Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"So how do you throw this switch?" another shouted out.

"I know the key. So does my chief engineer, Eugene Rochefort, and my construction manager, Manuel Garza."

"What about the captain?"

"It was felt advisable to leave that option in the hands of EES personnel," said Glinn. "It is, after all, our meteorite."

"But it's our bloody ship!"

The murmuring of the crew rose above the sound of the wind and the deep thrum of the engines. McFarlane glanced up at Captain Britton. She was standing behind Glinn, arms at her sides, stony-faced.

"The captain has agreed to this unusual arrangement. We built the dead man's switch, and we know how to operate it. In the unlikely event that it is used, it must be done with great care, with precise timing, by those who are trained for it. Otherwise, the ship could sink with the rock." He looked around. "Any more questions?"

There was a restless silence.

"I realize this is not a normal voyage," Glinn went on. "Some uncertainty — even anxiety — is natural. As with any sea journey, there are risks involved. I told you what we are doing is completely legal. However, I would be deluding you if I said the Chileans would feel the same way. These are the reasons each of you will receive a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus if we are successful."

There was a collective gasp from the crew, and an eruption of talk. Glinn held up his hand and silence again descended.

"If anyone feels uneasy about this expedition, you are free to go. We will arrange passage back to New York, with compensation." He looked pointedly at Lewis, the electrician.

The man stared back, then broke into a broad grin. "You sold me, mate."

"We all have much to do," Glinn said, addressing the group. "If you have anything else to add — or anything else to ask — do so now."

His eyes ranged enquiringly over them. Then, seeing the silence was absolute, he nodded, turned, and made his way back along the catwalk.

Rolvaag,

4:20 P.M.

THE CREW had broken up into small groups, talking quietly among themselves as they began to move back toward their stations. A sudden breeze tugged at McFarlane's windbreaker. As he turned toward the shelter of the ship, he saw Amira. She was standing by the starboard railing, still talking to the group of deckhands. She made some comment, and the small knot around her suddenly erupted into laughter.

McFarlane made his way to the officers' dayroom. Like most of the other ship's compartments he had seen, it was large and expensively, if sparsely, appointed. But it housed one great attraction for him: a coffeepot that was never empty. He poured himself a cup and sipped at it with a contented sigh.

"Some cream with that?" came a woman's voice from behind him. He turned to see Captain Britton. She closed the door to the dayroom, then walked toward him with a smile. The wind had loosened the severe braid of hair beneath her officer's hat, and a few errant strands hung down, framing a long and elegant neck.

"No thanks, I prefer it black." McFarlane watched as Britton helped herself to a cup, adding a single teaspoon of sugar. They sipped together in silence for a moment.

"I have to ask you," McFarlane said, more to make conversation than anything else. "This pot always seems to be full. And it always tastes perfectly fresh. Just how do you achieve that miracle?"

"It's no miracle. The stewards bring a new pot every thirty minutes, needed or not. Forty-eight pots a day." McFarlane shook his head. "Remarkable," he said. "But then, it's a remarkable ship."

Captain Britton took another sip of coffee. "Care for a tour?" she asked.

McFarlane looked at her. Surely the master of the Rolvaag had better things to do. Still, it would be a nice break. Life on board ship had quickly settled into a routine. He took a final swig of coffee and set down the cup. "Sounds great," he said. "I've been wondering what kind of secrets are hiding inside this big old hull."

"Not many secrets," Britton said, opening the door to the dayroom and ushering him out into the wide hallway. "Just lots and lots of places to put oil."

The door to the maindeck opened and the slight figure of Rachel Amira appeared. Seeing them, she paused. Britton gave her a cool nod, then turned away and started down the corridor. As they rounded the corner, McFarlane glanced backward. Amira was still watching them, a smirk on her lips.

Opening a huge set of double doors, Britton led him into the ship's galley. Here, Mr. Singh held sway over stewards, assistant chefs, and banks of gleaming ovens. There were massive walk-in freezers, full of sides of lamb, beef, chickens, ducks, and a row of red-and-white-marbled carcasses McFarlane thought must be goats. "You've got enough to feed an army here," he said.

"Mr. Singh would probably say you scientists eat like one." Britton smiled. "Come on, let's leave him to it."

They passed the billiards room and swimming pool, then descended a level, where Britton showed him the crew's game room and mess. Down another staircase and they arrived at the crew's quarters: large rooms with individual baths, sandwiched between galleries that ran up the port and starboard sides of the ship. They paused at the end of the port passageway. Here, the noise of the engine was noticeably louder. The corridor seemed to stretch forward forever, portholes on the left, cabin doors on the right.

"Everything's built to a giant's scale," McFarlane said. "And it's so empty."

Britton laughed. "Visitors always say that. The fact is, the ship's basically run by computers. We navigate by geophysical satellite data, course is maintained automatically, even collision detection is monitored electronically. Thirty years ago, ship's electrician was a lowly position. Now, electronics specialists are critical."

"It's all very impressive." McFarlane turned toward Britton. "Don't get me wrong, but I've always wondered why Glinn chose a tanker for this job. Why go to the trouble of disguising a tanker as an ore carrier? Why not just get a dry bulk carrier to begin with? Or a big container ship? God knows it would have been cheaper."

"I think I can explain that. Follow me."

Britton opened a door and ushered McFarlane forward. The carpeting and wood veneer gave way to stamped metal and linoleum. They descended yet another set of stairs to a door labeled CARGO CONTROL ROOM. The room beyond was dominated by a vast electronic schematic of the ship's maindeck, mounted on the far bulkhead. Countless small points of light blinked red and yellow across its surface.

"This is the ship's mimic diagram," Britton said, motioning McFarlane toward the schematic. "It's the way we keep track of how and where cargo is loaded. We control the ballast, pumps, and cargo valves directly from the mimic area." She pointed to a series of gauges and switches arrayed beneath the diagram. "These controls regulate the pump pressures."

She led the way across the room, where an officer watched an array of computer screens. "This computer calculates cargo distribution. And these computers are the ship's automatic gauging system. They monitor pressure, volume, and temperature throughout the ship's tanks."

She patted the beige case of the nearest monitor. "This is why Glinn chose a tanker. This meteorite of yours is heavy. Loading it will be exceedingly tricky. With our tanks and computers, we can shift seawater ballast around from tank to tank, maintaining even trim and list no matter what weird lopsided thing goes inside. We can keep everything level. I don't think anybody would be happy if we turned belly-up the moment you drop that thing in the tank."

Britton moved to the far side of the ballast control equipment. "Speaking of the computers, do you have any idea what this is?" She pointed to a tall, freestanding tower of black steel, featureless except for a keyhole and a small logo reading SECURE DATAMETRICS. It looked very different from the rest of the ship's electronics. "Glinn's people installed it back in Elizabeth. There's another, smaller one like it, up on the bridge. None of my officers can figure out what the thing does."