The Ice Limit

A wild gust of wind sent rain rattling against the windows.

'Well, it sure isn't some hobbyist in a Cessna,' Britton murmured. 'Could it be a commercial aircraft, straying off course?'

'Unlikely. The only things that fly down here are chartered puddle jumpers. And they'd never be up in something like this.'

Nobody answered. Except for the howl of the wind and the crash of the sea, the bridge remained completely silent for the space of a minute.

'Bearing?' the captain asked again, more quietly. 'Still dead on, ma'am.'

She nodded slowly. 'Very well. Sound stations, Mr. Howell.'

Suddenly, the communications officer, Banks, leaned out of the radio room. 'That bird out there? It's a Lloyd Holdings helicopter.'

'Are you sure?' Britton asked.

'I've verified the call sign.' 'Mr. Banks, contact that chopper.'

Glinn cleared his throat. As McFarlane watched, he replaced the folded sheet into his jacket. Throughout the sudden excitement he had shown neither alarm nor surprise. 'I think,' he said quietly, 'you had better prepare a landing area.'

The captain stared at him. 'In this weather?'

Banks stepped back out of the radio room. 'They're requesting permission to land, ma'am.'

'I don't believe it,' Howell cried. 'We're in the middle of a Force 8 gale.'

'I don't believe you have a choice,' Glinn said.

Over the next ten minutes, there was an explosion of activity as preparations were made for a landing. When McFarlane arrived at the hatchway leading out onto the fantail, Glinn at his side, a stern-looking crewman wordlessly issued them safety harnesses. McFarlane tugged the bulky thing on and snapped it into place. The crewman gave it a quick tug, grunted his approval, then undogged the hatch.

As McFarlane stepped through, the blast of wind threatened to carry him over the railing. With an effort, he snapped his harness to the external railing and moved toward the landing pad. Crewmen were stationed along the deck, their harnesses securely strapped to the metal railings. Even though the ship had throttled back her engines to just enough power to claw a steerageway through the seas, the deck pitched. A dozen flares were snapped on and placed around the perimeter, fitful sprays of crimson against the driving sleet and snow.

'There it is!' somebody cried.

McFarlane squinted into the storm. In the distance, the huge form of a Chinook helicopter hung in the air, running lights glowing. As he watched, the helicopter approached, yawing from left to right as gusts of wind hit it. An alarm suddenly screamed nearby, and a series of orange warning lights lit up the Rolvaag's superstructure. McFarlane could hear the beat of the chopper's engines straining against the fury of the storm. Howell shouted directions through a bullhorn even as he kept the radio plastered to his face.

Now the chopper was banking into hover position. McFarlane could see the pilot in the nose, struggling with the controls. The sleet pelted them with the redoubled blast from the blades. The chopper's belly bucked from side to side as it gingerly approached the swaying deck. A violent gust sent it shearing to one side, and the pilot quickly banked away, coming around for a second attempt. There was a desperate moment where McFarlane felt sure the pilot would lose control, but then its tires settled onto the pad and crewmen rushed to place wooden chocks beneath its wheels. The cargo door rolled open. A flurry of men, women, machines, and equipment tumbled out.

And then McFarlane saw the unmistakable figure of Lloyd drop to the wet surface of the pad, larger than life in foul-weather gear and boots. He jogged from the underside of the aircraft, the sou'wester on his head whipping back in the storm. Catching sight of McFarlane and Glinn, he gave an enthusiastic wave. A crewman raced to secure a safety belt and harness to him, but Lloyd motioned him away. He walked up, wiping the rain from his face, and grasped McFarlane and Glinn by the hands.

'Gentlemen,' he boomed over the storm, a huge smile on his face. 'The coffee's on me.'

Rolvaag,

11:15 A.M.

GLANCING AT his watch, McFarlane entered the elevator and punched a button for the middle bridge deck. He'd passed this empty deck many times, wondering why Glinn had always kept it off-limits. Now, as the elevator rose smoothly, he realized what it had been reserved for. It was as if Glinn had known all along that Lloyd would be dropping in.

The elevator doors opened to a scene of frantic activity: the ringing of phones, the whirr of faxes and printers, and the bustle of people. There were several secretaries at desks ranged along one wall, men and women taking calls, typing at workstations, scuttling about on Lloyd Holdings business.

A man in a light-colored suit approached him, threading his way through the hubbub. McFarlane recognized the oversized ears, drooping mouth, and fat pursed lips as belonging to Penfold, Lloyd's personal assistant. Penfold never seemed to walk toward anything, but instead approached from an angle, as if a direct approach would be too brazen.

'Dr. McFarlane?' Penfold said in his high, nervous voice. 'This way, please.'

He led McFarlane through a door, down a corridor, and into a small sitting room, with black leather sofas arranged around a glass- and gold-leafed table. A door opened into yet another office, and from it McFarlane could hear Lloyd's basso profundo voice.

'Please sit down,' said Penfold. 'Mr. Lloyd will be with you shortly.' He vanished, and McFarlane settled back into the creaking leather sofa. There was a wall of television sets tuned to various news channels from around the world. The latest magazines lay on the table: Scientific American, the New Yorker, and the New Republic. McFarlane picked one up, began flipping through it absently, then put it down again. Why had Lloyd come down so abruptly? Had something gone wrong?

'Sam!' Looking up, he saw the huge man standing in the doorway, filling it with his bulk, radiating power, good humor, and boundless self-confidence.

McFarlane rose. Lloyd moved toward him, beaming, arms outstretched. 'Sam, it's fine to see you again.' He squeezed McFarlane's shoulders between his beefy palms and examined him, still gripping his shoulders. 'I can't tell you how exciting it is to be here. Come in.'

McFarlane followed Lloyd's broad back, beautifully draped in Valentino. Lloyd's inner office was spare: a row of windows, the cold light of the Antarctic regions flooding in, two simple wing chairs, a desk with a phone, a laptop computer — and two wineglasses beside a freshly opened bottle of Chateau Margaux.

Lloyd gestured at the wine. 'Care for a glass?'

McFarlane grinned, and nodded. Lloyd poured the ruby liquid into a glass, filling another for himself. He settled his bulk into a chair, and held his glass up. 'Cheers.'

They clinked and McFarlane sipped the exquisite wine. He wasn't much of a connoisseur, but even the grossest palate could appreciate this.

'I hate Glinn's habit of keeping me in the dark,' Lloyd said. 'Why wasn't I told about this being a dry ship, Sam? Or about Britton's history? I can't fathom Glinn's thinking on this one. He should have briefed me back in Elizabeth. Thank God there's been no problem.'

'She's an excellent captain,' McFarlane said. 'She's handled the ship with great skill. Knows it inside and out. Crew respects the hell out of her. Doesn't take guff from anybody, either.'

Lloyd listened, frowning. 'That's good to know.' The phone buzzed. Lloyd picked it up. 'Yes?' he said impatiently. 'I'm in a meeting.'

There was a pause while Lloyd listened. McFarlane watched him, thinking that what Lloyd had said about Glinn was true. Secretiveness was a habit with Glinn — or, perhaps, an instinct.

'I'll call the senator back,' Lloyd said after a moment. 'And no more calls.' He strode over to the window and stood, hands clasped behind his back. Although the worst of the storm had passed, the panoramic windows remained streaked with sleet. 'Magnificent,' Lloyd breathed, something like reverence in his voice. 'To think we'll be at the island within the hour. Christ, Sam, we're almost there!'