Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

He turned his gaze toward the corner of the bridge. Puppup was standing in the shadows, hands folded, waiting. Now he came forward at Glinn's nod.

"Yes?"

"I'll need you to stand ready to assist the helmsman. We may have to make abrupt changes to our course, and we'll need your expertise with the currents and underwater topography."

"The underwater what?"

"Where the reefs are, where it's shallow, where it's deep enough to pass safely."

Puppup seemed to accept this. Then he looked up at Glinn, eyes bright.

"Guv?"

"Yes."

"My canoe only draws six inches. I never had to worry about any of that lot."

"I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that the tides here run thirty feet, and it's high tide. You know where the wrecks are and the sunken ledges. Be ready."

"Very well, guv."

Glinn watched as the little man slunk back into the shadows. Then his glance flickered toward Britton, at the command station with Howell and the deck officer. She was indeed a fine woman, a good captain, everything he had known she would be. The way she'd reacted when he temporarily abrogated her authority — that, above all, had impressed him deeply. There was a great dignity and self-control in her bearing, even as she relinquished command. He wondered if it was innate, or the result of her earlier disgrace.

On impulse, he had early on picked up a book of W.H. Auden's poetry from the ship's library. He was not a reader of poetry; it had always seemed a nonproductive pursuit. He'd turned to something called "In Praise of Limestone," with its vague promise of engineering. It had been a revelatory experience. He'd had no idea of the power of poetry: of how much feeling, thought, even wisdom could be imparted in such compact language. It occurred to him that it would be interesting to discuss this with Britton. After all, it had been her Auden quotation during their first meeting that had led him to the book.

All these thoughts occupied Glinn's mind for less than a second. They vanished at the low sound of an alarm. Britton spoke, her voice distinct but calm: "The warship's painting us with high PRF fire-control radar." She turned to Howell. "Sound stations."

Howell repeated the command. Another siren went off, much louder.

Glinn stepped lightly toward his man at the computer console. "Jam it," he murmured.

He felt Britton's eyes flicker toward him. "Jam it?" she repeated, a trace of sarcasm mingling with the tension in her voice. "May I ask with what?"

"With the McDonnell-Douglas Blackout Series Wide-Band ECM system on your mast. He's going to fire on us with his guns, or perhaps even launch an Exocet. We have chaff and CIWS, to take care of any missile launch."

This time, Howell turned to look at him incredulously. "Close-In Weapons System? There's nothing like that on our ship."

"Under those forward bulkheads." Glinn nodded to his man. "Time to shed our clothes."

The man typed a few commands and there was a sharp crack forward. Glinn watched as the bulkheads peeled off and fell into the sea, just as planned, exposing the six stubby barrels of the Phallanx Gatling guns which, Glinn knew, could fire 20-millimeter rounds of depleted uranium at an incoming missile at a rate in excess of 3,000 rounds per minute.

"Jesus," said Howell, "that's classified hardware."

"Indeed."

"Additional security equipment, I believe he once called it," Britton said with a trace of irony.

Glinn turned back toward her. "At the moment we begin jamming, I suggest you bring her head hard to starboard."

"Evasive action?" Howell said. "With this ship? It takes three miles just to stop."

"I'm well aware of that. Do it anyway."

Britton spoke. "Mr. Howell, bring her head hard to starboard."

Howell turned to the helmsman. "Hard right rudder, starboard engine back emergency full, port engine emergency ahead."

Britton looked at Glinn's man. "Employ all countermeasures. If he fires a missile, deploy chaff, CIWS, as necessary. "

There was a delay, then a shudder, as the ship began to slow and turn.

"This isn't going to work," Howell muttered.

Glinn did not bother to answer. He knew that, in fact, the tactic would work. Even if the electronic countermeasures failed, Vallenar would be aiming high at the bow, where it would cause the most excitement with the least damage. He wouldn't try to sink the Rolvaag — not yet, at any rate.

A long two minutes passed in the darkness. Then there was an eruption of light along the side of the destroyer as its four-inch guns fired. Some tense seconds later, there was an explosion off the Rolvaag 's port bow, and another, and a third, faint geysers of water rising in the darkness and twisting away in the wind. Glinn noted that, as he expected, the shells were going wide.

The officers on the bridge exchanged pale, shocked glances. Glinn watched them with sympathy. He knew that, even in the best of circumstances, coming under fire for the first time was traumatic.

"I'm getting movement on the destroyer," Howell said, staring at the radar.

"May I suggest all ahead flank, steady course one eight zero," Glinn said gently.

The helmsman did not repeat the order, instead glancing over at the captain. "That'll take us out of the main channel, inside the reefs," he said, voice wavering ever so slightly. "They're uncharted..."

Glinn motioned to Puppup.

"Yes, guv?"

"We're taking the reef side of the channel."

"Sure thing." Puppup skipped over to stand beside the helmsman.

Britton sighed. "Execute the order."

Surf crashed into the bow, sending foam across the deck. Puppup peered out into the dark.

"Take it a little to the left, there."

"Make it so, Mr. Howell," Britton said tersely.

"Left five degrees rudder," said Howell, "steady on course one seven five."

There was a moment of strained silence. Then the helmsman spoke. "Aye, sir, steady at one seven five."

Howell leaned over the radar. "They're picking up speed, up to twelve knots now to our eight." He stared hard at Glinn. "What the hell's your plan now?" he asked. "You think we can outrun that bastard? You crazy? In a few minutes he'll be close enough to sink us with his four-inchers, despite our jamming."

"Mr. Howell!" Britton said sharply. The chief mate fell silent.

Glinn glanced at his man at the computer. "Armed?" he asked.

The man nodded.

"Wait for my signal."

Glinn looked out through the window at the destroyer. He, too, could see it was now moving faster through the water. Even an old warship like that could do thirty-four knots. It was a beautiful sight, in the dark at least: the brilliant cluster of lights, the "bone in the throat," the watery reflections off the underside of the gun turrets. He waited another moment, letting the destroyer build up plenty of headway.

"Fire in the hole."

It was gratifying to see the two sudden geysers of water rip along the destroyer's stern; to see the high wind carry the water right across the flying bridge; and, more gratifying still, to hear the twin reports, barely seven seconds later. He watched as the destroyer began to swing broadside to the swell.

With both screws stripped, Comandante Vallenar would swiftly end up on the rocks. Glinn wondered, with faint amusement, how Vallenar would now explain the loss of his ship. Assuming he survived, of course.

There was a report from the destroyer, and then another: it was firing its four-inch guns again. Then the reports were punctuated with the higher sound of 40-millimeter cannon. In a moment, all the ship's guns were firing in a furious gesture of impotent rage, the cluster of flashes like manic strobes against the velvety darkness of the sea. But with the Almirante Ramirez 's radar useless, their steerage gone, their ship wallowing broadside to a heavy sea, and the Rolvaag in blackout, slipping away into the dark night on a new course, their shots were, naturally, going wild.