The sum of all fears - Tom Clancy [271]
"Will do." Pete told the empty doorway.
"Speed fifteen point eight." the helmsman reported.
"Very well." Both officers settled back down and sipped at their coffee. It wasn't really frightening, just somewhat exciting, and the moonlit spray flying off the bow was actually rather beautiful to see. The First Officer looked down at the deck. It took a moment for him to realize.
"Hit the lights."
"What's the problem?" The Second Officer moved two steps to the panel and flipped on the deck floods.
"Well, we still have one of them."
"One of -" the junior officer looked down. "Oh. The other three "
The First Officer shook his head. How could you describe the power of mere water? That's strong chain, too, the wave snapped it like yarn. Impressive.
The Second Officer picked up the phone and punched a button. "Bosun, our deck cargo just got swept over the side. I need a damage check on the front of the superstructure." He didn't have to say that the check should be done from inside the structure.
An hour later, it was clear that they'd been lucky. The single strike from the deck cargo had landed right on a portion of the superstructure backed by sturdy steel beams. Damage was minor, some welding and painting to be done. That didn't change the fact that someone would have to cut down a new tree. Three of the four logs were gone, and that Japanese temple would have to wait.
The three logs, still chained together, were already well aft of the George M. They were still green, and started soaking up sea water, making them heavier still.
Cathy Ryan watched her husband's car pull out of the driveway. She was now past the stage of feeling bad for him. Now she was hurt. He wouldn't talk about it - that is, he didn't try to explain himself, didn't apologize, tried to pretend that what? And then part of the time he said he didn't feel well, was too tired. Cathy wanted to talk it over, but didn't know how to begin. The male ego was a fragile thing, Dr Caroline Ryan knew, and this had to be its most fragile spot. It had to be a combination of stress and fatigue and booze. Jack wasn't a machine. He was wearing down. She'd seen the symptoms months earlier. As much the commute as anything else. Two and a half, sometimes three hours every day in the car. The fact that he had a driver was something, but not much. Three more hours a day that he was away, thinking, working, not home where he belonged.
Am I helping or hurting? she asked herself. Is part of it my fault?
Cathy walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Okay, she wasn't a pink-cheeked kid anymore. There were worry lines around her mouth and squint lines around her eyes. She should have her spectacle prescription looked at. She was starting to get headaches during procedures, and she knew it could be a problem with her eyes - she was, after all, an ophthalmic surgeon - but like everyone else she was short of time and was putting off having her eyes looked at by another member of the Wilmer Eye Institute staff. Which was pretty dumb, she admitted to herself. She still had rather pretty eyes. At least the color didn't change, even though their refractive error might suffer from all the close work that her job mandated.
She was still quite slim. Wouldn't hurt to sweat off three or four pounds - better yet, to transfer that weight into her breasts. She was a small-breasted woman from a small-breasted family in a world that rewarded women for having udders to rival Elsie the Borden cow. Her usual joke that bust size was inversely proportional to brain size was a defense mechanism. She craved larger ones as a man always wanted a larger penis, but God or the gene pool had not chosen to give her those, and she would not submit to the vain ignominy of surgery - besides which she didn't like the numbers on that kind of surgery. Too many silicon implant