The water through the gap of Cell Fifteen sounded like a collapsing dam.
Twelve knots of roaring Atlantic current tore through the eighty-foot opening between the driven steel cells, scouring the seabed sand into a blinding cloud of brown grit that threatened to undermine the template spuds.
Giles Croft stood on the trembling forward deck of The Hercules, his stopwatch ticking in his palm, his voice cutting through the roar of steam and surf like an iron chisel.
“Slack water in four minutes,” Giles said.
“We have eighteen minutes before the ebb current accelerates.
If we don’t close the circle before the tide turns, the reverse shear will buckle the free-standing sheets like tin foil.”
Beside him, Master Borin Bronze-Lung was signaling wildly to four crane barges anchored in the foam.
“Pick up the gang frame,” Borin bellowed into his horn.
