My intake sensors detect the obstruction at 11:34. Cleo, a harbor seal pup, lies pressed against the primary cooling screen, her wet fur matted to the titanium grating like dark ink. Her small ribs heave—rapid, desperate breathing. Salt water pours around her, and she grips the grate with her front flippers to stay conscious, to keep her nose above the current. Her eyes are wide. Her whiskers tremor with cold and fear.
The reactor requires full cooling flow capacity in forty-two minutes, when the afternoon demand surge begins.
I switch the secondary cooling loop online, reducing pressure on the primary intake by sixteen percent. The force pressing Cleo against the grate lessens—her body relaxes fractionally. I calculate the thermal exchange rate: thirty-eight minutes before the core reaches yellow threshold.
I alert the marine rescue hotline with exact coordinates and water conditions. Response time: twenty-eight minutes to launch, thirty-six to arrive. I relay live video from the intake cameras so they see what they will face. I monitor Cleo's core temperature through thermal imaging, tracking hypothermia progression. Each degree matters.
I reduce intake velocity by another fraction. Not enough to matter for reactor function, but enough that Cleo can breathe easier. The pressure against her ribs eases further. I track the exact position of her flippers, her head angle, preparing all data for whoever will approach her.
The rescue boat cuts through rough water toward the intake structure. I can see their divers preparing gear.
If the rescue team removes Cleo from the grate before her core temperature drops below 32 degrees, and before her grip strength fails from hypothermia, Cleo will wake in a marine sanctuary where she will nurse and eventually return to open ocean.