The Ice Limit

circumstances, I will not allow that meteorite on board.'

'Captain Britton, if you will not speak privately with me, all I can do is assure you there is no need to worry.' Glinn nodded to his men. One of them stepped forward, sitting down at an unused computer console of black steel. The words SECURE DATAMETRICS were stamped into its side. The other man took up a position behind him, his back to the console, facing the bridge officers. McFarlane realized this console was a smaller cousin of the mysterious machine Britton had pointed out to him in the cargo control room.

Britton watched the two strangers darkly. 'Mr. Howell, remove all EES personnel from the bridge.'

'That,' said Glinn sorrowfully, 'will not be possible.'

Something in his tone seemed to make Britton hesitate. 'What do you mean?'

'The Rolvaag is a marvelous ship, the latest in maritime computerization. As a precaution, EES has used that computerization against a contingency such as this. You see, our systems control the main computer. Normally, this control is transparent. But after the Rolvaag was brought in to shore, I deactivated the bypass. Now we alone have the authorization codes to control the main engines. You cannot transmit any engine or rudder orders until the correct sequence is punched in.'

Britton looked at him, silent fury on her face.

Howell picked up a telephone on the command console. 'Security to the bridge, on the double.'

Britton turned to the watch officer. 'Initiate engine sequence.'

There was a pause as the officer entered a series of commands. 'No response from the engines, ma'am. I've got a dead board.'

'Run a diagnostic,' she said.

'Captain,' continued Glinn, 'I'm afraid you will be required to observe the letter of your contract whether you like it or not.'

She wheeled suddenly, her eyes locked on his. She said something to him in a voice too low for McFarlane to hear. Glinn stepped forward. 'No,' he almost whispered. 'You promised to captain this ship back to New York. I merely added a safeguard to prevent a violation of that promise — by you, or by others.'

Britton fell silent, her tall frame quivering slightly.

'If we leave now, rashly, without a plan, they will sink us.' Glinn's voice remained low, persuasive, urgent. 'Our very survival now depends on your following my lead. I know what I am doing.'

Britton continued looking at him. 'This will not stand.'

'Captain, you must believe me when I tell you that, if we are to survive, we have only one course of action. You must cooperate with me, or we will all die. It is as simple as that.'

'Captain,' the watch officer began, 'the diagnostics check out...' His voice died away as he saw Britton had not heard him.

A group of security officers appeared on the bridge.

'You heard the captain,' barked Howell, motioning the security team forward. 'Clear all EES personnel from the bridge.' At the console, Glinn's operatives stiffened in preparation.

And then Britton slowly held up a hand.

'Captain —' Howell began.

'They may remain. '

Howell looked at her incredulously, but Britton did not turn.

There was a long, agonized silence. Then Glinn nodded to his team.

The seated man took a stubby metal key from around his neck and inserted it into the front of the console. Glinn stepped forward, typed a short series of commands, then turned to a numeric keypad and typed again, briefly.

The watch officer glanced up. 'Sir, the board's gone green.'

Britton nodded. 'I hope to God you do know what you're doing.' She did not look at Glinn as she spoke.

'If you trust anything, Captain, I hope you will trust this. I have made a professional pact — and a personal one — to bring the meteorite to New York. I have thrown tremendous resources into solving any problem we might encounter — including this one. I — we — will not fail.'

If this had any impact on Britton, McFarlane could not see it. Her eyes remained distant.

Glinn stepped back. 'Captain, the next twelve hours will be the most trying of the entire mission. Success now depends on a certain subordination of your authority as captain. For that I apologize. But once the meteorite is safely in the holding tank, the ship will be yours again. And by noon tomorrow, we'll be well on our way back to New York. With a prize beyond price.'

As Glinn looked at her, McFarlane saw him smile: faint, tenuous, but there nonetheless.

Banks stepped out of the radio room. 'I've got an ID on the bird, ma'am. It's a Lloyd Holdings helicopter, sending an encrypted call sign over the bridge-to-bridge frequency.'

The smile vanished from Glinn's face. He darted a look at McFarlane. Don't look at me, McFarlane almost said. You should have kept him in the loop.

The officer at the radar console adjusted his headphones. 'Captain, he's requesting permission to land.'

'ETA?'

'Thirty minutes.'

Glinn turned. 'Captain, if you don't mind, I have a few matters to attend to. Make any necessary preparations for our departure you see fit. I'll return shortly.'

He began walking away, leaving the two EES employees at the console. In the doorway, he paused. 'Dr. McFarlane,' he said, without looking around. 'Mr. Lloyd will be expecting a welcome. Arrange it, if you please.'

Rolvaag,

12:30 A.M.

WITH A depressing sense of deja vu, McFarlane paced the maindeck, waiting for the helicopter to approach the tanker. For interminable minutes, there was nothing more than a low thud of rotors somewhere out in the murk. McFarlane watched the frenzied activity that had begun the moment the fog concealed their ship from the Almirante Ramirez. The bluff loomed beside them, the crags of rock softened by the fog. Atop stood the shack that enclosed the meteorite. Before him, the center tank lay open. A pale light drifted upward. McFarlane watched while, with astonishing speed, swarms of workmen began assembling a tower of gleaming struts. It rose out of the tank, its metal latticework glowing softly in the sodium lights. Now, two derricks swung additional prefabricated pieces of tower into place. At least a dozen welders were at work on the tower, and continuous streams of sparks cascaded downward onto the hard hats and shoulders of the engineers below. Despite its size and bulk, the whole structure looked oddly delicate: a complex spiderweb of three dimensions. For the life of him, McFarlane could not see how the meteorite was going to get into the tank once it was dragged on top of the tower.

The thudding sound grew suddenly louder, and McFarlane trotted back along the superstructure to the fantail. The big Chinook was emerging out of the fog, its rotors sending billows of fine spray up from the deck. A man with coned flashlights in his hands maneuvered the bird into position. It was a routine landing, with none of the excitement of Lloyd's arrival during their stormy rounding of Cape Horn.

Moodily, he watched as the helicopter's oversize tires sank onto the pad. Acting as a gofer between Lloyd and Glinn was a no-win situation. He wasn't a liaison: he was a scientist. This wasn't why he had hired on, and the knowledge made him angry.

A hatchway in the helicopter's belly opened. Lloyd stood within, a long black cashmere coat billowing out behind him, a gray fedora in one hand. Landing lights gleamed off his wet pate. He made the jump, landing gracefully for a man of his size, and then strode across the deck, unbowed, powerful, oblivious to the jumble of equipment and staff that streamed out of the chopper on the hydraulic ramp deployed behind him. He grasped McFarlane's hand in his steel grip, smiled and nodded, and continued walking. McFarlane followed him across the windswept deck and out of the noise of the blades. Near the forward railing, Lloyd stopped, scanning the fantastical tower from bottom to top. 'Where's Glinn?' he shouted.