Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

WITH A depressing sense of déjà vu, McFarlane paced the maindeck, waiting for the helicopter to approach the tanker. For interminable minutes, there was nothing more than a low thud of rotors somewhere out in the murk. McFarlane watched the frenzied activity that had begun the moment the fog concealed their ship from the Almirante Ramirez. The bluff loomed beside them, the crags of rock softened by the fog. Atop stood the shack that enclosed the meteorite. Before him, the center tank lay open. A pale light drifted upward. McFarlane watched while, with astonishing speed, swarms of workmen began assembling a tower of gleaming struts. It rose out of the tank, its metal latticework glowing softly in the sodium lights. Now, two derricks swung additional prefabricated pieces of tower into place. At least a dozen welders were at work on the tower, and continuous streams of sparks cascaded downward onto the hard hats and shoulders of the engineers below. Despite its size and bulk, the whole structure looked oddly delicate: a complex spiderweb of three dimensions. For the life of him, McFarlane could not see how the meteorite was going to get into the tank once it was dragged on top of the tower.

The thudding sound grew suddenly louder, and McFarlane trotted back along the superstructure to the fantail. The big Chinook was emerging out of the fog, its rotors sending billows of fine spray up from the deck. A man with coned flashlights in his hands maneuvered the bird into position. It was a routine landing, with none of the excitement of Lloyd's arrival during their stormy rounding of Cape Horn.

Moodily, he watched as the helicopter's oversize tires sank onto the pad. Acting as a gofer between Lloyd and Glinn was a no-win situation. He wasn't a liaison: he was a scientist. This wasn't why he had hired on, and the knowledge made him angry.

A hatchway in the helicopter's belly opened. Lloyd stood within, a long black cashmere coat billowing out behind him, a gray fedora in one hand. Landing lights gleamed off his wet pate. He made the jump, landing gracefully for a man of his size, and then strode across the deck, unbowed, powerful, oblivious to the jumble of equipment and staff that streamed out of the chopper on the hydraulic ramp deployed behind him. He grasped McFarlane's hand in his steel grip, smiled and nodded, and continued walking. McFarlane followed him across the windswept deck and out of the noise of the blades. Near the forward railing, Lloyd stopped, scanning the fantastical tower from bottom to top. "Where's Glinn?" he shouted.

"He should be back on the bridge by now."

"Let's go."

The bridge was alive with tension, faces drawn in the pale illumination. Lloyd paused in the doorway for a moment, drinking it in. Then he stepped heavily forward.

Glinn was standing at the EES console, speaking in hushed tones to his man at the keyboard. Lloyd strode toward him, enfolding Glinn's narrow hand in his own. "The man of the hour," he cried. If he had been angry on the plane, he seemed to have recovered his high spirits. He waved one hand out toward the structure rising out of the tank. "Christ, Eli, that's incredible. Are you sure it's going to hold a twenty-five-thousand-ton rock?"

"Double overage," was Glinn's reply.

"I should have known. How the hell is it supposed to work?"

"Controlled failure."

"What? Failure? From your mouth? Heaven forbid."

"We move the rock to the tower. Then we set off a series of explosive charges. These will cause the levels of the tower to fail in sequence, bringing the meteorite down, bit by bit, into the holding tank."

Lloyd gazed at the structure. "Amazing," he said. "Has it ever been done before?"

"Not in quite this way."

"Are you sure it'll work?"

A wry smile appeared on Glinn's thin lips.

"Sorry I asked. All that's your department, Eli, and I'm not going to second-guess you on it. I'm down here for a different reason." He drew himself to his full height and looked around. "I'm not going to mince words. We've got a problem here, and it's not being dealt with. We've come too far to let anything stop us now. So I've come down to kick ass and take names." He pointed out into the dense fog. "There's a warship parked right off our bow. It's sent in spies. They're just waiting for us to make a move. And, goddammit, Eli, you've done nothing about it. Well, there's to be no more chickenshit wavering. Strong action is what's needed here, and from now on I'll be handling it personally. I'm traveling back to New York with you onboard the ship. But first, I'm getting the Chilean navy to recall this damn cowboy." He turned back toward the door. "It'll take my people just a few minutes to get up to speed. Eli, I'll expect you in my office in half an hour. I'm going to make some calls. I've dealt with this kind of tinpot political situation before."

During this brief speech, Glinn kept his deep gray eyes trained steadily on Lloyd. Now he touched his brow with a handkerchief and glanced at McFarlane. As usual, it was almost impossible to read anything into his gaze: Weariness? Disgust? Nothing at all?

Glinn spoke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lloyd. Did you say you had contacted the Chilean authorities?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to find out exactly what was happening here first. But I've got powerful friends in Chile, including the vice president and the American ambassador."

Casually, Glinn took a step closer to the EES console. "I'm afraid that will not be possible."

"What, exactly, will not be possible?" Surprise mingled with impatience in Lloyd's tone.

"Your involvement in any aspect of this operation. You would have done better to stay in New York."

Lloyd's voice sharpened with anger. "Glinn, don't go telling me what I can and can't do. I'll leave the engineering in your hands, but this is a political situation ."

"I assure you I am dealing with all aspects of the political situation."

Lloyd's voice trembled. "Oh really? And what about that destroyer out there? It's armed to the teeth, and its guns are pointing at us, in case you didn't notice. You've not done a damn thing. Nothing."

Hearing this, Captain Britton glanced at Howell, and then — more significantly — at Glinn.

"Mr. Lloyd, I will say this only once. You gave me a job to do. I am doing it. Your role right now is very simple: let me carry out my plan. This is no time for drawn-out explanations."

Lloyd, instead of responding, turned to Penfold, who had been hovering unhappily in the door to the bridge. "Get Ambassador Throckmorton on the horn and conference him into the vice president's office in Santiago. I'll be down in a minute."

Penfold disappeared.

"Mr. Lloyd," said Glinn quietly. "You may remain on the bridge and observe. That is all."

"It's way too late for that, Glinn."

Glinn turned quietly and spoke to his man at the black computer. "Kill the power in the Lloyd Industries suite, and suspend ship-to-shore communications across the board."

There was a shocked silence. "You son of a bitch," Lloyd roared, recovering quickly. He turned to Britton. "I contravene that order. Mr. Glinn is relieved of authority."

It appeared that Glinn hadn't heard. He punched in another frequency on his radio. "Mr. Garza? I'll take that report now."

He listened for a moment, then replied, "Excellent. With the covering fog, let's start an early evacuation of the island. Order all nonessential personnel back on board. But follow the game plan precisely: instruct them to leave the lights on and the equipment running. I've had Rachel set the radio transmission routines to automatic. Bring the tender around the rear of the island, but be careful to always keep it within the radar shadow of the island or the Rolvaag."

Lloyd broke in, his voice shaking with rage. "Aren't you forgetting, Glinn, who's ultimately in charge of this operation? On top of firing you, I'm stopping all payments to EES." He turned to Britton. "Restore power to my suite."