Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"So what's Glinn's plan?"

McFarlane swallowed. He hated this more by the minute. "He says it's foolproof, but he can't share it with us now. He says confidentiality is critical to its success —"

"What bullshit! Put him on. Now."

"I tried to find him when I heard you were calling. Again. He's not answering his page or radio. No one seems to know where he is."

"Damn him! I knew I shouldn't have put all my—"

His voice was drowned out by a roar of static. It returned, a little fainter than before. "Sam? Sam!"

"I'm here."

"Listen. You're the Lloyd representative down there. You tell Glinn to call me immediately, and tell him that's an order, or I'll fire his ass and personally throw him overboard."

"Yes," said McFarlane wearily.

"Are you in my office? Can you see the meteorite?"

"It's still hidden on the bluff."

"When will it be moved onto the ship?"

"As soon as the fog rolls in. I'm told it'll take a few hours to get it into the tank, maybe half an hour to secure it, and then we're off. We're supposed to be out of here no later than five A.M."

"That's cutting it close. And I hear there's another storm coming, bigger than the last."

"Storm?" McFarlane asked.

The only answer was static. He waited, but the line was dead. After a minute he hung up the phone and stared out the window. As he did so, he heard the electronic clock on Lloyd's desk chime out midnight.

I'll personally throw him overboard, he'd said.

And then McFarlane suddenly understood the sound he had heard behind Lloyd's voice: a jet engine.

Lloyd was on a plane.

Almirante Ramirez ,

July 25, Midnight

COMANDANTE VALLENAR stood at the bridge, staring through the binocular scope. His ship lay at the northern end of the channel, where he had an unopposed view of the activity on shore. It was a revealing sight indeed.

The Americans had brought the big tanker in against the bluff and strung hawsers to shore. Clearly, the captain of the Rolvaag knew a thing or two about Cape Horn weather. They could not know of the uncharted undersea ledge to which he had anchored the Almirante Ramirez So instead they had tethered the ship in the lee of the island, hoping to protect themselves from the worst fury of the storm. With any luck, the offshore breeze would keep the ship away from the dangerous rocks. Still, it was a very risky maneuver for a vessel that large, particularly a ship using dynamic positioning, if the wind should change suddenly. It would have been much safer to take the ship away from land altogether. Something pressing was keeping them nearby.

And he did not have far to look for it. He swiveled the scope back to the center of the island and the wide-scale mining operation, taking place some two miles from the Rolvaag . He had been scrutinizing it even before the American, Glinn, had arrived. A few hours before, there had been a sudden increase in activity: explosions, the frantic grinding of machinery, workmen dashing here and there, huge lights bathing the worksite. The intercepted radio traffic indicated the work crews had found something. Something big.

But they were having great difficulty with this find. First, they broke their most powerful crane trying to lift it. And now they were trying to drag the thing with heavy machinery. But the radio chatter made it clear they were having little or no luck. No doubt the Rolvaag was staying nearby in case extra men or equipment was needed. Vallenar smiled: the Americans were not so competent after all. At this rate, it would take them weeks to get the meteorite on board the ship.

Of course, he would never allow that to happen. Once Timmer was safely back, Vallenar would disable the tanker to prevent their leaving, and then communicate the news of their attempted theft. It would preserve the honor of his country. When the politicians saw the meteorite — when they learned how the Americans had tried to steal it — they would understand. With that meteorite, he might even be promoted out of Puerto Williams. It would be the corrupt bastards in Punta Arenas, not he, who would suffer. But the timing was everything...

His smile faded as he thought of Timmer, locked in the brig of that tanker. That he had killed someone was no surprise; young Timmer was a quick thinker, eager to impress. What surprised Vallenar was that he had been caught. He looked forward to the debriefing.

He did not allow himself to think about the other possibility: that the American had lied, and Timmer was dead. There was a rustle, and the oficial de guardia came up behind him. "Comandante?"

Vallenar nodded without looking at him.

"We have received a second order to return to base, sir."

Vallenar said nothing. He waited, thinking.

"Sir?"

Vallenar looked back out into the darkness. The expected fog was now rolling in. "Observe radio silence. Acknowledge nothing."

There was a faint flickering in the officer's eyes at this request, but the man was far too well trained to question an order. "Yes, sir."

Vallenar watched the fog. It drifted in like smoke, creeping out of nowhere to shroud the seascape. The lights of the great tanker began flickering in and out, blotted by patches of fog, until they disappeared. In the middle of the island, the brilliant light of the worksite gave way to an indistinct glow, then yielded completely, leaving a wall of darkness before the bridge. He bent his head toward the FLIR scope, where the ship was outlined in a hazy yellow.

Vallenar straightened, then stepped back from the scope. He thought of Glinn. There was something strange about him, something unreadable. His visit to the Almirante Ramirez had been brazen. It had taken cojones. And yet it bothered him.

He stared out into the fog another moment. Then he turned to the deck officer. "Have the oficial central de informaciones de combate report to the bridge," he said softly but carefully.

Rolvaag ,

Midnight

WHEN MCFARLANE arrived on the bridge, he found a troubled-looking group of officers huddled over the command station. A claxon had gone off and all hands had been called to quarters over the ship's PA. Britton, who had sent him an urgent summons, seemed not to notice his arrival. Outside the bank of windows lay a haze of fog. The powerful lights on the ship's forecastle were faint pinpricks of yellow.

"Has he got a lock on us?" Britton asked.

"Affirmative," answered a nearby officer. "With targeting radar."

She drew the back of her hand across her forehead, then glanced up and caught sight of McFarlane. "Where is Mr. Glinn?" she asked. "Why isn't he responding?"

"I don't know. He disappeared soon after returning from the Chilean ship. I've been trying to reach him myself."

Britton turned to Howell.

"He may not be on the ship," the chief mate said.

"He's on the ship. I want two search parties, one forward and one aft. Have them work their way midships. Do a high-order search. Bring him to the bridge immediately."

"That won't be necessary." Glinn, noiseless as ever, had materialized at McFarlane's side. Behind him were two men that McFarlane didn't remember having seen before. Their shirts bore the small circular EES insignia.

"Eli," McFarlane began, "Palmer Lloyd has been on the phone again —"

"Dr. McFarlane, silence on the bridge, if you please!" Britton barked. The note of command in her voice was overwhelming. McFarlane fell silent.

Britton turned toward Glinn. "Who are these men, and why are they on my bridge?"

"They are EES employees."

Britton paused a moment, as if digesting this. "Mr. Glinn, I wish to remind you — and Dr. McFarlane, as the onboard representative of Lloyd Industries — that, as master of the Rolvaag , I am the ultimate authority as to the handling and disposition of this vessel."