Why do US aircraft carriers keep catching fire?

Monday 4 May 2026

The modern aircraft carrier is often described, in the rhetoric of admirals and politicians alike, as a floating sovereign territory – a projection of national will, a mobile airbase, a theatre of power unto herself. Yet, in recent years the United States Navy’s flattops have displayed a more prosaic and disquieting tendency: they burn. Not metaphorically, as symbols of imperial overstretch, but quite literally – in dockyards, at sea, and sometimes for days on end.

The most notorious case remains the destruction of the USS Bonhomme Richard in July 2020, while she lay in port in San Diego. What began as a fire deep within the ship’s lower decks escalated into an inferno that raged for nearly five days, gutting the vessel to such an extent that she was ultimately scrapped. The cost – in excess of three billion dollars – was less shocking than the symbolism. Here was a frontline capital ship, incapacitated not by enemy action but by an uncontrolled blaze in peacetime.

This was not an isolated episode. Fires have afflicted other major vessels, including the USS George Washington during maintenance in 2008, and smaller but still concerning incidents aboard ships such as the USS Wasp. Most recently a fire was reported on the USS Gerald Ford on 12 March 2026. Even when not catastrophic, these events point towards a systemic vulnerability that sits uneasily with the image of technological supremacy.

To understand why these leviathans burn, one must first confront the uncomfortable truth that aircraft carriers are, by their very nature, extraordinarily flammable environments. They carry vast quantities of aviation fuel – often JP-5, a kerosene-based substance stored in immense tanks beneath the flight deck. They are filled with electrical systems, wiring looms, hydraulic fluids, paints, plastics and munitions. They operate aircraft whose engines run at extreme temperatures, whose maintenance requires solvents and whose storage demands meticulous discipline. In short they are floating industrial complexes packed tightly with combustible materials.

Historically navies have understood this danger well. Fires aboard carriers during the Second World War – such as those on the American USS Enterprise and the British HMS Illustrious – were often triggered by enemy attack, yet they revealed the same underlying principle: once a fire takes hold in a carrier, it spreads with alarming speed and ferocity. The difference today is that these incidents occur absent any adversary, suggesting not merely inherent risk but failures in mitigation.

A second factor lies in the increasing complexity of modern warships. Contemporary carriers are not simply larger than their predecessors; they are more intricate by orders of magnitude. Nuclear propulsion systems, advanced radar arrays, integrated combat networks and automated damage control systems all require dense layers of cabling and electronics. Each additional system introduces new failure points – and crucially, new ignition sources. A short circuit in a modern carrier is not a trivial matter; it may occur in proximity to fuel lines or within confined compartments where heat builds rapidly.

Maintenance practices too deserve scrutiny. Many of the most serious fires have occurred while ships were undergoing overhaul or refit. During such periods normal safety protocols are often relaxed or rendered inoperative. Fire suppression systems may be offline. Bulkheads may be open to allow access for workers. Civilian contractors – not always as rigorously trained in naval procedures as the crew – move throughout the ship with welding equipment, cutting tools and other potential ignition sources. The USS Bonhomme Richard fire, according to subsequent investigations, likely began in a lower vehicle storage area where flammable materials had been left unsecured and where early detection failed.

This leads to a third, more disquieting explanation: human factors. The United States Navy, like many Western militaries, has in recent decades struggled with issues of training, retention and operational tempo. Ships are deployed for longer periods. Crews are stretched thin. Experienced sailors leave for civilian employment, taking institutional knowledge with them. In such an environment the meticulous routines required to prevent fires – checking equipment, enforcing storage protocols, maintaining vigilance – may degrade. Firefighting at sea is an art learned through repetition; without constant practice, it becomes a theoretical exercise rather than an instinctive response.

There is also the matter of organisational culture. Investigations into several incidents have revealed lapses in communication and command responsibility. Early warning signs were missed or dismissed. Initial responses were slow or poorly coordinated. On a vessel as vast as a carrier, minutes matter – a small blaze can become uncontrollable before a coherent firefighting effort is mounted. The notion that the world’s most powerful navy might suffer from bureaucratic inertia is uncomfortable, but not implausible.

One must further consider the design philosophy of modern carriers. In the pursuit of efficiency and capability, designers have often prioritised operational performance over compartmentalisation. Earlier warships emphasised the subdivision of internal spaces to contain damage. Modern carriers by contrast require large open areas for aircraft maintenance, storage and movement. These spaces, while essential for flight operations, allow fire to spread laterally with devastating speed. The very features that make carriers effective in projecting air power render them vulnerable to internal catastrophe.

The nuclear dimension adds another layer of complexity. While nuclear reactors themselves are heavily shielded and protected, the presence of such systems imposes additional constraints during firefighting. Crews must balance the imperative to extinguish flames with the need to protect sensitive infrastructure. This can slow response times and complicate decision-making, particularly in the chaotic early stages of an incident.

It would be facile to attribute these fires to a single cause. Rather they emerge from an interplay of structural vulnerability, technological complexity, human error and institutional strain. The United States Navy remains a formidable force, yet these incidents reveal that even the most advanced military organisations are not immune to the mundane hazards of industrial life.

There is finally a geopolitical dimension. Aircraft carriers are not merely weapons; they are symbols. Each fire, each damaged hull, each scrapped vessel sends a signal – to allies, to adversaries, and to domestic audiences. In an era of strategic competition, where perception often rivals reality, the image of burning carriers undermines the narrative of invulnerability that underpins American naval doctrine. It invites questions about resilience, readiness and the sustainability of a fleet that relies upon a small number of extraordinarily expensive platforms.

In Ukraine, where war is fought with drones, artillery and improvisation, the spectacle of a billion-dollar ship destroyed by fire in peacetime carries a particular resonance. It reminds us that vulnerability is universal – that no system, however advanced, can entirely escape the basic laws of physics and human fallibility. Fire, indifferent to rank or flag, remains one of the oldest enemies at sea. And for all the sophistication of modern carriers, it continues to find its way aboard.