Burden of Proof

by John G. Hemry

  "But aren't your working relationships with Scott already bad?"

  "Yes, but that's not the same as dysfunctional. I understand what Scott will do. Or, rather, not do. I can do my job understanding that. Paul can do his job. Introducing actual hostility on both sides into the situation would generate problems with carrying out our duties."

  Paul nodded. I hadn't thought it through quite like that, but she's right. "That's why most of us ignore Sam Yarrow. If we took him really seriously, that would hurt us all. Besides, Sam tries to make himself look good by making everybody else look bad. We don't want to have that kind of reputation."

  "Okay, if you guys say so." Bristol checked the time and hurriedly unstrapped. "Gotta go."

  Paul looked at Sindh after Mike Bristol left. "Are we doing the right thing?"

  "What else can we do, Paul? Scott's professional behavior, or lack thereof, places an extra burden upon us. It doesn't translate into a danger to anyone."

  "What if it does?"

  She sat silent for a moment. "We must watch carefully. You know the truth, Paul. Mr. Silver is very popular with some of his superiors, at least, as well as many of the junior officers. Any complaints against him must be well-justified and documented, or they will likely be ignored."

  "You're being evaluated against him! He could end up ranking higher than you because all he does is try to impress his superiors and make everybody else like him."

  "Neither the Navy nor life is fair, Paul." Sindh unstrapped and pulled herself out of her seat. "Come, Paul. We've both plenty of work to do. Letting Mr. Silver's faults distract us from that will only compound our problems."

  When you're right, you're right. Paul followed her out.

  A day later, they were back at Franklin. They'd be heading out again on Monday for more tests, and Paul had duty that weekend, so he had to stay onboard the ship instead of taking a break enjoying what diversions Franklin Naval Station offered. Not that it mattered with Jen's ship gone for another two and half months.

  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."