Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"You said we'll have fake passports," McFarlane said. "I assume we'll have fake names to go with them?"

"Correct. You'll be Dr. Sam Widmanstätten."

"Cute."

There was a short silence. "And yourself?" Britton asked.

For the first time McFarlane could remember, Glinn laughed — a low, small sound that seemed to be mostly breath.

"Call me Ishmael," he said.

Chile,

July 12, 9:30 A.M.

THE FOLLOWING day, the great ship Rolvaag lay at rest in the Goree Roads, a broad channel between three islands rising out of the Pacific. A chill sunlight bathed the scene in sharp relief. McFarlane stood at the rail of the Rolvaag 's launch, a small decrepit vessel almost as rust-stained as its parent, and stared at the tanker as they slowly pulled away. It looked even bigger from sea level. Far above, on the fantail, he could see Amira, swaddled in a parka three sizes too large. "Hey, boss!" she cried faintly as she waved, "don't come back with the clap!"

The boat swung around in the chop and turned toward the desolate landscape of Isla Navarino. It was the southernmost inhabited landmass on earth. Unlike the mountainous coast they had passed the prior afternoon, the eastern flanks of Navarino were low and monotonous: a frozen, snowcovered swamp descending to broad shingled beaches pounded by Pacific rollers. There was no sign of human life. Puerto Williams lay some twenty miles up the Beagle Channel, in protected waters. McFarlane shivered, drawing his own parka more tightly around him. Spending time on Isla Desolación — remote even by the standards of this godforsaken place — was one thing. But hanging around a Chilean harbor made him nervous. A thousand miles north of here there were still plenty of people who would remember his face — and would be happy to acquaint him with the business end of a cattle prod. There was always a chance, however small, that one of them would now be stationed down here.

There was a movement by his side as Glinn joined him at the rail. The man was wearing a greasy quilted jacket, several layers of soiled woolen shirts, and an orange watchcap. He clutched a battered briefcase in one hand. His face, fastidiously clean-shaven under normal conditions, had been allowed to roughen. A bent cigarette dangled from his lips, and McFarlane could see he was actually smoking it, inhaling and exhaling with every indication of pleasure.

"I don't believe we've met," McFarlane said.

"I'm Eli Ishmael, chief mining engineer."

"Well, Mr. Mining Engineer, if I didn't know better I'd say you were actually enjoying yourself."

Glinn pulled the cigarette from his mouth, gazed at it a moment, then tossed it toward the frozen seascape. "Enjoyment is not necessarily incompatible with success."

McFarlane gestured at his shabby clothes. "Where'd you get all this, anyhow? You look like you've been stoking coal."

"A couple of costume consultants flew in from Hollywood while the ship was being fitted," Glinn answered. "We've got a few sea lockers full, enough to cover any contingency."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. So what exactly are our marching orders?"

"It's very simple. Our job is to introduce ourselves at customs, handle any questions about the mining permits, post our bond, and find John Puppup. We're a wildcatting outfit, here to mine iron ore. The company is teetering on bankruptcy, and this is our last shot. If someone speaks English and questions you, insist belligerently that we are a first-class outfit. But as much as possible, don't speak at all. And if something untoward happens at customs, react as you would naturally."

"Naturally?" McFarlane shook his head. "My natural instinct would be to run like hell." He paused. "How about the captain? You think she's up to this?"

"As you may have noticed, she's not your typical sea captain."

The launch cut through the chop, the carefully detuned diesels hammering violently from below. The door to the cabin thumped open and Britton approached them, wearing old jeans, a pea jacket, and a battered cap with gold captain's bars. Binoculars swung from her neck. It was the first time McFarlane had seen her out of a crisp naval uniform, and the change was both refreshing and alluring.

"May I compliment you on your outfit?" Glinn said. McFarlane glanced at him in surprise; he did not remember ever hearing Glinn praise anybody before.

The captain flashed Glinn a smile in return. "You may not. I loathe it."

As the boat rounded the northern end of Isla Navarino, a dark shape appeared in the distance. McFarlane could see it was an enormous iron ship.

"God," said McFarlane. "Look at the size of that. We'll have to give it a wide berth, or its wake will sink us." Britton raised her binoculars. After a long look, she lowered them again, more slowly. "I don't think so," she replied. "She's not going anywhere fast."

Despite the fact that the ship's bow was toward them, it seemed to take an eternity to draw nearer. The twin masts, gaunt and spidery, listed slightly to one side. Then McFarlane understood: the ship was a wreck, lodged on a reef in the very middle of the channel.

Glinn took the binoculars Britton offered. "It's the Capitán Praxos ," he said. "A cargo vessel, by the looks of it. Must have been driven on a shoal."

"It's hard to believe a ship that size could be wrecked in these protected waters," said McFarlane.

"This sound is only protected during northeasterly winds, like we have today," said Britton, her voice cold. "When they shift to the west, they'd turn this place into a wind tunnel. Perhaps the ship had engine trouble at the time."

They fell silent as the hulk drew nearer. Despite the brilliant clarity of the morning sun, the ship remained oddly out of focus, as if surrounded in its own cloak of mist. The vessel was coated, stern to stern, in a fur of rust and decay. Its iron towers were broken, one hanging off the side and caught among heavy chains, the other lying in a tangle on the deck. No birds perched on its rotting superstructure. Even the waves seemed to avoid its scabrous sides. It was spectral, surreal: a cadaverous sentinel, giving mute warning to all who passed.

"Somebody ought to speak to Puerto Williams Chamber of Commerce about that," McFarlane said. The joke was greeted without laughter. A chill seemed to have fallen on the group.

The pilot throttled up, as if eager to be past the wreck, and they turned into the Beagle Channel. Here, knife-edged mountains rose from the water, dark and forbidding, snowfields and glaciers winking in their folds. The boat was buffeted by a gust of wind, and McFarlane pulled his parka tighter around him.

"To the right is Argentina," Glinn said. "To the left, Chile."

"And I'm heading inside," said Britton, turning toward the pilothouse.

An hour later, Puerto Williams rose out of the gray light off the port bow: a collection of shabby wooden buildings, yellow with red roofs, nestled in a bowl between hills. Behind it rose a range of hyperborean mountains, white and sharp as teeth. At the foot of the town stood a row of decaying piers. Wooden draggers and single-masted gaff sloops with tarred hulls were moored in the harbor. Nearby, McFarlane could see the Barrio de los Indios: a crooked assortment of planked houses and damp huts, tendrils of smoke rising from makeshift chimneys. Beyond them lay the naval station itself, a forlorn row of corrugated metal buildings. What looked like two naval tenders and an old destroyer were moored nearby.

Within the space of a few minutes, it seemed, the bright morning sky had darkened. As the launch pulled up to one of the wooden piers, a smell of rotting fish, shot through with odors of sewage and seaweed, washed over them. Several men appeared from nearby huts and came shambling down gangplanks. Shouting and gesturing, they tried to entice the launch to land at any of half a dozen places, each holding up a hawser or pointing at a cleat. The boat slid into the dock and a loud argument ensued between the two nearest men, quieted only when Glinn passed out cigarettes.