Free The Cruiser: A Dan Lenson Novel by David Poyer Page A

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?”
    “Two-niner by GPS, Captain.”
    Right, they didn’t have a pit sword. “Very well. —Bart, everything cool down there?”
    “Rudder bearings’re fine. No vibration. No indication of stress.”
    “Make absolutely sure. If we had any damage from the grounding—”
    “Everything’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
     
    “ 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.
    “On 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.”
    “Belay 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?”
    “Electrical 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 tried to dismount from his chair but got hung up on the seat belt. Unstrapped, he headed for the ladderway. The door was dogged. He hesitated; placed the back of one hand against it. The steel was cool. He barked to Singhe, “Shift to sound-powered circuits. Shift to manual backup. Keep those lookouts alert.” Then sucked a deep breath, heeled the dogs free, and jerked the door open.
    A puff of white smoke welled up. He slammed and dogged it again and stood shaking, trying to regain control. But … but … No. He did not want to breathe that. Icy sweat broke across his back. The nav team regarded him curiously. He shot a glare at them, then instantly looked away, not feeling proud. In fact, deeply shamed.
    “All right, then. General quarters,” he said.
    *   *   *
    AN hour later he stood in the passageway outside his sea cabin. Contemplating the fact that if he’d been in there, he’d have been trapped. The firefighting team had used water fog to fight their