she couldn't quite believe it. 'Probably both.'
Captain Hayes' voice over the same circuit carried more than a hint of shock. 'Blew up? An engineering compartment? How could that happen?'
'I don't know, sir. It'd require an awful lot of equipment and software to fail simultaneously, and a lot of people to miss warning signs. But those holes are where the Maury 's engineering compartments are.'
Captain Hayes' voice sounded flat and emotionless. 'Where they were, you mean.'
'Yes, sir. From what we can tell, Maury 's lost all power. I recommend we get as many people as we can over there to assist.'
'Do we have any communications with the Maury?'
'No, Captain,' Commander Garcia came on line, his answer blunt. 'I'm in comms. We're picking up nothing but the emergency beacon's automated distress call. There's no telling what effect the shock from that explosion and its fragmentation effects had inside the Maury 's hull.'
'Very well. How many damage control teams can the gig hold?'
Commander Destin answered again. 'Normally, two, captain.'
'I don't want normally. How many maximum?'
'Uh, three, sir. If they're packed in tight. Very tight.'
'Get three teams over there pronto. I'll see how close to the Maury we can maneuver the Michaelson.'
Paul listened to the conversation, feeling as if it were some sort of audio-book, dealing with fictional events which couldn't have happened here and now. Something I should be doing. 'Chief, I want a recommendation for the captain on how close to the Maury we can get.'
Chief Imari looked back at Paul, her face questioning behind the survival suit's face shield. 'Considering what, sir?'
'Debris. And possible secondary explosions.'
'If you're concerned about secondaries, sir, this is as close as we should get.'
'We're concerned about helping the Maury, Chief!'
'Yes, sir. We'll scope out the debris and work up a recommendation disregarding the threat from secondary explosions.'
'Good. Thanks.' There. He'd done something. Not much. But something. Paul looked back at the image of the Maury, wondering why his mind kept insisting the picture couldn't be real.
He was jerked out of his detachment by a sharp voice. 'Sinclair!'
Commander Garcia calling, his anger as usual easily apparent, but this time certainly not aimed at Paul. For all Garcia's faults, Paul knew he cared about the lives of sailors.
'Yes, sir.'
'Get down to the gig. They want you to command one of damage control parties.'
'Me, sir?'
'Yes, you! Your chief can run Combat and you're one of the only officers on board with actual experience leading a damage control team. Now stop asking stupid questions and get your butt down there!'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Paul switched back to Combat's internal communications. 'Chief, I've been tapped to go over to the Maury. You've got Combat. Get that recommendation to Commander Garcia as soon as possible so he can pass it to the captain.'
'Yes, sir. Good luck, sir.'
Paul exited Combat as fast he could, thinking as he went that he needed luck a lot less than the crew of the Maury did. Partway to the gig, the maneuvering alarm sounded and Paul managed to snap onto a tie-down just before the Michaelson lurched and swung in response to her thrusters. Getting closer to the Maury. Probably not all that close. There's got to be lots of junk still floating around her. And lots of stuff that could still explode, like Chief Imari said. Paul felt another inner chill. Did Maury' s fuel vent from all the ruptured tanks and lines? What happens to us if it blows while we're there? He tried to remember if the cloud of gases had included vaporized fuel, how dense a free-floating cloud of fuel would have to be to ignite, but his mind wouldn't focus on the calculations.
The push of the thrusters halted, followed by an 'all-clear' announcement. Paul unhooked and hastened the rest of the way to the gig.
The area around the gig was a mess. Too many sailors, bulkier than usual thanks to their survival suits, along with portable damage control equipment of every description crowded into the space near the gig. Paul pushed through until he was close to the gig, where Lieutenant Kilgary and Commander Destin were organizing the rescue effort. 'Lieutenant Sinclair, reporting in.'
Destin nodded absently. Colleen Kilgary gave Paul a quick look, all business. 'Paul, you'll be in charge of Damage Control Team Two.'
'DC Team Two. Roger.'
'I'll be in charge of DC Team One and the overall effort. Have you seen Sonya?'
'No, I-'
Lieutenant Sindh pushed up next to Paul. 'Here. I assume I have command of DC Team Three?'
Kilgary nodded rapidly. 'Right. Commander Destin and I are going to supervise loading everybody and everything into the gig. Try to sort out your people.'
Sindh nodded back. 'I'll move my team toward the aft bulkhead.'
Paul checked his suit display, where a list of names had appeared, then activated the communications circuit designated for his team. 'All personnel in DC Team Two, this is Lieutenant Sinclair. I want you up against the forward bulkhead.' Sailors began moving as Paul's and the other damage control teams started sorting themselves out, the tightly packed crowd breaking into those moving forward, those moving aft, and those trying to reach the center. More quickly than Paul would've expected, the three groups formed up in their designated positions. No horseplay or delaying. Everybody knows the guys on the Maury need us.
Chief Meyer sketched a quick salute. 'Team Two ready, sir.'
'Thanks, Chief.' Meyer's from engineering. Lieutenant Kilgary's division. He ought to be real nice to have along.
'Any idea what things are like over there, sir?'
'Bad.' The sailors in Team Two shifted uneasily at Paul's single word reply. 'I just got a quick visual look, but Maury looked real torn up from just aft of amidships.'
Meyer nodded slowly. 'Engineering spaces.'
Paul felt the hollow space in his gut again. Jen. 'Yes.'
'How torn up, sir?'
'I don't know, Chief. We'll know when we get there.'
'Yes, sir.' Paul watched Chief Meyer stare toward the gig. Engineering's a fairly insular community. Odds are Meyer knows a lot of people in Maury 's engineering department. How many of them are still alive? He shied away from the question, wishing he could somehow banish it from his mind.
Team One shuffled forward as Commander Destin and Lieutenant Kilgary directed them to positions in the gig. Paul brought his own team up behind them, waiting until Kilgary pointed his way. 'Your turn. Make sure your people pack in tight.'
'Aye, aye. Team Two, I want everyone up close and personal in that gig.'
A muttering of acknowledgements followed, along with a few cracks. 'Sir, can I have a window seat?' 'Sir, can I get up close and personal with Petty Officer Velos?'
Velos craned her head to look at whoever had spoken. 'In your dreams, Gino.'
Chief Meyer glared at the sailors. 'Zip it. I don't want nothing else said that ain't mission essential. Understand?' He faced Paul and shrugged. 'They're nervous, Mr. Sinclair.'
'I understand, Chief. Just between you and me, so am I.'
'I guess that makes it unanimous, sir.'
The inside of the gig had never felt expansive to Paul anyway. With thirty-some sailors in survival suits and all the damage control gear they could carry being shoved inside, it felt like a king-sized can of sardines. Paul let Chief Meyer go first, then followed the last of his team in and pushed up against those already in place. Whoever Petty Officer Velos' admirer happened to be, he was probably pretty disappointed at the moment, since the survival suits let you feel nothing but the bare outlines of the shapes you were up against and in the press of bodies any motion with arms or legs was out of the question.
