Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,9
been too smart—especially with her mouth. He liked intelligent women, but he found that he liked them at a distance. Too close, and they were like fire, you got burned by their brilliance. Marian had turned that heat onto him too many times, and she knew all the spots where it would hurt him the most.
Shannon, on the other hand, was not the sharpest knife in the drawer. She wasn’t really stupid, probably about average intelligence; she thought he was a genius, being a scientist and all. Actually, he just missed the cut for genius by an IQ point or two, but he was pretty sure she would never throw that in his face. Nor would she stab him with the pointed question that, if he was so smart, why hadn’t he won a Nobel?
Besides, Shannon knew tricks with her hands and her body that Morrison had never dreamed of doing in nineteen years of marriage to Marian. Her mouth was smart—but in an entirely different way ...
He shifted a bit, suddenly excited by the idea of being home and in bed with Shannon. Easy, big fella, he told himself. It’s a ways yet.
The big ferry blasted its warning horn at a sailboat that ventured too near. Sail craft generally had the right of way over powerboats, all things being equal, but a ferry hauling scores of cars and hundreds of passengers was more equal than a thirty-foot sailboat foolish enough to tack in front of it. A sailor and a retired airline pilot that Morrison knew liked to say, “If you fly your plane into a mountain, you don’t get to blame the mountain.” Nobody had any sympathy for a day sailor who cut in front of a ferry—or plowed into one, which also happened from time to time.
Morrison opened the Dodge’s door and stepped out. The van was six years old, but a Dodge, so it was good for years if he took care of it. Not that he intended to keep it that long. Pretty soon, he’d be able to buy a new car. A fleet of new cars, if he wanted, with a ship upon which to transport the fleet, and a navy to escort it, if he so wished.
He smiled at the thought.
The air had that salty, seaweed tang to it, and even though it was early and there was the passage wind blowing, the day was already warm, and promised to be hot before it was done.
He worked his way across the hard rubber gratings toward the railing—he was parked forward and on the deck under the sky, outside of the superstructure enclosure where all the foot passengers rode.
Gulls flew past. It was a great morning.
Of course it was a great morning. The test had gone so well he couldn’t believe it. The Chinese had clamped down on it fast, squelching the incident into official silence deeper than that in a tomb, so there hadn’t been any reports in the media, even in China. Maybe especially in China.
Morrison had his sources, though, and he found out quickly enough. The test had replicated the experiments with animals even better than anticipated. Well within the cutoff that separated “chronic” from “acute.” It might not work on a battlefield with shifting troops, but the device would definitely work on a permanent settlement.
He’d known that it would. Well, to be absolutely honest, he had been almost certain. There was always the worry about field testing versus the lab. One never got over that. It took only a few failures to keep that anxiety alive forever, rather like Frankenstein’s monster, shambling around in the dark looking for a friend.
Failure, unfortunately, had no friends. Which was how Dr. Patrick Reilly Morrison, with his Ph.D. in physics from MIT, had come to be involved with the project in the first place. He’d had a spectacular failure in his extremely low frequency experiments involving chimpanzees, and he’d lost his grant and funding big-time and damned fast. It was as if he had developed a sudden case of pneumonic plague—the first sneeze, and every professional contact he knew scattered as if they were parts of a bomb—ka-blamm!—leaving him stinking of smoke and failure and very much alone. No rat leaving a sinking ship had ever moved as fast as his grad students and research assistants had bailed on him, bastards and bitches, each and every one of them ...
He smiled at his own bitterness. Well, it really was an ill wind that blew