The roar of escaping slurry shook the granite foundation under Julian Vance’s boots.
A blinding geyser of white pulp screamed twenty feet into the Atlantic gale, venting from the sheared four-inch relief port.
“Watch the spray from that relief port!” Mac Cole shouted, raising his heavy brass prosthetic forearm to shield his eyes.
“The slurry is pressurized to nearly five hundred pounds per square inch!” Mac warned.
“The mist is saturated with powdered gypsum and hot resin!” Lin Mei called out, her face pale behind her respirator.
“If that slurry hits your eyes, it will blind you in five seconds!” Lin Mei cautioned.
The bitter smell of wet gypsum and burnt collagen rolled across the causeway abutment like chemical smoke.
Beneath their boots, the granite blocks shuddered with every violent surge of the open moon pool across the channel.
