The Storm

CHAPTER 27

PAUL TROUT HEARD THE ALARMS AND RACED DOWN THE hall until he reached the makeshift lab. Marchetti was on the intercom in a rapid-fire discussion with his chief of engineering. Gamay stood next to him with a concerned look on her face.

“Fire,” she said.

“I figured that,” Paul replied.

He began to smell smoke and the distinctive odor of diesel fuel burning. “Engine room?”

She nodded.

Marchetti asked into the microphone. “Can you get the robots back online?”

“They’re not responding.”

“What about the fire-suppression system?”

“Also not responding.”

Marchetti looked ill. “Keep working on it,” he said, pressing the intercom button again. “We’ll have to fight it by hand. Have Kostis and Cristatos meet me there. Have the others stand by.”

Marchetti looked over to Paul and Gamay. “Either of you have firefighting experience?”

“I do,” Paul said. “I’ll go with you.”

Now Gamay looked ill. “Paul, please,” she said.

“I’ll be okay,” he replied. “I’ve had plenty of training. Get yourself to somewhere safe.”

“The control room,” Marchetti said. “My chief is there.”

Gamay nodded. “Be careful.”

Paul raced out the door with Marchetti and they took a stairwell down toward the main deck. From there a second stairwell took them into the hull and then along a hall that led to the engine room. The smoke thickened as they neared the aft end of the island.

“This is the fire station,” Marchetti said, reaching a storage area with several tall doors.

They were fifty feet from the engine room. The smell of fuel was sickening, and the heat of the fire could be felt and heard.

Marchetti opened the panel marked fire. Inside on pegs were bright yellow firefighting suits made of Nomex and accented with reflective stripes of orange. On a shelf above each suit, the familiar air tanks and masks rested. Each SCBA, or Self-Contained Breathing Apparatus, included a fire- and heat-resistant mask with an integrated regulator, a communications system and a heads-up display. A harness supported flashlights and other tools, along with low-pressure air cylinders that would mount on men’s backs.

Marchetti grabbed a fire suit, Paul did also. As they pulled them on, Kostis and Cristatos arrived and did the same.

Pulling his mask into place, Paul opened the regulator valve. He gave a thumbs-up. The air was good.

Marchetti reached over and flicked a switch on the side of Paul’s mask. Paul heard static for a second and then the sound of Marchetti’s voice came through headphones.

“Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Paul said.

“Good. The respirators are equipped with radios.”

Paul was ready. The two crewmen were almost ready. Marchetti moved to the stanchion on the wall and began unfurling the hose.

Paul slotted in behind him, and they began to move forward.

As they approached the open bulkhead door to the engine room, Paul asked, “What’s the plan?”

“While the chief tries to get the robots back online, we do the best we can to fight the fire.”

“Why not just seal it off?”

“One of my men is in there,” Marchetti said.

Paul took a look at the burning engine room. He could barely imagine anyone surviving what was fast becoming a conflagration, but if there was a chance, they had to search.

“Is there anywhere he could shelter?”

“There’s a small office near the back of the engine room, a control room. If he was in there when it started, he might be alive.”

Two lines were now laid out. The hose Paul and Marchetti held and a second one for Kostis and Cristatos.

“Open the tap,” Marchetti shouted.

One of the crewman turned the valve, and the hoses came to life as they swelled with water. Marchetti opened the nozzle, and the high-pressure stream burst forth like a jet. Even with Marchetti also holding tight, Paul felt himself fighting the recoil.

He tightened his grip and flexed his knees, pushing forward as he and Marchetti forced their way into the engine room.

Passing the bulkhead felt like crossing the threshold into hell. Black smoke swirled around him so dark and thick that at times all he could see of Marchetti was the beacon on his respirator. Waves of heat baked him through the Nomex suit, and his eyes stung from smoke seeping beneath the seal of the mask. Here and there orange flames cut through the dark. They raced up and down and around, occasionally shooting over the top of the men like demons dancing to perdition. A series of small explosions shook the room from its farthest recesses.

Marchetti sprayed the water back and forth and adjusted the nozzle to widen the pattern. The second hose was brought in by Marchetti’s crewmen. Attacking with the two jets of water, they fanned the blaze, adding waves of superheated steam to the cauldron.

“Can you see the source?” Marchetti asked.

“No,” Paul said, trying to peer through the smoke.

“In that case, we have to move forward.”

Until now, Marchetti had seemed weak to Paul, sort of a bumbler, but he admired the man’s guts in defending his island and fighting for his crewman’s life.

“Over here!” the lead man on the other hose shouted.

Paul turned to see them laying down a wave of suppressing water, clearing a path for Marchetti and him to move through.

Paul steeled himself and moved in unison with Marchetti as they pressed into the heart of the conflagration.

By now Paul could feel the heat from the deck like he was standing on top of glowing lava rocks. A new wave of fire spewed to the left of them, and a blast knocked Marchetti to the ground.

Paul pulled him back up. “This is no good!” Paul shouted. “We have to get back.”

“I told you, one of my men is down here!”

Another small explosion buffeted them, and a wall of flame rose up, only to be forced back by the water from the two hoses.

The engine room was three stories tall, four times that in length and filled with equipment pipes, hoses and catwalks. The flames were reaching the roof in places, everything was obscured. If they weren’t losing the battle, it was at least a stalemate.

“We have to flood the compartment,” Paul said. “It’s the only way.”

“We tried,” Marchetti said. “The fire-suppression system is not responding. It should have kicked on at one hundred and seventy-five degrees but didn’t. We tried to trigger it from the bridge but nothing happened.”

“There has to be an override,” Paul said, “a manual trigger down here somewhere.”

Marchetti began looking around. “There are four,” he said. “The closest should be that way. By the generator stack.”

“We need to activate it.”

Marchetti hesitated. “The doors will auto-seal as soon as we trigger it,” he explained. “Whoever does it will be trapped inside.”

“How long?”

“Until the fire goes out and the temperature drops.”

“Then let’s not waste any more time.”

Marchetti looked back down the mangled path that led to the possible safe haven of the office. The walkway was twisted and bent as if an explosion had gone off halfway across. Flames and smoke and boiling water dropping from above made it obvious: there was no way they were going to fight through that.

“Okay,” he shouted, turning toward the far wall. “This way.”