The Ice Limit

know.'

'More lightning now,' the second officer broke in. 'Ten miles out.'

There was a moment of silence.

'Speed this up,' Britton said suddenly to Glinn.

'Can't,' murmured Glinn, almost absentmindedly.

'Visibility one thousand yards,' said the second officer. 'Wind speed increasing to forty knots.'

McFarlane swallowed. Everything had been moving ahead with such predictable, clockwork precision that he'd almost been lulled into forgetting the danger. He remembered Lloyd's question: So how are you going to deal with that destroyer out there? How indeed? He wondered what Lloyd was doing, down in his darkened staterooms. He thought, with surprisingly little regret, about the probable loss of his $750,000 fee, given what he had said to Lloyd. It hardly mattered to him now — now that he had the rock.

Another crackle of explosions, and titanium struts flashed out, bouncing and skidding along the maindeck and ricocheting off the rails. He could hear the thunk of additional struts falling away into the tank. There were occasional ticks of gravel on the bridge windows now, picked off the nearby bluff by the rising wind. The panteonero was descending in earnest.

Glinn's radio squawked. 'Two more feet and we'll have clearance,' came the metallic voice of Garza.

'Stay on this channel. I want you to call out each drop.'

Puppup opened the door and entered the bridge, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

'Visibility two thousand yards,' said the second officer. 'The fog's lifting fast. The warship will have visual contact with us at any moment.'

McFarlane heard a rumble of thunder. It was drowned out by another great boom as the vessel made contact with the bluff for a second time.

'Increase RPM on main engines!' barked Britton. A new vibration was added to the mix.

'Eighteen inches to go,' came Garza's voice from the maindeck.

'Lightning at five miles. Visibility twenty-five hundred yards.'

'Initiate blackout,' Glinn said.

Instantly, the brilliantly lit deck was plunged into darkness as the ship went black. The ambient light from the superstructure cast a dull glow over the meteorite, its top now barely visible. The whole ship was shaking — whether from the meteorite's descent, the rollers now crashing along its flank, or the wind, it was impossible for McFarlane to tell. There was another round of explosions, and the meteorite sank still lower. Both Britton and Glinn were calling out commands now; there was an awkward moment in which the ship seemed to have two masters. As the fog rolled back, McFarlane could see that the channel was a turmoil of whitecaps, heaved up and down by combers. His eyes remained glued to the nocturnal seascape beyond the windows, waiting for the sharp prow of the destroyer to materialize.

'Six inches,' said Garza over the radio.

'Prepare to close the hatch,' Glinn said.

There was a flash of lightning to the southwest, followed shortly by a faint rumble.

'Visibility four thousand yards. Lightning at two miles.'

McFarlane became aware of Rachel, gripping his elbow hard. 'Jesus, that's too close,' she murmured.

And there it was: the destroyer off to the right, a dim cluster of lights, flickering through the storm. As McFarlane stared, the fog peeled away from the destroyer. It was stationary, lights ablaze, as if flaunting its presence. There was another explosion, another shudder.

'She's in,' came Garza's voice.

'Close the mechanical doors,' Britton said crisply. 'Slip cable, Mr. Howell. Smartly. Set course one three five.'

There was a fresh set of explosions, and the great hawsers that moored the ship to the cliff dropped away, swinging lazily toward the bluff.

'Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one three five,' said Howell.

Almirante Ramirez,

3:55 A.M.

JUST OVER a mile away, Comandante Vallenar paced his own bridge. It was unheated, and, as he preferred, manned with the minimum complement. He stared out the forward windows toward the ship's castillo, the forecastle. He could see nothing through the lightening fog. Then, abruptly, he veered toward the oficial de guardia en la mer, the conning officer, who was standing in the radar alcove. He leaned over his shoulder to scrutinize the forward-looking infrared radar. The tanker's signature showed him nothing he did not already know, and answered none of his questions. Why was the ship still moored to the shore? In the gathering storm, it had become increasingly dangerous to remain. Could they be attempting to move the meteorite toward the ship? No — before the fog had moved in, he'd watched them struggling ineffectively with it in the island's interior. Even now, he could hear the frantic grinding of machinery. And the chatter of talk over the shore radio was continuing. Still, it seemed foolish to endanger the ship by leaving it strung to shore. And the man Glinn was no fool.

What, then, was going on?

Earlier, the loud thud of propeller blades had sounded over the wind as a helicopter hovered nearby, landed, then departed. There had been the sound of nearby explosions — much smaller than those from the island, but apparently originating from the vicinity of the ship. Or perhaps from the ship itself. Could there have been some accident on board? Were there casualties? Had Timmer commandeered a weapon and tried to escape?

He turned from the ancient green radar screen and gazed intently into the darkness. Through the flickering tatters of fog and sleet, he thought he glimpsed lights. The fog was lifting and he would soon have visual contact with the ship. He blinked hard, then looked again. The lights were gone. Wind whipped against the ship, whistling and crying. Vallenar had heard that cry before. It was a panteonero.

He'd already ignored several orders to return to base, each more urgent, more threatening, than the last. It was the corruption, the bribed officials, calling him back. By the Mother of God, they would thank him in the end.

He could feel the movement of his ship in the heavy swell, a corkscrew motion that he did not like. The anchor to the uncharted underwater ledge held — the best anchorage, the only anchorage, in the Franklin Channel.

What was going on?

He would not wait for noon to get an answer about Timmer. At first light, he would fire a few four-inch shells high into their bows — nothing that would sink the ship, of course, but enough to disable it and get their attention. Then he would deliver an ultimatum: hand over Timmer or die.

Something flickered through the parting sheets of fog. He stared, face close to the glass. There they were again: lights, no doubt of it. He strained into the darkness. The fog and sleet whipped past, but he saw it again, fleetingly; and then again. Now, the outline of the great ship was becoming visible in the lifting murk. He raised his binoculars — and the ship disappeared. He cursed as he examined the blackness. And then, again, he saw lights: one light now, very faint.

The bastards had darkened ship.

What were they hiding?

He stepped backward, glancing at the FLIR scope, trying to pull some kind of meaning out of the blurry green smear. Something, he sensed, was about to happen. Perhaps the time to act was now.

He turned to the boatswain's mate. 'Sound general quarters,' he said.

The mate leaned into the IMC. 'General quarters, general quarters, all hands man battle stations.'

A claxon horn went off. Almost immediately, the jefe de la guardia en la mer, the tactical action officer, appeared on the bridge and saluted.

Vallenar opened a stores closet and pulled out a bulky set of Sovietski night-vision goggles. Strapping them in place around his head, he stepped toward the windows and peered out again. The Russian technology was not as good as the ITT devices made by the Americans, but then again they were not nearly as expensive. He glanced out toward the tanker.

With the goggles, he could see more clearly. Figures were scurrying across the deck, clearly making