The Ice Limit

'I might be able to wring out another knot.'

'Very well. Do it.'

He turned to the helmsman. 'All ahead one ten.'

Deep inside the ship, she felt an answering rumble as the engines were brought up to 110 rpms. That would give them — she did a quick mental calculation — four and a half hours, maybe a little less, before they were within range of the Vickers.

She turned back to Glinn and the chart. 'I've worked it out,' she said. 'Our best option is to head northeast into Argentinian national waters as soon as possible. Argentina is a bitter enemy of Chile, and they'd hardly countenance a Chilean destroyer chasing us into their waters. They'd consider it an act of war.'

She glanced at Glinn, but his veiled look betrayed nothing.

'Alternatively, we could head for the British naval base on the Falkland Islands. We should also radio our government and report we're under attack by a Chilean warship. We might be able to put some military pressure on that crazy son of a bitch.'

She waited for a response.

At last, Glinn spoke. 'I understand now what Vallenar's slight course changes were about.'

'What?'

'We've been cut off.'

Britton looked quickly back at the map. The Ramirez was now twenty miles northwest of them, on a true bearing of 300 degrees. Suddenly, she understood.

'Oh shit,' she breathed.

'If we change course now to Argentina or the Falklands, he'll overtake us about here.' Glinn drew a small circle on the map with his finger.

'We'll head west back to Chile, then,' Britton said quickly. 'He wouldn't get away with sinking us in the Puerto Williams harbor.'

'No doubt. Unfortunately, even if we turn back now, he'll intercept us here.' His finger traced another circle on the map.

'Then we'll head for the British scientific station on South Georgia Island.'

'Then he'll intercept us here.'

She watched the map, a paralyzing chill creeping down her spine.

'You see, Sally — may I call you Sally? — when he made those course changes to the northeast, he had already anticipated our possible points of refuge. If we had realized this and acted immediately, we would have had a chance of getting to Argentina, at least. But now even that route is closed to us.'

Britton felt a pressure on her chest. 'The U.S. Navy—'

'My man's already checked that. There's no effective military help within twenty-four hours.'

'But there's a British naval base on the Falklands, armed to the teeth!'

'We considered that, too. Chile was a British ally in the Falklands War. For the U.S. to request military help from the U.K. against its former ally, using the very base they fought for — well, let us just say it is a request that would take more time than we have to expedite, even with Lloyd's and my connections. Unfortunately, the extreme South Atlantic is no place to get into a military scrape. We're on our own.'

She looked at Glinn. He returned her gaze with gray eyes that seemed to have deepened until they were almost the color of the surrounding ocean. There was a plan behind those eyes. She was afraid to ask what it was.

'We head south,' Glinn said simply. 'To the Ice Limit.'

Britton could hardly believe it. 'Go south into the Screaming Sixties, into the ice, in a storm like this? That's not an option.'

'You're right,' said Glinn quietly. 'It's not an option. It's the only option.'

Almirante Ramirez,

11:00 A.M.

AFTER DAWN, Vallenar noticed that the wind had begun its inevitable shift to the west. His plan had worked. Belatedly, the Americans had realized they were cut off. There was no place for them to go but down into the Sixties. Already, they had changed course to one eight zero — due south. And that's where he would intercept them, where the endgame would play out: at the Ice Limit, in the black freezing waters of the Antarctic Ocean.

He spoke softly, precisely. 'From now on, I'll have the deck.'

The oficial de guardia, the officer of the deck, called out, 'Aye, sir, the comandante has the deck!'

'Set heading one eight zero,' Vallenar said to the conning officer.

This order would place the violent sea directly on their beam, the most dangerous position for the destroyer. The bridge officers knew this. He waited for the conning officer to repeat the order and call rudder directions. But no orders came.

'Sir?' It was the officer of the deck who spoke.

Vallenar did not turn to look at the officer of the deck. He did not need to; he sensed what was about to happen. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the conning officer and the timonel, the helmsman, all rigidly at attention.

So this was it. Better it should happen now than later.

He raised his eyebrows at the officer of the deck. 'Mr. Santander, are we having a problem with the chain of command on the bridge?' He spoke as mildly as possible.

'The officers of the Almirante Ramirez would like to know our mission, sir.'

Vallenar waited, still not looking at the man. Silence, he had long discovered, was more intimidating than words. A minute passed, and then he spoke.

'Is it customary for Chilean naval officers to question their commander?'

'No, sir.'

Vallenar took out a puro, rolled it between his fingers, bit off the end, and placed it carefully between his lips. He drew air through it.

'Then why are you questioning me?' He spoke gently.

'Sir... because of the unusual nature of the mission, sir.'

Vallenar removed the cigar and inspected it. 'Unusual? How so?'

There was an uncomfortable pause.

'It is our impression, sir, that we were ordered back to base last night. We are not aware of any orders to pursue this civilian ship.'

Vallenar took in the word civilian. It was a deliberate rebuke, a suggestion that Vallenar was engaged in a cowardly pursuit against an unarmed adversary. He drew more air through the unlit cigar.

'Tell me, Mr. Santander. On board ship, do you take orders from your comandante, or from a base commander on shore?'

'From the comandante, sir.'

'Am I your comandante?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then there is nothing more to discuss.'

Vallenar removed a box of matches from his uniform pocket, opened the box, removed one wax match, drew it slowly across the striker until it flared, and lit his cigar.

'Sir, I beg your pardon, what you have said is insufficient. Men died repairing that screw. We respectfully request information on our mission.'

At last, Vallenar turned. He felt the growing rage within him — rage at the arrogant Americans, at the man Glinn who came to chitchat while his divers sabotaged the vessel, at Timmer's death — all channeled now toward this subordinate, who dared to question his decisions. He puffed, drawing the smoke into his lungs, feeling the surge of nicotine in his blood. When he was steady again, he flicked the match toward the damp deck and lowered