[h2]And The Sea Shall Yield Up….[/h2]

[h3]Part 3[/h3]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/38Y4KSa.jpg[/img]

The galley of the NS Eileen McSorley was intended not only to serve fitting meals to her crew, but to send a message of family bonding and comfort to those who took refuge there.  A series of comfortable tables  were arranged about the room, their deck mounts concealed by the once plush, now wearing deep pile carpet. 
 
The centerpiece of the room was its’ elaborate main dining table.  In the ship’s early days, this table played host to teams of visiting executives and their families. It was the setting for sumptuous banquets served upon its’ inlaid wood top.  Several years back, as the Mick relinquished her flagship status to newer vessels, a layer of polyplex had been slapped down to minimize damage by the crew.  Though the march of time was slowly denuding the room of its’ earlier grandeur, the crew still found comfort and hearty food within the galley’s confines.

Yuri was seated at the main table, next to the Chief Engineer.  Edwards was busily wolfing down a plate of porkchops.  “Daniel, they’re callin’ it,” he dragged a slice through his mashed potatoes and gravy, then scooped the whole mess into his mouth.  “Ain’t nothin,” the Chief’s voice was thick as he waved his fork toward the floor-to-ceiling viewpane.  “Shoulda been here back in ought-nine....Kate?  Now that was a storm.”  To Yuri’s gratitude, his lunch partner finally swallowed the offending morsel.  After following it with a healthy swig of Captain  Bob’s Cola, Edwards resumed his tale.  “Bad, bad storm. Took New Hampton right off the map.  Mick was right in the middle of it,” the old man’s brows lifted.  “I tell you, son, that’n had me holdin’ onto my [i]cho chos.[/i]  This?”  He sent the fork in for another assault.  “Danny-boy’s nothin’ but hot air.  Gonna head north an’ die.  Just a fish storm.”

Yuri nursed his coffee, eyes focused upon the hurricane’s chaos before them.  A wicked sky of black, low hanging clouds swept above. The winds tore across the open deck, fueling waves that now broke among the cargo bay hatches. In the past hour, they’d gone straight from Gale One to Gale Three preparedness, closing watertight doors and instituting rolling damage checks within the hull.  One such investigation revealed a larger stress fracture through which water poured every time the Mick rolled heavily to starboard.  Even as they sat here, Martinez was welding a patch.  “Eleven inches in the bilge, Chief,” Yuri offered.

“I ordered all pumps,” the engineer devoured more pork.  “Conjure we’ll be dry again in a couple hours.  Your reactor happy?”

“Efficieny’s rolling off in these seas.  Three rods down and output is slowing.  I think the roll stress is accelerating breakdown in the mod blocks.”

Edwards nodded.  “We still running at ten knots?”

“Yes, but shipping seas over the port beam isn’t helping.”   As if on cue, a mountain of water slammed into the port side.  The great ship seemed to stagger beneath the blow, her deck hatches nearly obscured by the torrent of violent water, a sight to inspire gasps and whistles from other crew situated about the galley.  “Whew,” the young man exclaimed.  “That was a…”

The loud squawk that blared from both their walkies caused the engineer and his mate to reach for their radios.  “Chief Edwards!”  Chrissy’s voice echoed til both could cut their volumes.  “Chief!  Come in!”

“Edwards here.”

“Looks like we just lost a vent topside.  Took heavy water down the duct. Port forward pump’s offline!”

The Chief’s eyes met Yuri’s.  “Can you…”

“I got it.”

His coffee cup left behind, Yuri made for the stairwell, grabbing each handgrip to swing hastily downward.  Deck by deck he moved, his descent accompanied by the radio chatter.  “Antonov’s on his way,” the Chief responded.  “What’s it looking like, Chrissy?”

“Regular wavebreak,” came the harried response.  “Right down the duct.  Shipping one - two hundred gallons each time.  Waterfall...right onto the pump motor.  It shorted out.”

[i]”La shi,”[/i] the mate cursed under his breath.  “Martinez,” he keyed his mic, “status?”

“Starboard midships...tryna finish this patch!”

Yuri entered the portside raceway, one of two interior corridors that would connect the fore and aft cabins and work areas.  If this were a normal day, he’d have already completed his daily run, four laps of the eight hundred foot passage to get him just over the mile mark.  But today, with the ship rocking under the hurricane force, his stride was more intense.  “Port forward pump!” he barked into his walkie.  “We gotta cap an air duct.   Bring your rig, a four by four sheet of galvanized, and some eighth inch strip.  Double quick.”

“Copy!”

Overhead, the roar of an angry sea echoed through the raceway.  Yuri could feel the blow, sense the Mick as she labored under the added tonnage.  They’d lost one of their four primary pumps.  This struggle had just grown much tougher.

[img]https://i.imgur.com/1tKG9yx.jpg[/img]

……………….to be continued………………..