Douglas Preston - The Ice Limit

"A touch more to the left there, guv," said Puppup, stroking one mustache, squinting into the darkness.

"Left five degrees rudder," said Britton to the helmsman, without waiting for Howell.

The ship changed course almost imperceptibly.

Puppup peered out intently. The minutes ticked on. Then he bent his head toward Glinn. "We're out of it."

Britton watched him retreat again to the far shadows of the bridge. "Steady as she goes," she said. "All ahead flank."

The massive reports continued to echo crazily among the mountain peaks and silent glaciers, rolling and booming, gradually growing fainter. Soon they were heading into the open ocean.

Thirty minutes later, on the west side of Horn Island, they slowed just long enough to make a running recovery of the tender.

Then Britton spoke: "Take her round the Horn, Mr. Howell."

Cabo de Hornos came dimly into view and the sound of firing finally disappeared, swallowed by the howl of the wind and the thunder of the sea along the hull. It was over. Glinn had never once looked back at Desolation Island — at the bright lights of its works, at the machines that still raced furiously on their imaginary errands. Now, with the op completed, he felt his breathing pick up, his heart rate begin to increase again.

"Mr. Glinn?"

It was Britton. She was looking at him, her eyes luminous and intense.

"Yes?"

"How are you going to explain the sinking of a warship of a foreign nation?"

"They fired first. We acted in self-defense. Besides, our charges only knocked out their steerage. The panteonero will sink them."

"That isn't going to cut it. We'll be lucky not to spend the rest of our lives in prison."

"I respectfully disagree, Captain. Everything we've done has been legal. Everything. We were a legal mining operation. We recovered an ore body, a meteorite, it so happens, which fell well within the legal language of our mining contract with Chile. From the very beginning, we were harassed, forced to pay bribes, and threatened. One of our men was murdered. Finally, as we departed, we were fired upon by a freelancing warship. And yet, during this entire period, there was no warning to us from the Chilean government, no official communication whatsoever. I assure you, we're going to lodge the strongest possible protest with the State Department on our return. We've been treated outrageously." He paused, then added with the faintest of smiles, "You don't really think our government will see it any other way, do you?"

Britton continued regarding him, her eyes quite beautifully green, for what seemed a long time. Now she came close and spoke in his ear.

"You know what?" she whispered. "I think you're certifiable."

There was, Glinn thought, a note of admiration in her voice.

Rolvaag ,

4:00 A.M.

PALMER LLOYD sat in his study, slouched deep in the lone upright wing chair, his broad back to the door. His custommade English shoes, now dry, had nudged the useless phone and laptop to one comer of the small table. Outside the bank of windows, a faint phosphorescence lay across the violent surface of the ocean, throwing rippling patterns of green light around the darkened study, giving the impression that the room lay on the bottom of the sea.

Lloyd gazed out motionlessly at that faint light. He had sat motionless through it all: the firing of the guns, the brief chase with the Chilean destroyer, the explosions, the tempestuous trip around the Cape.

With a soft click, the lights in the study came on, instantly turning the stormscape beyond the windows to an indistinct black. In the private office beyond, the wall of television sets lit up, suddenly crowded with dozens of silent talking heads. Further, in the suite of offices, a telephone rang; then another, and another. Still Palmer Lloyd did not move.

Even Lloyd could not say precisely what was going through his mind. Over the dark hours, there had been anger, of course; there had been frustration, humiliation, denial. All these feelings he understood. Glinn had summarily removed him from the bridge, clipped his wings, left him powerless. Such a thing had never happened to him before. What he could not quite understand — what he could not explain — was the growing feeling of joy that shot through all these other feelings, suffusing them like light through a screen. The loading of the rock, the disabling of the Chilean ship, had been a magnificent piece of work.

Under the unexpected glare of self-examination, Lloyd realized that Glinn had been correct to send him away. His own bull-in-a-china-shop methods would have been disastrous alongside such a carefully balanced scheme. And now the lights were back on. Glinn's message to him was crystal clear.

He remained still, a fixed spot at the center of freshly renewed activity, and thought about his past successes. This, too, would be a success. Thanks to Glinn.

And who had hired Glinn? Who had chosen the right man — the only man — for the job? Despite the humiliation, Lloyd congratulated himself on his choice. He had chosen well. He had succeeded. The meteorite was safely aboard. With the destroyer out of action, nothing could stop them. Soon, they would be in international waters. And then it was a straight shot to New York. There would be an uproar, of course, when they returned to the States. But he relished a good fight — especially when he was in the right.

He inhaled deeply, as the feeling of joy continued to swell. The phone on his desk began to ring, but still he ignored it. There was a tapping at the door, no doubt Penfold; he ignored that too. A violent gust shook the windows, splattering them with rain and sleet. And then at last Lloyd stood up, dusted himself off, and squared his shoulders. Not yet, but soon — very soon — it would be time to return to the bridge and congratulate Glinn on his — on their — success.

Almirante Ramirez ,

4:10 A.M.

COMANDANTE VALLENAR stared into the blackness of the Cape Horn night, gripping the engine-room telegraph, steadying himself against the steep rolling of the ship. It was all too clear what had happened... and why.

Pushing the fury to the back of his consciousness, he concentrated on a mental calculation. In the sixty-knot panteonero, the destroyer's windage would produce a two-knot drift; combine that with the two-knot easterly set of the current, and he had about one hour before his ship was thrust onto the reefs beyond Isla Deceit.

Behind him, he could feel the silence of his officers. They were awaiting the orders to abandon ship. They were going to be disappointed.

Vallenar took a breath, controlling himself with an iron will. When he spoke to the officer of the deck, his voice was steady, without quaver. "Damage assessment, Mr. Santander."

"It is difficult to say, Comandante. Both screws appear to be stripped. Rudder damaged but functional. No hull breach reported. But the ship has lost headway and steerage. We are dead in the water, sir."

"Send two divers over the side. Report specific damage to the screws."

This order was greeted with a deeper silence. Vallenar turned, very slowly, raking the assembled officers with his eyes.

"Sir, it will be death to send anyone overboard in this sea." said the officer of the deck.

Vallenar held him in his gaze. Unlike the others, Santander was relatively new to his command: a mere six months spent here at the bottom of the world. "Yes," said Vallenar, "I see the problem. We cannot have that."

The man smiled.

"Send a team of six. That way, at least one should survive to complete the job."

The smile vanished.

"That's a direct order. Disobey, and you will be leading that team."

"Yes, sir," said the officer of the deck.

"There is a large wooden crate in along the starboard side of Forward Hold C, marked `40 mm ordnance.' Inside is a spare screw." Vallenar had prepared for many emergencies, the loss of a screw included. Hiding spare parts aboard ship was a good way to get around the corrupt officials of the Punta Arenas Navy Yard. "After documenting the damage, you will cut what sections you need from the spare screw. Divers will weld these sections to the damaged screws to give us propulsion. We will be on the shoals of Isla Deceit in less than sixty minutes. There will be no order given to abandon ship. There will be no distress call. You will either give me propulsion, or all hands will go down with the ship."