Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

In his heart, the comandante now knew the Americans were not digging for gold. And any fool could see they were not digging iron ore. It looked more like a diamond pipe operation than anything else. But if the Americans were mining diamonds, why then had they brought such a huge vessel with them? The whole operation, from start to finish, carried a strong odor of duplicity.

He wondered if the work had anything to do with the legends about the island, the old myths of the Yaghans. He vaguely remembered the borracho, Juan Puppup, rambling on about some legend in the bar one evening. He tried to remember what it was: something about an angry god and his fratricidal son. When he got his hands on Puppup, he would make sure the mestizo's last earthly act would be to tell him everything he knew.

Footsteps approached, then the oficial de guardia, the officer of the deck, appeared at his side. "Comandante," the man said, snapping a salute. "Engine room reports all engines on line."

"Very well. Make your course zero nine zero. And please send Mr. Timmer to me."

The officer saluted again, then turned and left the flying bridge. Vallenar scowled as he watched the man retreat down the metal stairway. New orders had come in; as usual, they amounted to more worthless patrolling in desolate waters.

With his good hand, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and found the chunk of rock that had been returned with the letter. It was barely larger than a prune. And yet he was convinced it held the secret to what the Americans were doing. They had learned something from the prospector's machine and the sack of rocks. Something important enough to bring a vast amount of money and equipment to this remote, dangerous place.

Vallenar clutched the rock tightly. He needed to know what the Americans knew. If the moronic geologist at the university could not help him, he would find somebody who could. He knew that Australia had some of the best geologists in the world. That was where he would send it, by urgent express. They would unlock the pebble's secret. Then he would know what they were after. And how to respond.

"Sir!" The voice of Timmer intruded on his thoughts.

Vallenar glanced over at the man's trim figure, standing at rigid attention; glanced over his blue eyes and sunbleached hair, his spotless uniform. Even in a crew that had been drilled for instant, instinctive obedience, Oficial de Comunicaciones Timmer stood out. His mother had come to Chile from Germany in 1945; a beautiful woman, cultivated, sensual. Timmer had been raised with discipline. And he was no stranger to the use of force.

"At ease," said Vallenar, his tone softening. Timmer relaxed almost imperceptibly.

Vallenar clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out at the flawless sky. "We are heading east," he said, "but we will return here tomorrow. Bad weather is expected."

"Yes, sir." Timmer continued staring straight ahead.

"On that day, I will have an assignment for you. It will involve a degree of risk."

"I look forward to it, sir."

Comandante Vallenar smiled. "I knew you would," he said, the faintest touch of pride in his voice.

Rolvaag,

2:50 P.M.

MCFARLANE PAUSED just inside the outer door of the Rolvaag 's sick bay. He'd always had a morbid fear of doctors' offices and hospitals — any place with intimations of mortality. The Rolvaag 's waiting room was devoid even of the false sense of tranquillity such places ordinarily tried to project. The well-thumbed magazines, the shabby Norman Rockwell reproductions, were missing. The only decoration was a large medical school poster detailing, in full color, various diseases of the skin. The place smelled so strongly of rubbing alcohol and iodine that McFarlane believed the strange old doctor must be using them for rug cleaner.

He hesitated a moment, feeling a little foolish. This errand can wait, he thought. But then, with a deep breath, he found himself walking across the room and into a long hallway. He stopped at the last door and rapped on the frame.

Captain Britton and the doctor were inside, quietly discussing a chart that lay open on the table between them. Brambell sat back in his chair, casually closing the folder as he did so. "Ah, Dr. McFarlane." The dry voice held no surprise. He stared at McFarlane, eyes unblinking, waiting.

This can wait, he thought again. But it was too late; they were both looking at him expectantly. "Masangkay's effects," he said aloud. "Those things with the body? Now that you've completed the tests, can they be released?"

Brambell continued to look at him. It was a stare not of human compassion but of clinical interest. "There was nothing of value among them," he answered.

McFarlane leaned against the doorframe and waited, refusing to betray anything to the watchful eyes. At last, the doctor sighed. "Once they've been photographed, I see no reason to keep them. What precisely are you interested in?"

"Just let me know when they're ready, will you?" McFarlane pushed himself away from the frame, nodded to Britton, and turned back toward the waiting room. As he pulled open the outer door, he heard quick footsteps behind him.

"Dr. McFarlane." It was Captain Britton. "I'll walk topside with you."

"Didn't mean to break up the party," McFarlane said, swinging out into the hall.

"I have to get back up to the bridge anyway. I'm expecting an update on that approaching storm."

They moved down the wide corridor, dark except for the regular stripes of sunlight that slanted inward from the round portholes.

"I'm sorry about your friend Masangkay, Dr. McFarlane," she said with unexpected kindness.

McFarlane glanced at her. "Thanks." Even in the dim corridor, her eyes were bright. He wondered if she was going to probe his nostalgic desire for Nestor's effects, but she remained silent. Once again, he was struck by an indefinable feeling of kinship. "Call me Sam," he said.

"Okay, Sam."

They stepped out of the stairwell onto the maindeck.

"Take a turn around the deck with me," Britton said.

Surprised, McFarlane followed her back through superstructure to the fantail. Something in her stately bearing, in the sway of her walk, reminded him of his ex-wife, Malou. A pale golden light lay over the ship's stern. The water of the channel shone a rich, deep blue.

Britton walked past the landing pad and leaned against the rail, squinting into the sun. "Sam, I have a dilemma. I frankly don't like what I'm hearing about that meteorite. I fear it will endanger the ship. A seaman always trusts her gut. And I really don't like seeing that out there." She motioned toward the low, slender line of the Chilean destroyer lying in the waters beyond the channel. "On the other hand, from what I've seen of Glinn, I have every reason to expect success." She glanced at him. "You see the paradox? I can't trust Eli Glinn and my own instincts both. And if I need to act, I need to act now. I'm not going to put anything in the hold of my ship that isn't safe."

In the pitiless sunlight, Britton looked older than her years. She's thinking of aborting the mission, he thought in surprise.

"I don't think Lloyd would be very happy if you balked now," he said.

"Lloyd isn't the master of the Rolvaag . I'm speaking to you, as I did before, because you're the only one I can speak to."

McFarlane looked at her.

"As captain, I can't confide in any of my officers or crew. And I certainly can't speak to EES personnel about these concerns. That leaves you, the meteorite expert. I need to know if you think that meteorite will endanger my ship. I need your view, not Mr. Lloyd's."

McFarlane held her gaze a moment longer. Then he turned back toward the sea.