Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

Glinn smoked. "I'm not asking for a prediction, only an educated guess."

"We've had the chance to observe it, under various conditions, for almost two weeks. Except for the electrical discharge apparently caused by human touch, it seems completely inert. It doesn't react to metal touching it, or even a high-powered electron microprobe. As long as our safety precautions are kept rigidly in place, I can't think of any reason why it should act differently in the holding tank of the Rolvaag."

McFarlane hesitated, wondering if his own fascination with the meteorite was causing him to lose his objectivity. The idea of leaving it behind was... unthinkable. He changed the subject. "Lloyd's been on the satellite phone almost hourly, and he's desperate for news."

Glinn inhaled blissfully, his eyes half closed, like a Buddha. "In thirty minutes, as soon as it's fully dark, we bring the ship up against the bluff and begin loading the meteorite on a tower built out of the tank. It will be in the tank by three A.M., and by dawn we'll be a good way to international waters. You can relate that to Mr. Lloyd. Everything is under control. Garza and Stonecipher will be running the operation. I won't even be needed until the final stage."

"What about that?" McFarlane nodded toward the destroyer. "Once you start lowering the rock into the tank, it's going to be exposed for all to see. The Rolvaag will be a sitting duck."

"We will work under cover of darkness and a predicted fog. Nevertheless, I will be paying a call on Comandante Vallenar during the critical period."

McFarlane was not sure he had heard correctly. "You'll be doing what?"

"It will distract him." Then, more quietly, "And it will serve other purposes as well."

"That's insane. He might arrest you, or even kill you."

"I don't believe so. By all accounts, Comandante Vallenar is a brutal man. But he is not crazy."

"In case you hadn't noticed, he's blocking our only exit." Night had fallen, and a cloak of darkness had settled over the island. Glinn checked his gold watch, then pulled a radio out of his pocket. "Manuel? You may commence."

Almost instantaneously, the bluff was lit up by banks of brilliant lights, bathing the bleak landscape in a cold illumination. A swarm of workers appeared as if out of nowhere. Heavy machinery growled.

"Jesus, why don't you put up a billboard saying: `Here it is'?" asked McFarlane.

"The bluff is not visible from Vallenar's ship," Glinn said. "It's blocked by that headland. If Vallenar wants to see what this new activity is about — and he will — he'll have to move the destroyer back up to the northern end of the channel. Sometimes the best disguise is no disguise at all. Vallenar, you see, won't be expecting our departure."

"Why not?"

"Because we will also continue the decoy mining operation all night long. All the heavy equipment, and two dozen men, will remain on the island, working at a feverish pace. There will be occasional explosions, naturally, and lots of radio traffic. Just before dawn, something will be found. Or at least it will look that way to the Almirante Ramirez. There will be great excitement. The workmen will take a break to discuss the discovery." He flicked the butt away, watching it sail into the darkness. "The Rolvaag 's tender is hidden on the far side of the island. As soon as we depart, the tender will load up the men and meet us behind Horn Island. Everything else will be left behind."

"Everything?" McFarlane let his mind run over the shacks full of equipment, the dozers, the container labs, the huge yellow haulers.

"Yes. The generators will be running, all the lights will be left on. Millions of dollars' worth of heavy equipment will be left on the island in plain view. When Vallenar sees us move, he'll assume we're coming back."

"He won't give chase?"

Glinn did not respond for a moment. "He might"

"What then?"

Glinn smiled. "Every path has been analyzed, every contingency planned for." He raised his radio again. "Bring the vessel in toward the bluff."

After a pause, McFarlane could feel the vibration of the big engines. Slowly, very slowly, the great ship began to turn.

Glinn looked back toward McFarlane. "You have a critical role in this, Sam."

McFarlane looked at him in surprise. "Me?"

Glinn nodded. "I want you to stay in communication with Lloyd. Keep him informed, keep him calm, and, above all, keep him where he is. It might be disastrous if he came down now. And now, farewell. I must prepare for my meeting with our Chilean friend." He paused and looked McFarlane steadily in the face. "I owe you an apology."

"What for?" McFarlane asked.

"You know very well what for. I couldn't have wished for a more consistent or reliable scientist. At the conclusion of the expedition, our file on you will be destroyed."

McFarlane didn't quite know what to make of this confession. It seemed sincere; but then, everything about the man was so calculated that he wondered if even this admission was intended to do double, or even triple duty, in Glinn's grand scheme.

Glinn held out his hand. McFarlane took it, and laid his other hand on Glinn's shoulder.

In a moment Glinn was gone.

It was only later that McFarlane realized the thick padding he'd felt under his fingers was not a heavy coat but a flak vest.

Franklin Channel,

8:40 P.M.

GLINN STOOD at the bow of the small launch, welcoming the frigid air that streamed across his face. The four men who were part of the operation sat on the deck of the dark pilothouse, suited up, silent and out of sight. Directly ahead, the lights of the destroyer wavered in the calm waters of the sound. As he predicted, it had moved up channel.

He glanced back toward the island itself. An immense cluster of lights surrounded the feverish mining activity. Heavy equipment rumbled back and forth. As he watched, the faint crump of a distant explosion rolled through the air. By comparison, the real work taking place on the bluff looked incidental. The movement of the Rolvaag had been presented, through radio traffic, as a precaution against another storm — the big ship would be moving into the lee of the island and stringing cables to shore.

He smelled the moisture-laden sea air, breathed in the deceptive calm. A big storm was certainly coming. Its precise nature was a secret shared only by Glinn, Britton, and the on-duty officers of the Rolvaag; there had seemed no need to distract the crew or the EES engineers at such a critical moment. But satellite weather analysis indicated it might develop into a panteonero, a cemetery wind, kicking up as early as dawn. Such a wind always started out of the southwest and then swung around to the northwest as it gained strength. Such winds could grow to Force 15. But if the Rolvaag could get through the Strait of Le Maire by noon, they would be in the lee of Tierra del Fuego before the worst of the wind started. And it would be at their backs: ideal for a large tanker, hellish for a small pursuer.

He knew that Vallenar must now be aware of his approach. The launch moved slowly, its full complement of running lights on. Even without radar it would be conspicuous against the black, moonless night water.

The launch drew within two hundred yards of the ship. Glinn heard a faint splash behind him but did not turn around. As expected, three other splashes quickly followed. He was aware of a preternatural calmness, a sharpening of his senses, that always came before an op. It had been a long time, and the feeling was pleasant, almost nostalgic.

A spotlight on the destroyer's fantail snapped on and swiveled toward the launch, blinding him with its brilliance. He remained motionless in the bow as the launch slowed. If he was going to be shot, this would be the moment. And yet he felt an unwavering conviction that the destroyer's gun would remain silent. He breathed in, then exhaled slowly, once, twice. The critical moment passed.