The Storm (NUMA Files 10)

“How much time do we have?”

“Ten minutes,” Marchetti said. “Give or take.”

A sweeter voice came over the speakers in his headgear. “Paul, can you hear me?”

“I hear you Gamay,” he said.

“What’s going on?”

“The fire’s out,” he said. “The Halon did its job. But we’re low on air. How soon can you open the doors?”

“Hold on,” she said.

A few seconds of silence lingered and then she came back. “Chief says you guys dumped enough water down there to keep the temps reasonable. We’ll be safely below reignition temp in about seven minutes.”

“That’s good news,” Paul said. He helped Marchetti up. “Let’s go find your crewman.”

“This way,” Marchetti said, moving stiffly toward the rear of the huge room.

They began to make their way back through the debris field. The series of explosions had destroyed half the engine room. They picked their way past ruined machinery and across the metal deck. Steam rose from it in ghostly boiling sheets as the water they’d used to fight the fire evaporated. The smell of fuel was everywhere.

“Here,” Marchetti said, moving to a sealed door.

It wasn’t a watertight bulkhead, but the scorched steel door was formidable looking, and the edges appeared to be tight. Hope rose in Paul’s heart.

“It’s designed as a shelter,” Marchetti said, “though I wasn’t sure it would survive something like this.” He grabbed the locking bar and then pulled back.

“A little hot?” Paul asked.

Marchetti nodded, got himself ready and grabbed it again. He grunted, trying to force the bar down. It wouldn’t budge and he let go again.

“The heat might have expanded the door,” Marchetti said.

“Let me help,” Paul said. He moved into position, and together the two of them grabbed the bar and put all their weight on it. It snapped downward. Paul shouldered the door and it swung open. He let go of the bar instantly, though his hands felt as if they’d been burned through the Nomex gloves.

Air from the compartment streamed out, mixing with the steam and smoke in the engine room. It was pitch-black in the control room. The only illumination came from the lights on their masks and the flashing strobes on their gear.

They split up. Near the back wall, Paul spotted a man in mechanic’s coveralls lying on the ground. “Over here.”

UP IN THE COMMAND CENTER, all eyes were on the central monitor and the flashing red number indicating the temperature in the engine room. It was slowly dropping, winding down until eventually it changed from red to yellow.

“Almost there,” the chief said. “I’m going to arm the doors.”

Gamay liked the sound of that. She checked the clock. Six minutes had elapsed since Paul’s and Marchetti’s oxygen supply warnings had gone off. For once it felt like they had a margin of error, but she wouldn’t feel safe until her husband was out of that room and back in her arms.

The chief pressed a couple of switches and then checked his board. Whatever he saw aggravated him. He cycled the switches and began flipping a toggle back and forth.

“What’s wrong?”

“The doors aren’t responding,” he said. “I just armed them to open, but they’re remaining in lock-down mode.”

“Could the fire hav

e damaged them?”

“Doubt it,” he said. “They’re designed for this.”

He fiddled with the switches a few more times and then checked something else. “It’s the computer. It’s blocking the directive.”