Free The Cruiser by David Poyer Page B

in?”
    â€œThis is it, sir. Do it now, while we got everything cranked up.”
    He nodded to Singhe, who grabbed the overhead cable. “Hard right rudder,” she ordered.
    â€œHard right rudder … my rudder is right hard, ma’am.”
    For a long second Savo Island did not seem to respond. She plunged ahead at the same velocity, seemingly unaffected.
    Then she began to lean.
    Dan tightened his grip, unable to discontemplate the hundreds of tons of weight the additional decks in the superstructure added, and what that meant for stability. For a moment the deck under him seemed to lean left. Or maybe he was just braced for it. If she leaned out, that was bad. Very bad. If she leaned in to the turn, she’d be fine.
    Then the incline began, the rudder digging in, the deck tilting faster and faster to starboard. Pencils and small objects rolled and clattered to the deck. The helmsman, a small spare woman with blond braided hair, clung grimly to the console. Dan nailed his gaze to the clinometer. Forty degrees. Forty-five. Forty-seven. A rushing roar came through the starboard door, and he glimpsed past Mytsalo a rolling roar of seething sea. The bow wave, crowding into a jostling welter of foam as the bow turned into it.
    Fifty degrees.
    They clung and watched. The needle hung there, and then, all too deliberately, retreated. The cruiser rolled back upright and Dan relaxed. “Speed?”
    â€œTwo-niner by GPS, Captain.”
    Right, they didn’t have a pit sword. “Very well. —Bart, everything cool down there?”
    â€œRudder bearings’re fine. No vibration. No indication of stress.”
    â€œMake absolutely sure. If we had any damage from the grounding—”
    â€œEverything’s okay so far, sir. Tell you for sure after the port turn.”
    He nodded across the slanting air to the woman whose almond-eyed smile sought his, and Singhe sang out, “Rudder amidships. Steady course three four zero.”
    The helmswoman was echoing the order when a bell cut loose on the bulkhead. Sudden. Peremptory. Strident. At the same moment a detonation shook the ship’s fabric. A soft one, not that distant, and not that loud. A second later, a ghostlike waft of pale smoke breathing out from the ventilators brought the dense, chemical stink of an electrical fire.

5
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    â€œ ENGINES stop!” Singhe shouted, just as Dan opened his mouth to give the order himself. Smoke was blasting out of the ventilator, thicker, whiter. The stink of burning insulation and something else, acrid and poisonous, filled the bridge.
    â€œOn the bridge: Don gas masks. 1MC: Set damage-control status Zebra,” Singhe shouted, her tone slicing through the chatter and hubbub like a cleaver. “Sound general quarters.”
    â€œBelay that,” Dan snapped. Then, as the helmsman reached for the throttles, added, “Not the all stop—but stand by on the general-quarters alarm.”
    Nuckols had reached up and secured the ventilation; both wing doors were open; the smoke was streaming outside, thinning. Singhe glanced at Dan through the lenses of her mask; then stripped it off and stuffed it back into its case. “Fire, fire, fire,” came over the 1MC. Not from the bridge; from Damage Control Central. “Class Charlie fire in SPY-1 equipment room, compartment 03-138-1-C. Fire, fire, fire. Repair Two provide.”
    Dan leaned to toggle the 21MC. “Combat Systems, bridge: captain. What’ve you got?”
    â€œElectrical fire, Captain. Equipment Two. The Combat Systems rover opened the door and it’s a sheet of flame in there. We’re securing power.” With the last syllable the bridge powered down. Fans whirred down the scale. Screens went blue, then blank. Silence welled up from wherever it had lurked all this time. The ship … creaked. The wind sighed. Something topside went clunk .
    Equipment Two was a couple decks down. Dan