Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

It again appeared for several moments as if Glinn had still not heard Lloyd. Britton, also, made no move. Glinn continued speaking calmly into the radio, giving orders, checking on progress. A sudden gust of wind buffeted the bridge windows, sending streamers of rain down the Plexiglas. Lloyd's face flushed a deep purple as he looked around at the captain and the crew. But no one met his eyes. The work of the bridge went on.

"Did any of you hear me?" he cried.

And then at last Glinn turned back. "I am not forgetting that you are ultimately in charge, Mr. Lloyd," he answered, his voice suddenly conciliatory, even friendly.

Lloyd took a deep breath, momentarily thrown off balance.

Glinn continued to speak softly, persuasively, even kindly. "Mr. Lloyd, in any operation, there must be a single commander. You know that better than anyone. In our contract, I made you a promise. I'm not going to break that promise. If I seem insubordinate, please know that I am doing it for you . If you had contacted the Chilean vice president, all would have been lost. I know him personally: we used to play polo together on his Patagonian ranch. He would like nothing better than to give the Americans a swift poke in the eye."

Lloyd faltered. "You played polo with — ?"

Glinn went on, speaking rapidly. "I alone have all the facts. I alone know the path to success. I am not being secretive for the sake of coyness, Mr. Lloyd. There is a vital reason for this: it is essential to prevent second-guessing and freelance decision making. Frankly, the meteorite bears no intrinsic interest for me. But I promised to move this thing from point A to point B, and no one, no one , is going to stop me. So I hope you understand now why I am not going to relinquish control of this operation, or share with you explanations and prognostications. As for you withholding payment, we can settle that question like gentlemen once we are back on American soil."

"Look here, Glinn, that's all very well and good —"

"This discussion is over, and now, sir, you will obey me." Glinn's voice, still soft, suddenly took on a steely edge. "Whether that means staying here quietly, or disappearing into your office, or being escorted to the brig, is a matter of indifference to me."

Lloyd stared at him, dumbfounded. "You think you could put me in the brig, you arrogant bastard?"

The expression on Glinn's face provided the answer.

Lloyd was silent for a moment, his face almost purple with rage. Then he turned to Britton. "And who are you working for?"

But Britton's eyes, deep and green as the ocean, were still on Glinn. "I'm working for the man with the keys to the car," she said at last.

Lloyd stood there, swelling in fury. But he did not immediately react. Instead, he made a slow circuit of the bridge, his creaking wingtips leaving a trail of water, until he stopped at the bridge windows. There he stood, breathing heavily a moment, looking out at nothing in particular. "Once again, I order that power and communications be restored to my suite."

There was no sound, no answer. It was clear that no one, not even the lowest officer, intended to obey Lloyd.

Lloyd slowly turned, and his eyes fell square on McFarlane. He spoke in a low voice. "And you, Sam?"

Another hard gust buffeted the windows. McFarlane, standing in suspension, felt the shudder in the air. The bridge had fallen deathly quiet. He had a decision to make — and he found it one of the easiest decisions of his career.

"I'm working for the rock," said McFarlane quietly.

Lloyd continued looking at him, his eyes black, adamantine. Then, all at once, he seemed to crumple. The bull-like power seemed to drain out of his massive frame; his shoulders slumped; his face lost its fiery color. He turned, hesitated, then walked slowly off the bridge and disappeared out the door.

After a moment, Glinn bent once again toward the black computer and murmured to his man at the keyboard.

Rolvaag ,

1:45 A.M.

CAPTAIN BRITTON stared straight ahead, betraying nothing of her feelings. She tried to measure her breathing, the rhythm of her heart — everything — to the pulse of the ship. Over the past hours, the wind had been picking up steadily, and it moaned and rattled about the ship. It was raining harder now, fat drops that shot out of the fog like bullets. The panteonero was not far away.

She transferred her attention to the spiderwebbed tower that rose out of the ship's tank. It was still well below the level of the bluff, and yet it seemed to be complete. She had no idea what the next step would be. It was uncomfortable, even humiliating, not knowing. She glanced over toward the EES computer and the man operating it. She had thought she knew everyone on board. And yet this man was a stranger who seemed to know a great deal about the operation of a supertanker. She pressed her lips more tightly together.

There were times, of course, when she relinquished command — taking on fuel, say, or when a harbor pilot came aboard. But those were comfortable, familiar patterns of running a ship, established over decades. This was not comfortable: it was a humiliation. Strangers were running the loading process, after lashing the ship to the shore and leaving her a sitting duck three thousand yards from a warship... Once again, she struggled to tuck away the feelings of anger and hurt. After all, her own feelings were not important — not when she thought about what waited for them, out there in the murk.

Anger and hurt... Her eyes flickered to Glinn, standing beside the black console, occasionally whispering words to his operative. He had just humiliated, even crushed, the world's most powerful industrialist, and yet he looked so slender, so ordinary. She continued looking covertly at him. She could understand her anger. But hurt was something else. More than once she had lain awake at night, wondering what went on in his mind, what made him tick. She wondered how a man who was so physically inconsequential — a man she might pass in the street without a second glance — could take up residence in her imagination so vividly. She wondered how he could be so ruthless, so disciplined. Did he really have a plan, or was he simply good at covering up a series of ad hoc reactions to unexpected events? The most dangerous people were those who knew they were always right. And yet Glinn had been always right. He seemed to know everything in advance, he seemed to understand everybody. He certainly had understood her — at least, the professional Sally Britton. Success now depends on a certain subordination of your authority as captain, he had said. She found herself wondering if he really knew how she felt about having her command subordinated, even temporarily, or if he even cared. She wondered why she cared that he cared.

She felt a shudder as pumps came on along both sides of the ship. Jets of seawater blasted through discharge pipes into the sea. The ship began to rise almost imperceptibly as the ballast tanks emptied. Of course: that's how the squat-looking tower would be raised to the level of the meteorite on the bluff. The whole ship would rise to meet it, bringing the platform flush with the rock. Again she felt humiliated at having control of the tanker taken from her, and yet awed at the audacity of the plan.

She remained stiffly at attention, speaking to no one, as the great ship rose in the water. It was a strange feeling, to see the ship going through the traditional, motions of deballasting — lashing the sea suctions, aligning the loading arms, opening the manifold blocks — and yet seeing them as an observer rather than a participant. And to observe it under such circumstances — tethered to shore in the lee of a storm-went against everything she had ever learned in her career.