Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"John Puppup?" Glinn said in his mild voice. "I am Eli Glinn."

Puppup took his hand and gave it a silent shake. He then solemnly shook hands with everyone else around him, including the launch tender, a steward, and two surprised deckhands. He shook the captain's hand last and longest of all.

"Are you all right?" Glinn asked.

The man looked around with bright black eyes, stroking his thin mustache. He seemed to be neither surprised nor perturbed by the strange surroundings.

"Mr. Puppup, you're probably wondering what you're doing here."

Puppup's hand suddenly dove into his pocket and removed the wad of soiled money; he counted it, grunted with satisfaction that he hadn't been robbed, and replaced it.

Glinn gestured toward the steward. "Mr. Davies here will see you to your cabin, where you can get washed up and put on a fresh change of clothes. Does that suit you?"

Puppup looked at Glinn curiously.

"Maybe he doesn't speak English," McFarlane murmured.

Puppup's eyes swiftly fixed on him. "Speaks the king's own, I does." His voice was high and melodious, and through it McFarlane heard a complex fugue of accents, Cockney English strongly predominating.

"I'll be happy to answer all your questions once you've had a chance to settle in," Glinn said. "We will meet in the library tomorrow morning." He nodded to Davies.

Without another word, Puppup turned away. All eyes followed him as the steward led the way into the aft superstructure.

Overhead, the ship's blower rasped into life. "Captain to the bridge," came the metallic voice of Victor Howell.

"What's up?" McFarlane asked.

Britton shook her head. "Let's find out."

The bridge looked out into an all-enveloping cloud of gray. Nothing, not even the deck of the ship, was visible. As he stepped through the door, McFarlane caught the tense atmosphere within. Instead of the normal skeleton complement, there were half a dozen ship's officers on the bridge. From the radio room, he could hear the high-speed clatter of a computer keyboard.

"What do we have, Mr. Howell?" Britton asked calmly.

Howell looked up from a nearby screen. "Radar contact."

"Who is it?" McFarlane asked.

"Unknown. They're not responding to our hails. Given its speed and radar cross-section, it's probably a gunboat." He peered back, throwing some switches. "Too far to get a good look on the FLIR."

"Where away?" Britton asked.

"They seem to be circling, as if searching for something. Wait a moment, the course has steadied. Eight miles, bearing one six zero true, and closing. The ESM's picking up radar. We're being painted."

The captain joined him quickly and peered into the radar hood. "They're CBDR. Estimated time to CPA?"

"Twelve minutes, at current speed and heading."

"What does all that alphabet soup mean?" McFarlane asked.

Britton glanced at him. "CBDR — constant bearing and decreasing range."

"Collision course," Howell murmured.

Britton turned to the third officer, who was manning the command station. "Are we under way?"

The officer nodded. "Steam's up, ma'am. We're on dynamic positioning."

"Tell the engine room to goose it."

"Aye, aye." The officer picked up a black-handled telephone.

There was a low shudder as the ship's engines revved. Anticollision alarms began to sound.

"Taking evasive action?" McFarlane asked.

Britton shook her head. "We're too big for that, even with engine steering. But we're going to give it a shot."

From far above on the radar mast, the ship's foghorn gave a deafening blast.

"Course unchanged," Howell said, head glued to the radar hood.

"Helm's answering," said the third officer.

"Rudder amidships." Britton walked toward the radio room and opened the gray metal door. "Any luck, Banks?"

"No response."

McFarlane walked to the forward bank of windows. The line of wipers was clearing the film of mist and sleet that seemed to constantly renew itself. Sunlight struggled to break through the heavy gauze beyond. "Can't they hear us?" he asked.

"Of course they can," Glinn said quietly. "They know perfectly well we're here."

"Course unchanged," Howell murmured, peering into the radar hood. "Collision in nine minutes."

"Fire flares in the direction of the ship," Britton said, back at the command station.

Howell relayed the order, and Britton turned to the watch officer. "How's she steer?"

"Like a pig, ma'am, at this speed."

McFarlane could feel a heavy strain shuddering through the ship.

"Five minutes and closing," Howell said.

"Fire some more flares. Fire them at the ship. Put me on ICM frequency." Britton picked up a transmitter from the command station. "Unidentified vessel three thousand yards off my port quarter, this is the tanker Rolvaag . Change your course twenty degrees to starboard to avoid collision. Repeat, change your course twenty degrees to starboard." She repeated the message in Spanish, then turned up the gain on the receiver. The entire bridge listened silently to the wash of static.

Britton replaced the transmitter. She looked at the helmsman, then at Howell.

"Three minutes to collision," Howell said.

She spoke into the blower. "All hands, this is the master speaking. Prepare for collision at the starboard bow."

The foghorn ripped once again through the thinning veils of mist. A claxon was going off, and lights were blinking on the bridge.

"Coming up on the starboard bow," Howell said.

"Get damage and fire control ready," Britton replied. Then she pulled a bullhorn from the bulkhead, raced toward the door leading onto the starboard bridge wing, tore it open, and vanished outside. As if at a single thought, Glinn and McFarlane followed.

The moment he stepped outside, McFarlane was soaked by the frigid, heavy haze. Below, he could hear confused sounds of running and shouting. The foghorn, even louder here on the exposed deck, seemed to atomize the thick air that surrounded them. Britton had run to the far end of the wing and was leaning over the railing, suspended a hundred feet above the sea, bullhorn poised.

The fog was beginning to break up, streaming across the maindeck. But off the starboard bow, it seemed to McFarlane that the mist was thickening, growing darker again. Suddenly, a forest of antennas solidified out of the gloom, forward anchor light glowing pale white. The foghorn once again blasted its warning, but the vessel came unrelentingly toward them at full speed, a creamy, snarling wake of foam cutting across its gray bows. Its outlines became clearer. It was a destroyer, its sides pitted and scarred and streaked with rust. Chilean flags fluttered from its superstructure and fantail. Four-inch guns, stubby and evil-looking, sat in housings on the fore and aft decks.

Britton was screaming into the bullhorn. Collision alarms sounded, and McFarlane could feel the bridge wing shaking beneath him as the engines tried to pull away. But it was impossible to turn the big ship quickly enough. He planted his feet, grasping the railing, preparing for impact.

At the last moment, the destroyer sheered to port, gliding past the tanker with no more than twenty yards to spare. Britton lowered the bullhorn. All eyes followed the smaller vessel.

Every gun of the destroyer — from the big deck turrets to the 40-millimeter cannon — was trained on the bridge of the Rolvaag . McFarlane stared at the ship in mingled perplexity and horror. And then his eyes fell on the destroyer's flying bridge.

Standing alone, in full uniform, was the naval comandante they had met that morning in customs. Wind tugged at the gold bars on his officer's cap. He was passing so close beneath them that McFarlane could see the beads of moisture on his face.