Clint was soaked to the bone. His flightsuit for the fast-rope landing he’d done an infinity ago was not a diver’s dry suit. It wasn’t a wet suit either, though he was certainly soaked enough for it to be.
He, Jerome, and Sly had anchored each other in place and finally managed to replace the broken chain. Then Jerome had worked them around each vehicle until every chain was checked and tightened. Staggering like drunks due to the Tilt-A-Whirl motion of the hovercraft and the battering of the waves, the job had taken them over an hour. By then even Clint’s underwear was a squidgy mess from the cold seawater that had sloshed past his collar and run all down his back.
He and Sly huddled around the heater in the portside cabin. Jerome had gone up to sit in the portside lookout, not that the
