The Ice Limit

another door, paying them not the slightest bit of attention. McFarlane glanced at Rachel.

Following Brambell's path, they entered a brightly lit room. The doctor, who was still wearing a pair of surgical gloves, stood over a gurney, examining a motionless patient. The man's head was swathed in bandages, and the surrounding sheets were soaked in blood. As McFarlane watched, Brambell jerked a sheet over the man's head with a sharp, angry motion. Then he turned to a nearby sink.

McFarlane swallowed hard. 'We need to speak with Manuel Garza,' he said.

'Absolutely not,' Brambell said as he broke scrub, ripping off the pair of bloody gloves and dashing his hands under hot water.

'Doctor, we must question Garza about what happened. The safety of the ship depends on it.'

Brambell stopped in his tracks, looking at McFarlane for the first time. His face was somber but controlled. He said nothing for a moment, and McFarlane could see behind the mask the racing mind of a doctor making a decision under extreme pressure.

'Room Three,' he said as he pulled on a fresh pair of surgical gloves. 'Five minutes.'

They found Garza in a small room, wide awake. His face was bruised, his eyes blackened, and his head heavily bandaged. When the door opened, he swiveled his dark gaze at them, then looked away immediately. 'They're all dead, aren't they?' he whispered, eyes on the bulkhead.

McFarlane hesitated. 'All but one.'

'But he's also going to die.' It was a statement, not a question.

Rachel came over and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Manuel, I know how hard this must be for you. But we need to know what happened in the holding tank.'

Garza did not look at her. He pursed his lips, blinked his blackened eyes. 'What happened? What do you think happened? That goddamn meteorite went off again.'

'Went off?' McFarlane repeated.

'Yeah. It exploded. Just like it did with that guy Timmer.' McFarlane and Rachel exchanged glances.

'Which one of your men touched it?' Rachel asked.

Garza suddenly turned to stare at her. McFarlane wasn't sure if his look was one of surprise, anger, or disbelief, the wide purple moon-holes of his eyes seemed to draw all expression from the rest of his face.

'Nobody touched it.'

'Somebody must have.'

'I said nobody. I was watching every minute.'

'Manuel —' Rachel began.

He rose angrily. 'You think my men were crazy? They hated being near that thing, they were scared to death of it Rachel, I'm telling you, nobody got within five feet.'

He winced and lay back.

After a moment, McFarlane spoke again. 'We need to know exactly what you saw. Can you tell us what you remember, right before it happened? What was going on? Did you notice anything unusual?'

'No. The men were almost finished with the welding. Some of them had finished. The job was virtually done. Everyone was still wearing their protective gear. The ship was heeling. It seemed to be taking a pretty big wave.'

'I remember that wave,' Rachel said. 'Are you sure nobody lost his balance, nobody put out an involuntary hand to steady —'

'You don't believe me, do you?' he asked. 'Tough shit, because it's true. Nobody touched the rock. Check the tapes yourself if you want.'

'Was there anything unusual about the meteorite?' McFarlane asked. 'Anything funny?'

Garza thought for a moment. Then he shook his head.

McFarlane leaned closer. 'That freak wave that heeled the ship. Do you think tilting the meteorite could have caused the explosion?'

'Why? It was tilted, banged, and shoved all the way from the impact site to the holding tank. Nothing like this happened.'

There was a silence.

'It's the rock,' Garza murmured.

McFarlane blinked, not sure he had heard correctly.

'What?' he asked.

'I said, it's the goddamn rock. It wants us dead. All of us.'

And with that, he turned toward the bulkhead and would not speak again.

Rolvaag,

10:00 A.M.

VIOLENT dawn rose beyond the windows of the bridge, revealing a wind-torn sea. A procession of gigantic swells, undulating, remorseless, came out of the storm-wracked western horizon and disappeared into the east. The panteonero continued to build, a screaming wind that seemed to rip pieces of sea from the tops of the waves and send them flying, shredding the water into white sheets of foam. The great ship heaved up, heaved down, rolling and pitching in agonizing slow motion.

Eli Glinn stood alone at the windows, hands clasped behind his back. He gazed out at the violence, conscious of an internal serenity he had rarely felt since the project began. It had been a project fraught with unexpected turns and surprises. Even here, on the ship, the meteorite continued to bedevil them: Howell had returned from the sick bay with reports of six dead and Garza injured. Nevertheless, EES had succeeded. It was one of the greatest engineering feats ever.

He would not care to repeat such a project again.

He turned. Britton and the other ship's officers were glued to the surface radar, tracking the Almirante Ramirez.

Lloyd hovered behind them. It was a tense-looking group. Clearly, his assurances about Comandante Vallenar had not convinced them. A natural, if illogical, position to take. But Glinn's proprietary profiling program had never been wrong in a critical prediction. Besides, he knew Vallenar. He had met the man on his own turf. He had seen the iron discipline on his ship. He had seen the man's skill as a naval officer, his overweening pride, his love of country. The man will not cross the line. Not for a meteorite. At the last minute would turn; the moment of crisis would pass; and they would be on their way home.

'Captain,' he asked, 'what course do you propose to take us out of Drake Passage?'

'As soon as the Ramirez turns around, I'll order a three three zero bearing to bring us back into the lee of South America and get us out of this gale.'

Glinn nodded approvingly. 'That will be soon.'

Britton's eyes dropped back to the screen. She said nothing more.

Glinn strolled over and stood with Lloyd behind Captain Britton. On the electronic chart, the green dot that represented Vallenar was fast approaching international waters. Glinn couldn't help but smile. It was like watching a horse race on television for which he alone knew the outcome.

'Any radio contact from the Ramirez?'

'No,' Britton replied. 'They've been maintaining radio silence throughout. Not even making contact with their own base. Banks heard the base CO order him back hours ago.'

Naturally, thought Glinn. It fit the profile.

He allowed his gaze to linger on Britton: at the scattering of freckles on her nose, the poise in her bearing. She doubted his judgment now; but later she would see that he had been right. He thought about the courage she had shown, the unerring good sense, the coolness under pressure; the dignity, even while the bridge had been out of her command. This was a woman, he felt, he could finally trust. Perhaps this was the woman he had been looking for. It bore further consideration. He began thinking of the correct strategy to win her, potential avenues of failure, the likeliest path to success...

He glanced back at the radar screen. The dot was now just minutes from the line. He felt the faintest twinge