted Paul.

"Ah, hell, Sheriff." When Sharpe held the salute, Paul stood and returned it, feeling awkward. "Get back to work."

"Yes, sir."