The Ice Limit

preparations to get under way. But, perplexingly, the greatest activity seemed to center around a large open hatch in the middle of the deck. Something was protruding from the hatchway; something Vallenar could not quite make out.

As he stared, there was a searing flicker of small explosions just above the open tank. The second-generation night goggles, unequipped with safety cutouts, overloaded in the glare. Vallenar staggered backward, clawing at the goggles, pulling them from his face and rubbing his eyes with a curse.

'Target by fire control,' he called out to the tactical action officer. 'Do not engage with four-inch guns until I so order.'

There was a slight hesitation.

Although spots still swayed in front of his eyes, Vallenar turned sharply in the direction of the weapons officer. 'Aye aye, sir,' came the reply. 'Targeted by fire control. Tracking data transferred to weapons system.'

Vallenar turned to the conning officer. 'Prepare to raise anchor.'

'Aye, preparing to raise anchor.'

'How is our fuel?'

'Fifty-five percent, sir.'

Vallenar closed his eyes, letting the painful glare subside. He withdrew a cigar from his pocket, and spent a good three minutes lighting it. Then he turned back toward the window.

'The American ship is moving,' said the conning officer, leaning over the radar.

Vallenar took a slow puff. High time. Perhaps they were finally going to anchor in safer water, in the lee up the channel. From there, they could ride out the storm.

'It's moving away from the bluff.'

Vallenar waited.

'Turning... Bearing zero eight five now.'

The wrong direction for the lee water up channel. Still Vallenar waited, a sudden, cold dread in his heart. Five minutes passed.

'Still bearing zero eight five, accelerating to four knots.'

'Keep tracking,' he murmured. The dread gripped him tighter now.

'Target turning, moving five knots, bearing one one five, one two zero, one two five —'

Accelerating fast for a tanker, he thought. But it didn't matter what kind of engines the massive ship sported; outrunning a destroyer was a physical impossibility.

He turned away from the windows. 'Aim forward of the king posts, above the waterline. I want the ship crippled, not sunk.'

'The target is moving five knots, steadying at one three five.'

Heading for open sea, Vallenar thought. That was it, then; Timmer was dead.

Casseo, the tactical action officer, spoke: 'Maintaining tracking of target, sir.'

Vallenar struggled to keep himself calm, to keep himself strong; to show nothing of himself to the men around him. Now, more than ever, he would need clarity.

He lowered the cigar, licked his dry lips.

'Prepare to fire,' he said.

Rolvaag,

3:55 A.M.

GLINN DREW in breath slowly, deliberately, feeling the steady rush of air fill his lungs. As always before an action, a preternatural calm settled over him. The ship was rigged for sea and the powerful engines hummed far beneath his feet. The destroyer sat low in the water, a bright spot in the gloom about twenty degrees aft of the port beam.

It would all be over within five minutes. But the timing would be everything.

He turned his gaze toward the corner of the bridge. Puppup was standing in the shadows, hands folded, waiting. Now he came forward at Glinn's nod.

'Yes?'

'I'll need you to stand ready to assist the helmsman. We may have to make abrupt changes to our course, and we'll need your expertise with the currents and underwater topography.'

'The underwater what?'

'Where the reefs are, where it's shallow, where it's deep enough to pass safely.'

Puppup seemed to accept this. Then he looked up at Glinn, eyes bright.

'Guv?'

'Yes.'

'My canoe only draws six inches. I never had to worry about any of that lot.'

'I'm aware of that. I'm also aware that the tides here run thirty feet, and it's high tide. You know where the wrecks are and the sunken ledges. Be ready.'

'Very well, guv.'

Glinn watched as the little man slunk back into the shadows. Then his glance flickered toward Britton, at the command station with Howell and the deck officer. She was indeed a fine woman, a good captain, everything he had known she would be. The way she'd reacted when he temporarily abrogated her authority — that, above all, had impressed him deeply. There was a great dignity and self-control in her bearing, even as she relinquished command. He wondered if it was innate, or the result of her earlier disgrace.

On impulse, he had early on picked up a book of W.H. Auden's poetry from the ship's library. He was not a reader of poetry; it had always seemed a nonproductive pursuit. He'd turned to something called 'In Praise of Limestone,' with its vague promise of engineering. It had been a revelatory experience. He'd had no idea of the power of poetry: of how much feeling, thought, even wisdom could be imparted in such compact language. It occurred to him that it would be interesting to discuss this with Britton. After all, it had been her Auden quotation during their first meeting that had led him to the book.

All these thoughts occupied Glinn's mind for less than a second. They vanished at the low sound of an alarm. Britton spoke, her voice distinct but calm: 'The warship's painting us with high PRF fire-control radar.' She turned to Howell. 'Sound stations.'

Howell repeated the command. Another siren went off, much louder.

Glinn stepped lightly toward his man at the computer console. 'Jam it,' he murmured.

He felt Britton's eyes flicker toward him. 'Jam it?' she repeated, a trace of sarcasm mingling with the tension in her voice. 'May I ask with what?'

'With the McDonnell-Douglas Blackout Series Wide-Band ECM system on your mast. He's going to fire on us with his guns, or perhaps even launch an Exocet. We have chaff and CIWS, to take care of any missile launch.'

This time, Howell turned to look at him incredulously. 'Close-In Weapons System? There's nothing like that on our ship.'

'Under those forward bulkheads.' Glinn nodded to his man. 'Time to shed our clothes.'

The man typed a few commands and there was a sharp crack forward. Glinn watched as the bulkheads peeled off and fell into the sea, just as planned, exposing the six stubby barrels of the Phallanx Gatling guns which, Glinn knew, could fire 20-millimeter rounds of depleted uranium at an incoming missile at a rate in excess of 3,000 rounds per minute.

'Jesus,' said Howell, 'that's classified hardware.'

'Indeed.'

'Additional security equipment, I believe he once called it,' Britton said with a trace of irony.

Glinn turned back toward her. 'At the moment we begin jamming, I suggest you bring her head hard to starboard.'

'Evasive action?' Howell said. 'With this ship? It takes three miles just to stop.'

'I'm well aware of that. Do it anyway.'

Britton spoke. 'Mr. Howell, bring her head hard to starboard.'

Howell turned to the helmsman. 'Hard right rudder, starboard engine back emergency full, port engine emergency ahead.'