Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"Close the mechanical doors," Britton said crisply. "Slip cable, Mr. Howell. Smartly. Set course one three five."

There was a fresh set of explosions, and the great hawsers that moored the ship to the cliff dropped away, swinging lazily toward the bluff.

"Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one three five," said Howell.

Almirante Ramirez ,

3:55 A.M.

JUST OVER a mile away, Comandante Vallenar paced his own bridge. It was unheated, and, as he preferred, manned with the minimum complement. He stared out the forward windows toward the ship's castillo , the forecastle. He could see nothing through the lightening fog. Then, abruptly, he veered toward the oficial de guardia en la mer, the conning officer, who was standing in the radar alcove. He leaned over his shoulder to scrutinize the forward-looking infrared radar. The tanker's signature showed him nothing he did not already know, and answered none of his questions. Why was the ship still moored to the shore? In the gathering storm, it had become increasingly dangerous to remain. Could they be attempting to move the meteorite toward the ship? No — before the fog had moved in, he'd watched them struggling ineffectively with it in the island's interior. Even now, he could hear the frantic grinding of machinery. And the chatter of talk over the shore radio was continuing. Still, it seemed foolish to endanger the ship by leaving it strung to shore. And the man Glinn was no fool.

What, then, was going on?

Earlier, the loud thud of propeller blades had sounded over the wind as a helicopter hovered nearby, landed, then departed. There had been the sound of nearby explosions — much smaller than those from the island, but apparently originating from the vicinity of the ship. Or perhaps from the ship itself. Could there have been some accident on board? Were there casualties? Had Timmer commandeered a weapon and tried to escape?

He turned from the ancient green radar screen and gazed intently into the darkness. Through the flickering tatters of fog and sleet, he thought he glimpsed lights. The fog was lifting and he would soon have visual contact with the ship. He blinked hard, then looked again. The lights were gone. Wind whipped against the ship, whistling and crying. Vallenar had heard that cry before. It was a panteonero .

He'd already ignored several orders to return to base, each more urgent, more threatening, than the last. It was the corruption, the bribed officials, calling him back. By the Mother of God, they would thank him in the end.

He could feel the movement of his ship in the heavy swell, a corkscrew motion that he did not like. The anchor to the uncharted underwater ledge held — the best anchorage, the only anchorage, in the Franklin Channel.

What was going on?

He would not wait for noon to get an answer about Timmer. At first light, he would fire a few four-inch shells high into their bows — nothing that would sink the ship, of course, but enough to disable it and get their attention. Then he would deliver an ultimatum: hand over Timmer or die.

Something flickered through the parting sheets of fog. He stared, face close to the glass. There they were again: lights, no doubt of it. He strained into the darkness. The fog and sleet whipped past, but he saw it again, fleetingly; and then again. Now, the outline of the great ship was becoming visible in the lifting murk. He raised his binoculars — and the ship disappeared. He cursed as he examined the blackness. And then, again, he saw lights: one light now, very faint.

The bastards had darkened ship.

What were they hiding?

He stepped backward, glancing at the FLIR scope, trying to pull some kind of meaning out of the blurry green smear. Something, he sensed, was about to happen. Perhaps the time to act was now.

He turned to the boatswain's mate. "Sound general quarters," he said.

The mate leaned into the IMC. "General quarters, general quarters, all hands man battle stations."

A claxon horn went off. Almost immediately, the jefe de la guardia en la mer , the tactical action officer, appeared on the bridge and saluted.

Vallenar opened a stores closet and pulled out a bulky set of Sovietski night-vision goggles. Strapping them in place around his head, he stepped toward the windows and peered out again. The Russian technology was not as good as the ITT devices made by the Americans, but then again they were not nearly as expensive. He glanced out toward the tanker.

With the goggles, he could see more clearly. Figures were scurrying across the deck, clearly making preparations to get under way. But, perplexingly, the greatest activity seemed to center around a large open hatch in the middle of the deck. Something was protruding from the hatchway; something Vallenar could not quite make out.

As he stared, there was a searing flicker of small explosions just above the open tank. The second-generation night goggles, unequipped with safety cutouts, overloaded in the glare. Vallenar staggered backward, clawing at the goggles, pulling them from his face and rubbing his eyes with a curse.

"Target by fire control," he called out to the tactical action officer. "Do not engage with four-inch guns until I so order."

There was a slight hesitation.

Although spots still swayed in front of his eyes, Vallenar turned sharply in the direction of the weapons officer. "Aye aye, sir," came the reply. "Targeted by fire control. Tracking data transferred to weapons system."

Vallenar turned to the conning officer. "Prepare to raise anchor."

"Aye, preparing to raise anchor."

"How is our fuel?"

"Fifty-five percent, sir."

Vallenar closed his eyes, letting the painful glare subside. He withdrew a cigar from his pocket, and spent a good three minutes lighting it. Then he turned back toward the window.

"The American ship is moving," said the conning officer, leaning over the radar.

Vallenar took a slow puff. High time. Perhaps they were finally going to anchor in safer water, in the lee up the channel. From there, they could ride out the storm.

"It's moving away from the bluff."

Vallenar waited.

"Turning... Bearing zero eight five now."

The wrong direction for the lee water up channel. Still Vallenar waited, a sudden, cold dread in his heart. Five minutes passed.

"Still bearing zero eight five, accelerating to four knots."

"Keep tracking," he murmured. The dread gripped him tighter now.

"Target turning, moving five knots, bearing one one five, one two zero, one two five —"

Accelerating fast for a tanker, he thought. But it didn't matter what kind of engines the massive ship sported; outrunning a destroyer was a physical impossibility.

He turned away from the windows. "Aim forward of the king posts, above the waterline. I want the ship crippled, not sunk."

"The target is moving five knots, steadying at one three five."

Heading for open sea, Vallenar thought. That was it, then; Timmer was dead.

Casseo, the tactical action officer, spoke: "Maintaining tracking of target, sir."

Vallenar struggled to keep himself calm, to keep himself strong; to show nothing of himself to the men around him. Now, more than ever, he would need clarity.

He lowered the cigar, licked his dry lips.

"Prepare to fire," he said.

Rolvaag ,

3:55 A.M.

GLINN DREW in breath slowly, deliberately, feeling the steady rush of air fill his lungs. As always before an action, a preternatural calm settled over him. The ship was rigged for sea and the powerful engines hummed far beneath his feet. The destroyer sat low in the water, a bright spot in the gloom about twenty degrees aft of the port beam.

It would all be over within five minutes. But the timing would be everything.