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In lesser casualties, one of the major purposes of the ship’s clanging alarm was to wake up all the off-watch crewmen to get every hand devoted to fighting the casualty. That was unnecessary in this case; the only men of the ship’s 154 man crew who weren’t awake were unconscious with head injuries. But the clanging alarm did serve the purpose of triggering an automatic response from the well-trained crew, getting systems aligned in the safest possible configuration, and getting every man moving toward the position where he could do the most good. The highest ranking and second highest ranking men on the boat crossed paths without a word to each other leaving their staterooms, the captain on his way to control, the XO on his way toward the sound of rushing water.

• • •

Duggan opened eyes and heard the frantic reports of all three of his watchstanders. No one in maneuvering had noticed that he was knocked out.

“Sir, the electric plant is in a half power line up,” reported Patterson.

“Throttles are still shut,” said Tremain.

The EWS growled a report into maneuvering, but Duggan was processing it all slowly, his vision hazy. He couldn’t keep up.

The engine room watchstanders continued to call in reports. In everyone’s tone was this request: someone please tell us what the fuck is going on. Except for Duggan, the men in maneuvering were all on their feet, facing their panels, cutting out alarms. About one quarter of the electrical control panel was dark; one of the turbine generators had for some reason tripped off. Patterson, without an order, deftly shifted the electric plant into a half power line up, where everything was powered by a single turbine generator. The lights for all the electrical busses again glowed blue. Duggan looked down at the EOOW’s small desk, which was covered in blood. He touched his forehead, felt a large gash. He’d slipped when the boat grounded, slammed his head into the desk, right onto the metal bracket that held the 7MC microphone. Blood streamed down the sides of the desk onto the deck.

Reports continued pouring in, the impact had knocked dozens of things off kilter. Blood ran into his eyes, he wiped it off with the back of hand, felt the slick smear of it against his face. As his eyes focused Duggan saw yellow lights all over maneuvering, warning lights, and a few red alarms: one for the knocked out turbine generator, one for the pressurizer level detector, and one for salinity in the feed system. Every time a watchstander announced one and cut out the alarm, another one would come in. It was almost overwhelming, especially coupled with the chorus of concerned, urgent announcements being made by his team in maneuvering, as they tried to sort out their own problems. And the splitting pain in his skull.

But at the very center of the center panel, reactor power held steady at 50 percent: a lower bell must have been ordered and answered during his unconsciousness. And the electrical plant, while slightly degraded in its half-power line up, was functioning, with all busses energized. The lights were burning and the screw was turning. And Duggan, on his first day as a qualified watchstander, knew that was important enough to pass along.

“Quiet!” he said, his first words in maneuvering since the casualty. The watchstanders silenced immediately, expecting guidance, or orders to prosecute the casualties that beset the engine room. Instead, Duggan grabbed the bloody 7MC microphone in front of him, a direct, amplified link to the control room and the officer of the deck.

“Control, maneuvering….the reactor is critical. The electrical plant is in a half power line up. Ready to answer all bells.”

• • •

Jabo stood at the hatch for an agonizing second, screaming, while the missile tech struggled to open it. Finally it flew open.

The pain in his hand was blinding, unbearable, but it was the sight of his hand that almost made him pass out: his fingers were flattened and dangling uselessly from the first knuckle on. The flattening had made his fingers unnaturally large and floppy and all the blood had been pressed from them; it looked like he was wearing an oversized white glove. Jabo looked away and fought to stay conscious.

“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry sir,” said the missile tech. He had glimpsed Jabo’s mangled hand and was looking away, too, pale and in shock.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Jabo. Hot tears of pain ran down his face. He wanted to move toward the sound of the flooding, but the pain in his hand kept him frozen in place. Another missile tech ran out of MCC with a first aid kit and a roll of gauze. He looked down at Jabo’s flattened hand.

“Oh fuck,” he said. His hands dropped.

“Wrap it up,” said Jabo through gritted teeth. He knew gauze wouldn’t stop the pain, but at least it would make his useless fingers stop flopping around. And it would keep people from staring at the fucking things. “You got any Motrin in that thing?”