Cryptonomicon

by Neal Stephenson

Shaftoe tries to get into the spirit of the thing. What’s he going to use to pry a crate open? No crowbars in sight. He exits the cargo hold and strides down a passageway. Monkberg following him closely, hovering, urging him to be hastier: “You’re in a hurry! The Nazis are coming! You have to arm yourself! Think of your wife and kids back in Glasgow or Lubbock or wherever the fuck you’re from!” “Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, sir!” Shaftoe says indignantly. “No, no! Not in real life! In your pretend role as this stranded merchant son of a bitch! Look, Shaftoe! Look! Salvation is at hand!” Shaftoe turns around to see Monkberg pointing at a cabinet marked FIRE. Shaftoe pulls the door open to find, among other implements, one of those giant axes that firemen are always carrying in and out of burning structures. Thirty seconds later, he’s down in the cargo hold, Paul Bunyaning a crate of .45-caliber ammunition. “Faster! More haphazard!” Monkberg shouts. “This isn’t a precise operation, Shaftoe! You are in a blind panic!” Then he says, “Goddamn it!” and runs forward and seizes the ax from Shaftoe’s hands. Monkberg swings wildly, missing the crate entirely as he adjusts to the tremendous weight and length of the implement. Shaftoe hits the deck and rolls to safety. Monkberg finally gets his range and azimuth worked out, and actually makes contact with the crate. Splinters and chips skitter across the deck. “See!” Monkberg says, looking over his shoulder at Shaftoe, “I want splinteriness...