Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"But —"

"Rachel, we need you here. Lock the door after we leave. We'll have a guard here shortly."

Within moments, three of Glinn's men, Thompson, Rocco, and Sanders, appeared at the door, powerful torches in their hands and Ingram M10 submachine guns slung over their shoulders.

"Everyone accounted for except Hill, sir," Thompson said.

"Sanders, have guards posted at every hut. Thompson, Rocco, you come with me." Glinn strapped on snowshoes, grabbed a torch, and led the way out into the swirling dark.

McFarlane struggled with the unfamiliar snowshoes. Hours of drowsing by the stove had made him forget how cold it was outside, how sharp the snowflakes felt when the wind drove them against his face.

The electrical hut lay only fifty yards away. Garza unlocked the door and they entered the small space, Thompson and Rocco sweeping it with their torches. The smell of burnt wiring hung in the air. Garza knelt to pull open the gray metal cover of the master control cabinet. As he did so, a cloud of acrid smoke billowed out into the light of the torches.

Garza ran his finger down the panel. "Totally fried," he said.

"Estimated time to repair?" Glinn asked.

"Main switching box, ten minutes, max. Then we can run diagnostics."

"Do it. You men, get outside and guard the door."

The construction chief worked in silence while McFarlane looked on. Glinn tried the radio again; finding it was still broadcasting nothing but noise, he replaced it in his pocket. At length, Garza stepped back and threw a series of switches. There was a click and a hum, but no lights. With a grunt of surprise, Garza opened a nearby metal locker, withdrew a palmtop diagnostic computer, plugged it into a jack on the master control cabinet, and switched it on. A small blue screen flickered into life.

"We've got multiple burnouts, up and down the line," he said after a moment.

"What about the surge suppressors?"

"Whatever it was, it caused one hell of a spike. Over a billion volts in under a millisecond, with a current exceeding fifty thousand amps. No dampeners or surge suppressors could protect against that."

"A billion volts?" McFarlane said in disbelief. "Not even lightning is that powerful."

"That's right," Garza said, pulling the tool from the panel and dropping it into a pocket of his snowsuit. "A burst of this size makes lightning look like static cling."

"Then what was it?"

Garza shook his head. "God knows."

Glinn stood still a moment, gazing at the fused components. "Let's check the rock."

They stepped back out into the storm, moved past the huts, and struggled across the staging area. Even from a distance, McFarlane could see that the tarp had been torn from its tethers. As they drew nearer, Glinn made a suppressing motion with his hand, then instructed Rocco and Thompson to enter the shack and descend into the tunnel. Pulling out his pistol, Glinn moved forward carefully, Garza at his side. McFarlane stepped up to the edge of the trench, the tattered remains of the tarp billowing skyward like ghostly linen. Glinn angled the beam of the torch downward, into the tunnel.

Dirt, rocks, and charred wood were scattered everywhere. Part of the cart was twisted and fused, hissing faintly. sending up clouds of steam. Globs of foamy metal, now resolidified, spattered the tunnel. Beneath the cart, several rows of tires had melted together and were now burning, sending up foul clouds of smoke.

Glinn's eyes moved rapidly around the scene, following his torch. "Was it a bomb?"

"Looks more like a gigantic electrical arc."

Lights wavered at the far end of the tunnel, then Thompson and Rocco approached beneath them, waving away the pall of smoke. They began spraying fire suppressant on the burning tires.

"See any damage to the meteorite?" Glinn called down.

There was a pause as the men below made a visual inspection. "Can't see a scratch on it."

"Thompson," Glinn said, pointing down into the trench. "Over there."

McFarlane followed his arm to a spot beyond the cart. Something was burning fitfully. Nearby, ragged clumps of matter and bone glistened in the flickering light. Thompson shined his torch toward one of them. There was a hand, a piece of what looked like a flayed human shoulder, a twisted length of grayish entrails.

"Christ," McFarlane groaned.

"Looks like we found Hill," said Garza.

"Here's his gun," Thompson said.

Glinn shouted down into the tunnel. "Thompson, I want you to check the rest of the tunnel system. Report anything you find. Rocco, roust up a med team. Let's get those remains gathered up."

"Yes, sir."

Glinn looked back toward Garza. "Get the perimeter secured. Gather all surveillance data and get it analyzed right away. Call back to the ship for a general alert. I want a new power grid up and running in six hours."

"All communications with the ship are down," said Garza. "We're getting nothing but noise on all channels."

Glinn turned back toward the tunnel. "You! Thompson! When you're done here, take a snowcat to the beach. Contact the ship from the landing area. Use Morse if you have to."

Thompson saluted, then turned and made his way down the tunnel. In a moment he disappeared from view in the smoke and darkness.

Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Go get Amira and any diagnostic tools you'll need. I'm going to have a team sweep the tunnels. Once the area's secured, and Hill's body is removed, I want you to examine the meteorite. Nothing elaborate for the time being. Just determine what happened here. And don't touch that rock."

McFarlane looked down. At the base of the cart, Rocco was slipping what looked like a lung onto a folded section of tarp. Above, the meteorite steamed in its wooden bed. He wasn't about to touch it, but he said nothing.

"Rocco," Glinn called out, pointing to an area just to the rear of the damaged cart, where there was a faint flickering "You've got another small fire over there."

Rocco approached it with the extinguisher, then stopped short. He looked up at them. "I think it's a heart, sir."

Glinn pursed his lips. "I see. Extinguish it, Mr. Rocco, and carry on."

Isla Desolación,

July 21, 12:05 A.M.

AS MCFARLANE trudged across the staging area toward the row of huts, the wind pressed rudely at his back, as if trying to force him to his knees. Beside him, Rachel stumbled, then recovered.

"Is this storm ever going to end?" she asked.

McFarlane, his mind a whirlwind of speculation, did not reply.

In another minute they were inside the medical hut. He peeled out of his suit. The air was rich with the smell of roasted meat. He saw that Garza was speaking into a radio.

"How long have you had communications?" he asked Glinn.

"Half an hour, or thereabouts. Still spotty, but improving."

"That's odd. We just tried to contact you from the tunnel and got nothing but radio noise." McFarlane began to speak again, but fell silent, forcing his mind to work through the weariness.

Garza lowered his radio. "It's Thompson, from the beach. He says Captain Britton refuses to send anyone over with the equipment until the storm dies down. It's too dangerous."

"That's not acceptable. Give me that radio." Glinn spoke rapidly. "Thompson? Explain to the captain that we've lost communications, the computer network, and the power grid. We need the generator and the equipment, and we need them now . Lives are at risk. If you encounter any more difficulties, let me know and I'll see to it personally. Get Brambell out here, too. I want him to examine Hill's remains."

Distantly, McFarlane watched Rocco, hands and forearms hidden by heavy rubber gloves, removing charred body parts from a tarp and placing them in a freezer-locker.

"There's something else, sir," Garza said, listening once again to the radio. "Palmer Lloyd's in communication with the Rolvaag . He demands to be patched through to Sam McFarlane."