Page 87 of The Admiral's Daughter

“Let’s go,” I shout. She doesn’t waste time with questions but follows along behind me. I take us to the bridge, because if there’s one place she’ll be safe it’s with the captain.

“Captain,” I call, snagging the attention of everyone within hearing range. “I think it’s best if Ms Carter remains here with you. I need to get to the propulsion room.”

Captain Morley nods at me and beckons Cleo over to her. I want to grab her hand and pull her close. Whisper in her ear that everything will be just fine, but we have to settle with a quick glance.

Cleo catches my eye, and I raise my eyebrows slightly—our signal for “I’ve got this, don’t worry.” She rolls her eyes at me, the tiniest smile playing at her lips, and mouths, “Go.”

I grin despite the chaos and turn on my heel to race to the propulsion room.

I can see smoke billowing from the entry hatch before I even reach it. The heat hits me like a wall, and I have to squint against the brightness of the flames. The electrical unit is completely engulfed, sparks flying everywhere as the fire consumes the wiring.

The alarm is still blaring, adding to the chaos. My ears are ringing. My heart is pounding. The smell of burning electronics and melting plastic fills my nostrils, making my eyes water even behind my protective gear.

This is bad. This is really bad.

“Status!” I shout to the team.

“Pressure’s holding on the main line,” Kit calls back, her voice muffled by her breathing apparatus, “but we need to get that secondary unit offline or it’ll spread to the port shaft.”

Fuck. If both shafts go down we’re dead in the water.

“Right, listen up!” I shout. “Kit, you take the main line and keep the pressure steady. Boot, get that secondary unit offline—now. Cheddar, I need you on the CO2 line. We’re going to smother this bastard before it spreads.”

Everyone moves without hesitation. We’ve drilled this scenario a hundred times, but it never feels real until you’re standing in front of an actual fire.

Kit positions herself at the main valve, her movements precise and practiced. Boot scrambles toward the electrical panel, sweat already pouring down her face. Cheddar readies the foam dispenser, her jaw set with concentration.

I grab the secondary hose and move closer to the flames. The heat is intense, almost unbearable even through my protective gear. My gloves are already slick with sweat.

“CO2, now!” I shout.

Cheddar releases the gas, and it cascades over the flames. The fire dims as it suffocates, but it doesn’t go out. Not yet.

“Again!” I yell.

Another wave of CO2. The flames are smaller now, but still burning. My arms ache as I angle the hose, trying to reach the heart of the fire.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.

We’re making progress. The flames are smaller, more manageable. But then the electrical unit sparks violently, and a shower of sparks rains down on us.

“Shit!” Boot yells, jumping back as a spark hits her shoulder.

“Everyone back!” I shout. “Get clear!”

We all scramble backward, giving the fire more space. My mind is racing. If the unit explodes, the whole propulsion room could go up. We could lose both shafts. We could lose the ship.

We could lose everything.

“Secondary line, now!” I command. “We need to cool that unit down before it ruptures.”

Kit and Cheddar move in sync, their movements practiced and precise. The secondary line activates, and a cloud of gas hits the electrical unit. The temperature drops, the sparks stop, and finally—finally—the flames begin to die.

Five more minutes of steady pressure, and the fire is out.

My legs feel like jelly. My hands are shaking. But we did it. We actually did it.

There will be an investigation, and we’ll have to do a full sweep of the ship to make sure there are no other problems, but at least we’re out of the woods for now.