Gala Dinner. My Dress Slipped. "She's Half A Woman At Best." The Table Burst Into Laughter. The Decorated Four-Star Admiral Dropped His Glass And Walked Straight Toward Me. The Room Went Dead Silent. "Babe, Sit Down. He's Coming To Reprimand Her!" The 78-Year-Old War Hero Dropped To One Knee. / Chapter 19 / 50

Chapter 19 - The Reckoning in Deep Water

"Julian, help me set the bypass clamp!" I commanded, dropping to my knees right beside the blistering hot manifold. The heat radiating off the metal scorched the fabric of my uniform, blistering the skin on my wrists, but I didn't pull back an inch.

My titanium prosthetic rested directly against the scalding steel deck. Any human leg would have suffered third-degree burns within seconds, but the alloy held firm, anchoring me against the trembling vibration of the deckplates.

"Hold the clamp steady!" Julian shouted, his muscles straining against the torque bar as he pumped the manual hydraulic lever. "It’s not locking! The release pin is sheared off!"

Steam began spraying from a pinhole fracture in the flange above us, whistling with the deafening fury of a jet engine. The white vapor blasted against the overhead piping, peeling paint instantly and obscuring our vision in a blinding, boiling fog.

"Get out of here, Julian!" I yelled. "Take the crew!"

"I'm not leaving you, Ellie!" he roared back, his face soaked in sweat, his hands blistering as he held the slipping hydraulic jaws in place. "Not then, not now, not ever!"

I looked at the locking mechanism. The automatic latch had failed, just as it had on the *Gallant*. But this time, I wasn't an ambushed junior lieutenant caught unawares.

I unclipped the heavy, solid-titanium shaft of my walking cane.

I jammed the tip of the cane into the mechanical pivot assembly, throwing my entire body weight across the lever.

"Julian, pump it now!"

Julian slammed the hydraulic handle down with everything he had. The titanium cane groaned under ten thousand pounds of lateral pressure, flexing, holding, biting into the brass dogs.

*CLANG-CRACK.*

The mechanical bypass valve slammed open.

With an earth-shaking roar, forty thousand pounds of superheated steam diverted cleanly into the atmospheric vent pipes, shooting out high above the supercarrier's flight deck and erupting into the grey morning sky like the geyser of a mythological titan.

The pressure dials plummeted back into the green.

The compartment fell silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of condensed water and the heavy, ragged breathing of two survivors kneeling in the dark.

Julian slumped back against the bulkhead, his hands shaking, his uniform soaked in sweat and steam water. He looked at me, then down at my cane—bent at a thirty-degree angle, wedged permanently into the brass relief mechanism.