Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

He gestured in the direction of the Jaws of Hanuxa. "The force of the eruption, the turbulence of the magma and the explosive release of gases, carried the meteorite back up, where it froze into position several thousand feet down. Over millions of years, in the uplift and erosion of the southern Cordillera, it gradually moved closer and closer to the surface, until it finally eroded out of the island valley. At least, that's what seems to fit the facts."

There was a thoughtful silence. Then Glinn looked over at Garza and Stonecipher. "Let's proceed."

Garza shouted out orders. McFarlane watched as some of the figures in the tunnel below gingerly attached a webbing of thick Kevlar straps to the cradle and the meteorite. Others pulled more straps over the top of the sled and into position around the capstan. Then the group stood back. There was a metallic cough, then a throaty rumble, and the ground beneath McFarlane's feet came alive with vibration. Two massive diesel generators began turning the steel capstan. As it turned, the webbing of Kevlar straps slowly began to wind up, taking out the slack, tightening around the rock. The generators stopped: the meteorite was now ready to move.

McFarlane's eyes returned to the meteorite. The shadow of the storm fell across the staging area, and the meteorite looked duller, as if some internal fire had been quenched.

"Jesus," Rachel said, glancing at the wall of wind and snow that was boiling toward them. "Here it comes."

"Everything's in position," Garza said.

Glinn turned, the wind tugging at his parka. "We stop at the first sign of lightning," he said. "Move it."

There was a sudden rising darkness, a muffled howl, and pellets of snow came blasting horizontally through the air. In an instant, McFarlane's view was reduced to monochromatic shadows. Over the fury of the wind came the roar of heavy machinery as the generators came up to speed. The ground was shaking harder now, and a low, subauditory rumble — a pressure on the ear and gut — went through him. The generators climbed, whining louder as they strained to move the rock.

"It's a historic moment," Rachel wailed, "and I can't see a damn thing."

McFarlane pulled the hood of his parka tight around his face and crouched forward. He could see the Kevlar was drawn tight now, the straps like bars of iron, singing under the strain. Creaks and strange twanging noises rose up, audible even over the wind. The rock did not move, and the tension began to mount. The twanging noises rose in pitch; the generators roared; and still the rock remained stationary. And then, at the height of the cacophony, McFarlane thought he saw the meteorite move. But with the wind shrieking in his ears and the snow obscuring his vision, he could not be sure.

Garza looked up, smiled crookedly, and gave them a thumbs-up.

"It's moving!" Rachel cried.

Garza and Stonecipher shouted orders to the workers below. Beneath the cradle, the steel runners squealed and smoked. Workers pumped a continuous slurry of graphite on the runners and the surface of the cart. The acrid smell of burning steel rose to McFarlane's nostrils.

And then it was over. With a tremendous, decaying groan, the meteorite and its cradle settled onto the waiting cart. The Kevlar straps loosened, and the generators powered down.

"We did it!" Rachel pressed her index fingers to her lips and gave a piercing whistle.

McFarlane gazed down at the meteorite, now safely mounted on the cart. "Ten feet," he said. "Ten thousand miles to go."

Beyond the Jaws of Hanuxa, there was a brilliant flash of lightning, then another. A monstrous clap of thunder rolled past them. The wind rose in strength, tearing at the snow, sending sheets of white across the ground and into the trench.

"That's it!" Glinn called out to the group. "Mr. Garza, please cover the tunnel."

Garza turned toward the crane operator, one gloved hand keeping his hood secure against the wind. "Can't do it!" he shouted back. "The wind's too strong. It'll topple the boom."

Glinn nodded. "Then pull the tarps and ribbing over it until the storm passes."

As McFarlane watched, a group of workers ran down both sides of the trench, unrolling a tarp as they went, struggling to keep it in place against the rising fury, of the wind. It was streaked with mottled white and gray, camouflaged to resemble the bleak surface of the island. McFarlane was impressed once again by Glinn's ability to anticipate every possibility, to have a contingency plan always waiting in the wings.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time, gave a strange illumination to the snow-heavy air.

Satisfied that the tarp had been properly secured, Glinn nodded to McFarlane. "Let's get back to the huts." He looked over at Garza. "I want the area cleared of personnel until the storm passes. Post a guard at four-hour shifts."

Then he motioned to McFarlane and Rachel and they began to make their way across the staging area, leaning into the howling wind.

Isla Desolación,

10:40 P.M.

ADOLFO TIMMER waited behind a large snowdrift, motionless in the dark. He had lain, watching, until he was almost completely buried by the storm. Down below, he could see the faint glow of lights, fading in and out of the snow. It was now after midnight, and he had seen no activity. The cleared area was deserted, the workers no doubt sheltering in the huts. It was time to act.

Timmer raised his head against the still-intensifying blast. He rose, the wind whipping the accumulated snow from his limbs. Around him, the storm had shaped the snow into long, diagonal fins, some more than ten feet high. It was perfect cover.

He moved forward on his snowshoes, shielded by the drifts. He stopped near the edge of the cleared area. Ahead lay a pool of dirty light. Crouching behind a snowbank, he waited, then raised his head and looked around. Perhaps fifty yards away, a lone shack stood, the wind moaning through gaps in its corrugated roof. On the far side of the cleared area, across from the shack, he could make out the long row of Quonset huts, their windows small squares of yellow. Beside them were other structures and some containers. As he stared, Timmer's eyes narrowed. The leaching ponds and tailing piles across the island had proved to be a ruse, a cover for something else.

But what?

He tensed. From around the corner of the shack, a man in a heavy parka appeared. He opened the door of the shack, looked inside, closed it again. Then he walked slowly along one edge of the cleared area, rubbing his mittens together, ducking his head against the wind and snow.

Timmer watched carefully. The man was not out for an evening smoke. He was doing guard duty.

But why post a guard over an old shack and a barren patch of ground?

He crept forward, slowly, until he reached another drift. He was much closer to the shack now. He waited, motionless, as the man returned to its door, stamped warmth into his feet, then walked away again. Unless there was somebody else posted inside the shack, the guard was alone.

Timmer came around the side of the drift and approached the building, keeping it between him and the guard. He stayed close to the ground, letting the darkness and the storm conceal him, careful to expose only the white nylon of his snowsuit to the circle of light.

Before he left the Almirante Ramirez, the comandante had told him to take no unnecessary risks. He had said it more than once: Be very careful, Mr. Timmer. I want you back in one piece. There was no way to know if the guard was armed: Timmer would assume he was. Crouching in the shadow of the shack, he reached into his snowsuit. His hand closed around the handle of his knife and slid it out of the scabbard, making sure it had not frozen in place. Tugging off one glove, he felt the blade: ice cold and razor sharp. Excellent. Yes, my Comandante, he thought: I will be very, very careful. He clasped it tightly, ignoring the cold that bit into his fingers. He wanted the blade warm enough to cut through flesh without freezing and snagging.