Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

Vallenar paid them no mind. He was leaning against a .50-caliber machine gun mounted to the rail, but it was a posture of false ease. The barrel of the gun, its perforated snout heavy with sea salt and rust, was aimed directly at them, an insolent promise of death. His black eyes skewered them one at a time. His withered arm was clutched against his chest at a precise angle to his body. The man's gaze never wavered, and as the destroyer slid by, both he and the machine gun rotated slowly, keeping them in view.

And then the destroyer fell astern of the Rolvaag , slipping back into the mist, and the specter was gone. In the chill silence that remained, McFarlane heard the destroyer's engines rumble up to full speed once again, and felt the faintest sensation of rocking as its wake passed beneath the tanker. It had the gentle up-and-down motion of a baby's cradle, and, if it had not been terrifying, would have been distinctly comforting.

Rolvaag,

July 13, 6:30 A.M.

MCFARLANE STIRRED in the predawn darkness of his stateroom. The bedsheets were twisted around hum in a cyclone of linen, and the pillow beneath his head was heavy with sweat. He rolled over, still half asleep, instinctively reaching for Malou's comforting warmth. But save for himself, the berth was empty.

He sat up and waited for his pounding heart to find its normal rhythm as the disconnected images of a nightmar — a ship, tossed on a stormy sea — receded from his mind. As he passed a hand across his eyes, he realized that not everything had been a dream: the motion of the water was still with him. The ship's movement had changed; instead of the usual gentle roll, it felt shuddery and rough. Throwing aside the sheets, he walked to the window and pulled the curtain back. Sleet splattered against the Plexiglas, and there was a thick coating of ice along its lower edge.

The dark set of rooms seemed oppressive and he dressed hurriedly, eager for fresh air despite the nasty conditions. As he trotted down the two flights of stairs to the maindeck, the ship rolled and he was forced to steady himself on the railing for support.

As he opened the door leading out of the superstructure a blast of icy wind buffeted his face. It was bracing, and it drove the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. In the half-light he could see the windward vents, davits, and containers plastered with ice, the deck awash in slush. McFarlane could now hear clearly the boom of a heavy sea running the length of the ship. Out here, the roll of the vessel was more pronounced. The dark, moiling seas were periodically whitened with great combing waves, the faint hiss of the breaking water coming to his ears over the moaning of the wind.

Someone was leaning up against the starboard railing, head sunk forward. As he approached, he saw it was Amira, bundled once again in the ridiculously oversized parka. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

She turned toward him. Deep within the furred hood of the parka, he made out a green-tinged face. A few tendrils of black hair escaped, whipped back by the wind.

"Trying to puke," she said. "What's your excuse?"

"Couldn't sleep."

Amira nodded. "I'm hoping that destroyer comes by again. I'd like nothing better than to unload the contents of my stomach on that ugly little comandante."

McFarlane did not answer. The encounter with the Chilean vessel, and speculation about Comandante Vallenar and his motives, had dominated dinner-table talk the previous night. And Lloyd, when he heard of the incident, had become frantic. Only Glinn seemed unconcerned.

"Will you look at this?" Amira said. Following her gaze, McFarlane saw the dark form of a jogger, clad only in gray warm-ups, making its way along the port rail. As he stared, he realized it was Sally Britton.

"Only she would be man enough to go jogging in this weather," Amira said sourly.

"She's pretty tough."

"More like crazy." Amira snickered. "Look at that sweatshirt bouncing around."

McFarlane, who had been looking at it, said nothing.

"Don't get me wrong. I take a purely scientific interest. I'm thinking how one would calculate an equation of state for those rather impressive breasts."

"An equation of state?"

"It's something we physicists do. It relates all the physical properties of an object — temperature, pressure, density, elasticity —"

"I get the picture."

"Look," Amira said, abruptly changing the subject. "'There's another wreck."

In the bleak winter distance, McFarlane could see the outline of a large ship, its back broken on a rock.

"What is that, four?" Amira asked.

"Five, I think." As the Rolvaag headed south from Puerto Williams toward Cape Horn, the sightings of giant shipwrecks had grown more frequent. Some were almost as large as the Rolvaag. The area was a veritable graveyard of shipping, and the sight no longer brought any surprise.

Britton had by now rounded the bow and was heading in their direction.

"Here she comes," said Amira.

As Britton drew up to them, she slowed, jogging in place. Britton's warm-up suit was damp with sleet and rain, and it clung to her body. Equation of state, McFarlane thought to himself.

"I wanted to let you know that, at nine o'clock, I'm going to issue a deck safety-harness order," she said.

"Why's that?" McFarlane asked.

"A squall is coming."

"Coming?" Amira said with a bleak laugh. "It looks like it's already here."

"As we head out of the lee of Isla Navarino, we're going to be heading into a gale. Nobody will be allowed on deck without a harness." Britton had answered Amira's question, but she was looking at McFarlane.

"Thanks for the warning," McFarlane said. Britton nodded to him, then jogged away. In a minute she was gone.

"What is it you have against her?" McFarlane said.

Amira was silent a moment. "Something about Britton bugs me. She's too perfect."

"I think that's what they call an air of command."

"And it seemed so unfair, the whole ship suffering because of her booze problem."

"It was Glinn's decision," said McFarlane.

After a moment, Amira sighed and shook her head. "Yeah, that's vintage Eli, isn't it? You can bet there's an unbroken line of impeccable logic leading up to that decision. He just hasn't told anybody what it is."

McFarlane shivered under a fresh blast of wind. "Well, I've had enough sea air to last awhile. Shall we get some breakfast?"

Amira let out a groan. "You go ahead, I'll wait here awhile longer. Sooner or later, something's bound to come up."

After breakfast, McFarlane headed to the ship's library, where Glinn had asked to meet him. The library, like everything about the vessel, was large. Windows, streaked with sleet, covered one wall. Beyond and far below, he could see snow driving almost horizontally, whirling into the black water.

The shelves contained a wide assortment of books: nautical texts and treatises, encyclopedias, Reader's Digest condensations, forgotten best-sellers. He browsed through them, waiting for Glinn, feeling unsettled. The closer they got to Isla Desolación — to the spot where Masangkay died — the more restless he became. They were very close now. Today, they would round the Horn and anchor in the Horn Islands at last.

McFarlane's fingers stopped at the slender volume: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. This was the Edgar Allan Poe title Britton mentioned at dinner that first night at sea. Curious, he took it to the nearest sofa. The dark leather felt slippery as he settled into it and cracked the book. The pleasant smell of buckram and old paper rose to his nostrils.

My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in sea stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in everything, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New-Bank, as it was formerly called.