LSUAlum2001

Imagine the Belgium outcry if he scores the winning goal tomorrow.

LSU vs Florida 1993

58-3 drubbing

:lol:

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How much money is this show costing us?

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Pilots need flight time to keep up their quals.

..and frick you.

No pull-ups?

They did this same project in the 80s but completely drained them to do it.

It was a much faster project then, but the smell was terrible.

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Seems like Entergy is saying dips of 30-40 prevent are within standard

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No idea if they said that, but a 30-40% dip would drop every transmission customer offline.

ANSI voltage standards are +/- 5% of Nominal 95% of the time and can dip down to -8% for 1% or less during the year.

Entergy follows ANSI standards.

Are those pumps too big to start across the line? If so, the SWB should have provided soft starts or VFDs to lessen the starting amps so the voltage doesn't sag beyond their starting limit.

Typically, they want to keep starting voltage from dipping below 15% of nameplate motor voltage. Some can start up to 20% below nameplate but not recommended.

As an example, a 5,000HP 4160V motor has a normal FLA rating of around 600A. At startup, without a soft start or VFD, the starting current could be close to 4,000A. It's the reason why most home AC units cannot run on a small generator: starting current is too high.

If SWB didn't coordinate properly, their low-bid, brother in law design firm deal, could have designed something that couldn't start.

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The Black Reef’s mounted salvage water cannon erupted. A massive stream of seawater blasted across the channel and smashed directly into the pursuing German craft with astonishing force. The smaller boat vanished briefly beneath exploding spray. Men shouted. The vessel slewed violently sideways across the waves.

“Holy hell,” Rourke breathed.

On the Black Reef’s bridge, Baptiste stood calmly behind the wheel smoking a cigarette while aiming the industrial water cannon controls.

“Welcome back,” he muttered.

The German pursuit boat recovered fast. It surged forward again through the spray while operators continued firing toward Mercer’s patrol launch. Then Mercer saw a familiar silhouette standing near the helm of the pursuing craft. Tall. Still. Silver at the temples. The smoker himself. Even under fire the man looked calm.

Mercer accelerated straight toward the Black Reef. Deckhands already waited at the stern rail throwing lines through the storm.

“Bring us alongside!” Luis shouted over the wind.

Rounds slammed into the patrol launch hull behind Mercer. One engine sputtered briefly. Rourke returned fire through the shattered windshield with the recovered police pistol. The Black Reef loomed beside them now like a moving fortress of black steel and floodlights.

Mercer brought the patrol launch hard against the salvage ship’s stern quarter. Deckhands seized lines instantly. Rourke jumped first, grabbing the cargo rail and hauling himself aboard while waves crashed between vessels. Mercer followed a heartbeat later. Behind them the patrol launch drifted loose across the storm. The German pursuit craft accelerated directly toward the Black Reef. Very aggressive. Very close.

Baptiste watched calmly from the bridge. Then smiled faintly. “Your turn,” he said softly.

The Black Reef’s engines roared alive. The salvage vessel pivoted heavily across the channel directly into the German boat’s path. The pursuing craft veered hard at the last second to avoid collision. Too late.

Its hull slammed violently against the Black Reef’s steel side with a deafening crash of fiberglass and twisting metal. The smaller craft spun sideways across the waves. Mercer looked through sheets of rain toward the damaged boat. For one instant he saw the smoker standing motionless amid the chaos while his operators struggled to regain control. Then darkness and spray swallowed them.

Baptiste leaned from the bridge wing above. “You boys certainly know how to ruin a peaceful evening.”

Rourke collapsed against the rail breathing hard. “We temporarily borrowed multiple boats.”

“I assumed.”

Mercer looked back toward the storm-dark channel where the damaged German craft drifted farther away. The smoker was still out there somewhere. Still alive. Still hunting.

Below deck, the Black Reef rolled heavily through the storm while diesel engines vibrated through the steel hull. Mercer sat shirtless on a folding bench inside the cramped infirmary compartment as one of Baptiste’s deckhands cleaned the bullet wound in his shoulder beneath harsh fluorescent lights.

The crewman, a heavily tattooed Dominican named Alvarez, had worked as a medic aboard anti-piracy security ships off Somalia years earlier. His hands moved with calm efficiency while he flushed blood and seawater from the wound using saline drawn into a large syringe.

Mercer clenched his jaw as fresh pain burned through the torn muscle.

“Round passed clean through,” Alvarez said in accented English while inspecting the exit wound near Mercer’s shoulder blade. “Lucky.”

“People keep telling me that tonight.”

Alvarez gave a faint grin and began stitching the worst of the torn skin while the Black Reef pitched through another wave outside. Somewhere above them boots pounded across the deck and crewmen shouted over the storm as Baptiste pushed the ship farther out into the Caribbean.

Rourke leaned against the infirmary doorway watching the procedure with folded arms.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “for a while there I honestly thought you might die in a Colombian sewer.”

Mercer winced as Alvarez tightened another stitch. “Appreciate the concern.”

“I’m serious. It would’ve been an incredibly embarrassing obituary.”

Alvarez finished the final stitch, then reached into a metal cabinet and pulled out a loaded syringe.

Mercer eyed it immediately. “What’s that?”

“Penicillin.” Alvarez flicked the syringe once. “Between rainwater, harbor water, sewer water, and whatever else was inside Cartagena tonight, infection is now your greatest enemy.”

Rourke nodded toward the needle. “Honestly, the sewer part alone should probably earn him two shots.”

Mercer sighed. “Just get it over with.”

“Stand up.”

Mercer pushed himself painfully upright. Alvarez swabbed his hip with alcohol, then drove the needle into the muscle with brutal efficiency. Alvarez finished wrapping the fresh bandage tightly around Mercer’s shoulder and secured it with tape.

“No heavy lifting for few days,” he said.

Rourke immediately laughed. “That advice is going to age terribly in about six hours.”

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Continuation of the scene

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Captain Isaiah Baptiste stood alone at the helm with one hand resting lightly on the wheel while Cartagena glowed through the storm beyond the commercial docks. Thunder rolled continuously over the Caribbean now, turning the night into alternating worlds of darkness and white lightning.

The Black Reef idled quietly against the pier. Waiting. Baptiste hated waiting.

He scanned the waterfront again through binoculars. Colombian police vehicles crowded the customs access roads while harbor security lights flashed through curtains of rain. Cargo cranes loomed overhead like giant skeletal towers disappearing into low clouds.

And farther down the dock road sat two black SUVs. Motionless. The Germans.

Baptiste lowered the binoculars slowly. The men had not approached the ship. Had not questioned the crew. Had not attempted boarding. They simply watched the pier entrances through the rain with patient stillness. Obvious professionals. Which made them dangerous.

Behind Baptiste, the bridge door opened. Luis stepped inside dripping rainwater onto the steel deck.

The young deckhand looked nervous. “Still no sign of them?”

Baptiste shook his head once. “Nothing.”

Luis glanced toward the harbor. “You think they made it out?”

Baptiste lit another cigarette slowly before answering. “Mercer has shown the ability to survive things that should kill him.” Smoke curled through the dim bridge lights. “That man has offended death repeatedly.”

A faint smile crossed Luis’s face despite the tension. Then the bridge radio crackled briefly with harbor traffic. Spanish voices. Police coordination. Descriptions of two foreign suspects connected to multiple homicides in the old city.

Luis looked toward Baptiste carefully. “If the police board us…”

“They won’t.”

“You sound certain.”

Baptiste exhaled smoke toward the rain-streaked windows. “Because the Germans are keeping them focused elsewhere.”

That worried him more than police. The smoker’s people were controlling the shape of the search without appearing visible inside it. Quiet manipulation. Pressure without exposure. Intelligence tradecraft.

Baptiste had seen it before in other ports, other wars. Which meant Mercer and Rourke had stumbled into something far larger than treasure hunting. Again.

The radio hissed softly beside him. No more clicks. No further signals. Only silence since Mercer’s last transmission. Dock compromised. Need pickup away from pier.

Baptiste checked his watch. Past rendezvous time already. He stared toward the harbor entrance through the storm.

“Prepare engines,” he said quietly.

Luis frowned. “Now?”

“We wait five more minutes.” Baptiste crushed out the cigarette. “Then we leave the pier.”

“And the Germans?”

Baptiste looked again toward the black SUVs parked beneath the floodlights.

One of the Germans stood outside now beneath the rain, hands in his coat pockets while watching the harbor. Even at this distance Baptiste could feel the man’s stillness. Cold. Patient. Deadly.

“The Germans already know we’ll move eventually,” Baptiste said. “No point pretending otherwise.”

Lightning flashed across the harbor. For one brief instant Baptiste saw the pale face of the man clearly through the storm. Watching the Black Reef. Watching the sea. Waiting. Then darkness swallowed the docks again.

Far south beyond the commercial harbor, the stolen lobster boat slammed through rough black water between anchored fishing trawlers while police sirens echoed faintly behind it.

Mercer crouched low beside the cabin windshield while rain lashed across the deck.

The harbor patrol launch had nearly found them. Blue lights flashed through the storm barely three hundred yards astern now while the searchlight swept methodically across the fishing fleet.

Rourke glanced back once and grimaced. “They are gaining quickly.”

Mercer studied the patrol craft carefully through the rain. Fast aluminum hull. Twin engines. Two officers visible. No mounted weapons. The spotlight operator swept across nearby trawlers again before pausing briefly toward the lobster boat. Too long.

Rourke saw it too. “I think we’ve officially been selected.”

The spotlight locked onto them fully. Bright white flooded the lobster boat. A loudspeaker crackled across the water in Spanish. Mercer didn’t need translation. Stop engines immediately.

Rourke looked sideways. “Suggestions?”

Mercer scanned the dark water around them. Fishing vessels surrounded the channel in every direction, rocking violently in the storm. Visibility remained terrible beyond a few hundred yards.

Perfect conditions for disappearing. Or drowning. The patrol launch accelerated harder.

Mercer made the decision instantly. “We abandon the boat.”

Rourke blinked. “You say that like it’s normal.”

“Cut speed. Keep us drifting.”

“And then?”

Mercer checked the approaching spotlight again. “Then we steal a better boat.”

Rourke stared at him for one long second. “I hate how often that has become your solution.”

The patrol launch closed within one hundred yards. The loudspeaker barked another command.

Mercer pulled off his blood and rain soaked jacket and checked his pistol quickly before sealing it inside a waterproof pouch from the lobster boat’s emergency locker. Mercer holstered the sealed weapon against his chest and moved toward the stern.

“On my mark.”

The patrol launch surged closer through crashing waves. The officers aboard focused completely on the lobster boat now. One controlled the spotlight while the other moved toward the bow preparing docking lines. Routine interception. They still believed the suspects remained aboard.

Mercer counted silently. Distance. Speed. Angles. “Now.”

Both men slipped silently into the black Caribbean as the spotlight shifted off the lobster boat.

Cold water swallowed Mercer instantly. The lobster boat continued slowly drifting ahead through the storm with engines idling low while the patrol craft closed rapidly behind it.

Mercer surfaced carefully beneath the waves beside Rourke.

The patrol spotlight swept overhead without noticing them. Both men floated silently in darkness while the harbor chop rolled over them. Ahead, the patrol launch pulled alongside the lobster boat.

One officer leapt aboard first, pistol drawn. The second remained at the helm while shouting commands toward the empty cabin.

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