Lloyd glanced over at Glinn. He was standing beside Puppup, hands clasped behind his back, his face the usual mask of indifference. Still, Lloyd felt sure he could see a smugness lingering in those impassive eyes. As well it should. They were minutes from one of the greatest scientific and engineering achievements of the twentieth century. He waited, not rushing it.
He glanced around the rest of the company: the crew of the watch, tired but satisfied, anticipating their relief. Chief Mate Howell, inscrutable. McFarlane and Amira, standing together silently. Even the crafty old doctor, Brambell, had emerged from his hole belowdecks. It was as if, on some unspoken signal, they had assembled to witness something momentous.
Lloyd straightened up, a small gesture meant to attract attention. He waited until all eyes were on him, then turned to Glinn.
"Mr. Glinn, may I offer you my heartfelt congratulations," he said.
Glinn bowed slightly. Smiles and glances went around the bridge.
At that moment the bridge door opened and a steward came in, wheeling a stainless-steel cart. The neck of a champagne bottle peeked out from an urn of crushed ice. A dozen crystal glasses were racked up beside it.
Lloyd rubbed his hands together delightedly. "Eli, you liar. You may be an old woman about some things, but your timing today has been exquisite."
"I did tell an untruth when I said I'd only brought one bottle along. Actually, I brought a case."
"Marvelous! Let's have at it, then."
"We'll have to make do with this single bottle. This is a ship's bridge. Fear not — the moment we reach New York Harbor, I'll uncork the other ten myself. Meanwhile, please do the honors." And he gestured toward the cart.
Lloyd strode over, slid the bottle out of the ice, and held it up with a grin.
"Don't drop it this time, guv," Puppup said, almost inaudibly.
Lloyd looked at Britton. "How much longer?"
"Three minutes."
The wind beat against the windows. The panteonero was growing, but — Britton had informed him — they would round Staten Island and be in the lee of Tierra del Fuego long before the southwesterly wind shifted to the more dangerous northwest. He unwired the cork and waited, the bottle cold in his hand.
For a moment, the only sounds on the bridge were the moan of the wind and the distant thundering of the ocean. Then Britton looked up from the screen and glanced at Howell, who nodded his affirmation.
"The Rolvaag has just crossed into international waters," she said quietly.
A small cheer erupted. Lloyd popped the cork and began pouring judicious measures all around.
Suddenly the grinning face of Puppup appeared before Lloyd, his skinny arms holding up two glasses. "Right here, guv. One for me and one for me friend." He ducked his head.
Lloyd emptied the bottle into the glasses. "Who's your friend?" he asked, smiling indulgently. The man's role, though not large, had been crucial. He would find him a good job at the Lloyd Museum, in maintenance perhaps, or even security. Or maybe, as the last surviving Yaghan Indian, there might be something even better. Perhaps he should consider some kind of exhibit, after all. It would be tasteful and correct — a far cry from those nineteenth-century exhibitions of primitive people-but it could be a draw. Especially with Puppup on hand as the last living example. Yes, he would have to think about it...
"Hanuxa," Puppup answered, with another duck and grin. Lloyd looked up in time to see his rabbitlike retreat, drinking two-fistedly from both glasses.
The chief mate's voice broke through the hubbub. "I've got a surface contact at thirty-two miles, bearing three one five true at twenty knots."
Instantly, the conversation ceased. Lloyd glanced over at Glinn, eager for assurance, and felt a prickly sensation stir in his gut. The man had an expression on his face he had never seen before: a look of sick surprise.
"Glinn?" he said. "It's some merchant vessel, right?"
Without answering, Glinn turned to his operative at the EES console and spoke a few words in an undertone.
"It's the Almirante Ramirez," said Britton in an undertone.
"What? How can you know that from the radar?" Lloyd asked, the prickly sensation turning into a flush of disbelief.
Britton looked at him. "There's no way to tell for sure, but it's in the right place at the right time. Most shipping would be heading through the Strait of Le Maire, particularly in this weather. But this one's coming after us, with all it's got."
Lloyd watched as Glinn conferred with the man at the computer. There was the faint sound of a dial tone, of highspeed dialing, the hiss of a digital handshake.
"I thought you put that son of a bitch out of action," Lloyd said.
Glinn straightened up, and Lloyd was immediately reassured to see that the collected, confident expression had returned to his face. "Our friend proves unusually resourceful."
"Resourceful?"
"Comandante Vallenar has managed to repair his vessel, at least partly. Quite an achievement. I can scarcely believe it possible. But it makes no difference."
"Why not?" Britton asked.
"It's all in the computer profile. He will not pursue us into international waters."
"That's a rather arrogant prediction, if you ask me. The man's crazy. He might do anything."
"You are in error. Comandante Vallenar, despite everything, is a naval officer at heart. He prides himself on his honor and loyalty, and on a set of abstract military ideals. For all these reasons, he will not pursue us beyond the line. To do so would be to embarrass Chile — and create an unpleasant incident with his country's largest supplier of foreign aid. Furthermore, he will not take a crippled ship too deeply into a building storm."
"So why's he still coming?"
"Two reasons. First, he doesn't know our exact location, and he still hopes to cut us off before we reach international waters. Second, our comandante is a man of the noble gesture. Like a dog running to the end of his chain knowing his quarry is out of reach, he will drive full bore to the edge of his country's waters, then turn back."
"Fancy analysis," said Britton, "but is it right?"
"Yes," said Glinn, "it is right." His voice was serene with conviction.
Lloyd smiled. "I've made the mistake of not trusting you before. I'm satisfied. If you say he won't cross, he won't cross."
Britton said nothing. Glinn turned to her with a personal, almost intimate gesture, and Lloyd was surprised to see him clasp her hands gently. He did not quite catch Glinn's words, but Britton appeared to flush.
"All right," she said, in a voice that was just audible.
Puppup suddenly appeared, both glasses empty, holding them up in a supplicating gesture. Lloyd glanced at him, noticing the way he unconsciously kept his balance despite an unusually heavy roll of the deck. "Any more, then?" the Yaghan asked. "For me and me friend, I mean."
There was no time to answer. There was a sudden vibration, a subsonic boom, that shook the very frame of the tanker. The bridge lights flickered, and the banks of monitors sank into a wash of gray electronic snow. Immediately, Britton and the rest of the officers were at their stations. "What the hell was that?" Lloyd asked sharply.
No one answered him. Glinn had returned to his operative's side and was conferring with him in low, urgent tones. There was a deep vibration in the ship, almost like a groan. It was followed by another.
And then, as abruptly as it began, the disturbance ceased: the screens returned, the lights brightened and steadied. There was a chorus of chirps and whirrs as devices across the bridge rebooted.
"We don't know what it was," Britton said, finally answering Lloyd's question. Her eyes swept over the instrumentation. "Some kind of general malfunction. An explosion, perhaps. It seems to have affected all ship's systems." She turned to the chief mate. "I want a damage assessment right away."
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