Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

At this thought, a fresh spasm of rage ripped through his body. But Lloyd closed his eyes against it, turning away, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Glinn had told him not to come; McFarlane had told him not to come. But he had come anyway. Just as he had leapt onto the meteorite when it was first exposed. He thought of what had happened to the man named Timmer, and he shuddered.

Perhaps coming down again, guns blazing, had not been the right thing to do. It was impulsive, and Lloyd knew enough about himself to know he was not normally an impulsive man. He was too close to this: it had become too personal. J.P. Morgan once said, "If you want something too much, you will not succeed in getting it." He had always lived by that philosophy: he had never been afraid to walk away from a deal, no matter how lucrative. The ability to fold a hand, even with four aces, had been his most valuable business asset. Now, for the first time in his life, he had drawn a hand that he could not fold. He was in the game to the finish, win or lose.

Lloyd found himself fighting an unfamiliar battle: a struggle to steady his mind. He considered that he had not made $34 billion by being unreasonable and hot-tempered. He had always avoided second-guessing his hired professionals. In this terrible moment of humiliation, defeat, and self-reflection, he realized that Glinn might, in fact, have been acting in his best interests by sending him from the bridge and cutting him off from the world. But even this thought touched off another wave of anger. Best interests or not, the man had been arrogant and high-handed. Glinn's coolness, his unflappability, his assumption of leadership, enraged Lloyd. He had been humiliated in front of everyone, and he would never forget nor forgive it. When all this was over, there would be a reckoning for Glinn, financial and otherwise.

But first they had to get the meteorite the hell out of there. And Glinn seemed to be the only man who could do it.

Rolvaag ,

3:40 A.M.

CAPTAIN BRITTON, the meteorite will be inside the holding tank within ten minutes. The ship will be yours, and we can depart."

Glinn's words broke the long hush that had fallen over the bridge. Like the others, McFarlane had been staring at the slow, regular progress of the meteorite into the belly of the Rolvaag .

For another minute, maybe two, Britton stood unmoving, statuesque, staring out the windows of the bridge as she had ever since Lloyd's departure. At last she turned and looked directly at Glinn. After a significant moment she turned toward the second officer. "Wind speed?"

"Thirty knots from the southwest, gusting to forty, and rising."

"Currents?"

The murmured exchange continued, while Glinn leaned toward his man at the computer console: "Have Puppup and Amira report to me here, please."

There was another rapid series of explosions. The ship lurched, and the ballast pumps rumbled to compensate.

"There's a weather front coming in," Howell murmured. "We're losing our fog."

"Visibility?" Britton asked.

"Rising to five hundred yards."

"Position of the warship?"

"Unchanged at twenty-two hundred yards, zero five one."

A gust of wind hit the ship hard. Then there was a vast, hollow boom, different from anything McFarlane had felt before, and a shudder seemed to run through the very spine of the vessel.

"The hull just hit the bluff," said Britton quietly.

"We can't move yet," replied Glinn. "Will the hull stand it?"

"For a while," Britton answered expressionlessly. "Perhaps."

A door at the far end of the bridge opened and Rachel entered. She looked around, her bright alert eyes quickly sizing up the situation. She came up beside McFarlane. "Garza better get that thing in the tank before we're holed," she muttered.

There was another series of explosions, and the meteorite dropped farther. Its base was now hidden inside the frame of the ship.

"Dr. McFarlane," Glinn said without turning around. "Once the meteorite is secured in the tank, it becomes yours. I want you and Amira to monitor it round the clock. Let me know if there's any change in readings, or in the meteorite's status. I don't want any more surprises from that rock."

"Right."

"The lab is ready, and there's an observation platform above the tank. If you need anything, let me know."

"More lightning now," the second officer broke in. "Ten miles out."

There was a moment of silence.

"Speed this up," Britton said suddenly to Glinn.

"Can't," murmured Glinn, almost absentmindedly.

"Visibility one thousand yards," said the second officer. "Wind speed increasing to forty knots."

McFarlane swallowed. Everything had been moving ahead with such predictable, clockwork precision that he'd almost been lulled into forgetting the danger. He remembered Lloyd's question: So how are you going to deal with that destroyer out there? How indeed? He wondered what Lloyd was doing, down in his darkened staterooms. He thought, with surprisingly little regret, about the probable loss of his $750,000 fee, given what he had said to Lloyd. It hardly mattered to him now — now that he had the rock.

Another crackle of explosions, and titanium struts flashed out, bouncing and skidding along the maindeck and ricocheting off the rails. He could hear the thunk of additional struts falling away into the tank. There were occasional ticks of gravel on the bridge windows now, picked off the nearby bluff by the rising wind. The panteonero was descending in earnest.

Glinn's radio squawked. "Two more feet and we'll have clearance," came the metallic voice of Garza.

"Stay on this channel. I want you to call out each drop."

Puppup opened the door and entered the bridge, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Visibility two thousand yards," said the second officer. "The fog's lifting fast. The warship will have visual contact with us at any moment."

McFarlane heard a rumble of thunder. It was drowned out by another great boom as the vessel made contact with the bluff for a second time.

"Increase RPM on main engines!" barked Britton. A new vibration was added to the mix.

"Eighteen inches to go," came Garza's voice from the maindeck.

"Lightning at five miles. Visibility twenty-five hundred yards."

"Initiate blackout," Glinn said.

Instantly, the brilliantly lit deck was plunged into darkness as the ship went black. The ambient light from the superstructure cast a dull glow over the meteorite, its top now barely visible. The whole ship was shaking — whether from the meteorite's descent, the rollers now crashing along its flank, or the wind, it was impossible for McFarlane to tell. There was another round of explosions, and the meteorite sank still lower. Both Britton and Glinn were calling out commands now; there was an awkward moment in which the ship seemed to have two masters. As the fog rolled back, McFarlane could see that the channel was a turmoil of whitecaps, heaved up and down by combers. His eyes remained glued to the nocturnal seascape beyond the windows, waiting for the sharp prow of the destroyer to materialize.

"Six inches," said Garza over the radio.

"Prepare to close the hatch," Glinn said.

There was a flash of lightning to the southwest, followed shortly by a faint rumble.

"Visibility four thousand yards. Lightning at two miles."

McFarlane became aware of Rachel, gripping his elbow hard. "Jesus, that's too close," she murmured.

And there it was: the destroyer off to the right, a dim cluster of lights, flickering through the storm. As McFarlane stared, the fog peeled away from the destroyer. It was stationary, lights ablaze, as if flaunting its presence. There was another explosion, another shudder.

"She's in," came Garza's voice.