The Ice Limit

bridge was hanging over the open ocean, wracked with foam. Everyone grabbed a handhold. The bridge hung for frightening seconds, then slowly righted itself, the momentum dipping it to port. It was an especially ugly roll.

Vallenar knew the ship, knew what it could and could not do. He could feel when the wind and water took charge. They had not — at least, not yet. It would take vigilance, and adroit seamanship, to keep the ship from foundering. He would do it himself, not leave it to the conning officer.

He saw a foaming swell looming in the distance, towering over the rest, thrusting itself through the storm like a whale. He spoke calmly, almost nonchalantly. 'Ease your rudder to left standard, starboard engine back one-third, port engine ahead two-thirds. Keep calling your head.'

'Coming around easy, sir,' said Aller. 'Heading one seven five, heading one seven zero —'

'Steady on one six five.'

The wave began to take the ship in its embrace; the Ramirez rose, strained, canted. Vallenar held on to the engine-room telegraph as they heeled sickeningly, the inclinometer reading close to forty degrees, before the wave finally crested. For a moment, he had a long view across the southern ocean, all the way to the horizon. He quickly fitted the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the tumultuous sea until they subsided into the next trough. It was a terrifying sight: the monumental peaks and valleys of water, the absolute promiscuity of chaos. It temporarily unnerved him.

As the ship fell, he calmed himself. They rose again, and so did Vallenar's binoculars. He felt a sudden lurch in his chest: there it was; a dark silhouette against the sea, bordered in white. It was larger, and closer, than he thought it would be. He kept the binoculars trained, almost afraid to blink, as the ship subsided, then slowly began to rise on the next foam-webbed mountain of water. As they topped it, and the combing crest creamed over the port railing and slanted the ship over, Vallenar saw the tanker again.

'Port engine back one-third. Right standard rudder. Steady on one eight zero.'

Once more the deck heaved up and fell to starboard.

'What is our fuel?'

'Thirty percent.'

He turned to the ingeniero de guardia, the engineer of the watch. 'Ballast the tanks.' Filling the empty tanks with seawater would slow them down half a knot, but it would add a stability they would need for what was about to come.

'Ballasting the tanks,' said the engineer, with evident relief.

Vallenar turned to the quartermaster. 'Barometer?'

'Twenty-nine point two eight, falling.'

He called his tactical action officer to the bridge. 'We have visual contact with the American ship,' he said, handing the man the binoculars.

The man raised them to his eyes. 'I see it, sir,' he said after a moment.

Vallenar turned toward the officer of the deck. 'It bears one nine zero, or thereabouts. Have CIC give me a course to intercept.'

The orders were relayed, the new course given. Everything now was crisp, correct.

Vallenar swiveled back to the tactical action officer. 'Report when we are within gun range. Do not engage without my order.'

'Yes, sir,' said the tactical action officer, in a carefully neutral tone.

The destroyer began to yaw as it cleared another ugly wave, its prow dropping into the next trough with a rumble of water. The deck heaved, careening to starboard. The head began swinging to port, a heavy, uncontrolled motion.

'I can't hold her at one nine zero.'

'Use full rudder to maintain your heading.'

The ship steadied. Vallenar could see a tigre approaching from due west.

'Ease your rudder to standard. Ease it!'

The ship began a slow, dangling roll as it mounted the side of the enormous wave. When the wave broke, a sheet of water came racing across the deck: they were actually shipping water on the bridge.

'Right hard rudder! Right hard!'

The ship skidded sideways.

'Rudder's out of the water, sir!' the helmsman cried, the wheel loose in his hands.

'Port engine back two-thirds! Starboard ahead flank!'

The operator worked the engine telegraph. The ship continued sideways.

'She's not answering —'

Vallenar felt a twinge of fear — not for himself, but for his uncompleted mission — and then he felt the stern settle in the sea and the screws bite into the water.

He slowly released his breath, then leaned into the squawk box as if nothing had happened. 'Report any air contacts.' No ship would be coming to the aid of the Americans in this weather, he was sure of that; but he felt less sure about aircraft.-

'No air contact out to two hundred miles,' returned the CIC. 'Ice to the south.'

'What kind of ice?'

'Two large ice islands and assorted growlers and drift ice.'

They're running to the ice, Vallenar thought with satisfaction. It was a desperate measure, taking a tanker below the Ice Limit, deliberately heading for the ice, in a storm like this. But it was their only move, and he had expected it. Perhaps they thought they could play hide-and-seek among the bergs, or escape under cover of darkness. Perhaps they were hoping for fog. It would not succeed. On the contrary, the ice would work to his advantage by dampening the heavy seas. And in ice, a destroyer was far more maneuverable than a tanker. He would kill them in the ice — if the ice didn't get them first.

'Drawing into gun range, sir,' said the tactical action officer.

Vallenar looked out over the storm-tossed ocean. Now, even without the binoculars, he could occasionally glimpse the dark speck of the American ship. It was perhaps eight miles away, but even at that distance it made a big, fat target.

'Do you have visual contact acceptable for targeting?' he asked.

'Not yet, sir. Visual targeting will be difficult in this sea, at this range.'

'Then we wait until we are closer.'

The minutes dragged on as they gained, very slowly, on the American ship. The sky darkened as the wind held steady at eighty knots. The fear that had gripped the bridge remained, a healthy tonic. The sun was setting. Vallenar continued to issue a stream of carefully nuanced rudder and engine instructions, responding to the changing sea. The repairs to the propellers and rudder were holding well. The men had done a good job. Pity so many had died in the process.

Night would be falling soon, and the Rolvaag was running dark. He could wait no longer. 'Mr. Casseo, bracket the target. Tracers only.'

'Yes, sir,' said the tactical action officer. 'Loading tracers.'

Vallenar looked down at the forward guns. After a minute he saw them turn, elevate to about forty-five degrees, and then fire in sequence: two bright shells. The barrels jerked backward in a gout of flame, and the bridge shook with the recoil. Vallenar clapped his binoculars to his eyes and watched the ranging shots arc into the storm. Both fell wild, well short of the tanker.

The ship subsided into another trough, then climbed again. Once more, the forward guns fired tracers in the pause at the top of their roll. These flew farther, but still fell short.

The tactical action officer timed additional shots for the wave crests, making slight adjustments. After a few minutes, he spoke again. 'Comandante, I believe we have sufficient range data to lay a line of shells across the target.'

'Very well. Fire for effect. I want to disable the ship enough to slow it down but not sink it. Then we will draw close for a clean kill.'

There was the briefest of silences at this.

'Yes, sir,' said the tactical action officer.

As the destroyer rose, the guns went into action once again, live rounds leaving the barrels now, screaming southward in deadly arcs of orange.