The Ice Limit

effort.

'Sonar?' he called out, dropping the binoculars at last.

'Clear, sir.'

That was it — there was no unexpected underwater ice; it was a clean drop from the top to the root of the ice island. Time to finish the job.

'Steady through the gap. Follow their course.'

He turned to the tactical action officer. 'Await my orders to engage with the guns.'

'Aye, sir.'

Vallenar swiveled back to the windows, raising the binoculars once again.

Rolvaag,

5:20 P.M.

THE ROLVAAG passed between the ice islands, gliding into a tranquil, twilit world. The wind dropped, no longer gusting through the broken windows into the bridge. Suddenly the ship was released from the evil grip of the storm. Britton found the sudden silence in the midst of the storm unsettling. She stared up at the cliffs that rose up on either side, sheer as if cleaved with an ax. Below, at the waterline, the pounding surf on the windward side had formed an undercut of fantastic-looking caves. In the moonlight, the ice shone a pure, rich blue so deep she thought it one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Funny, she thought, how the nearness of death could heighten one's sense of beauty.

Glinn, who had disappeared onto the port bridge wing, now returned, closing the door carefully behind him. He approached her, wiping flecks of spray from his shoulders.

'Steady as she goes,' he said quietly. 'Keep the tanker's head at this angle.'

She did not bother relaying the useless and cryptic direction to Howell.

The ship had lost even more headway making a ninety-degree turn behind the ice island. Now they were gliding parallel to the ice at about a knot, still slowing. Once they stopped, they'd never start again.

She glanced at his profile, at the unreadable face. She almost asked whether he really thought they were going to successfully hide their almost-quarter-mile ship from the destroyer. But she kept silent. Glinn had made a supreme effort. There was nothing more he could do. In a few minutes, the Ramirez would round the ice island and that would be it. She tried not to think of her daughter. That was going to be hardest of all, letting go of her daughter.

In the lee of the island, everything seemed strangely quiet. There was a terrible silence on the bridge: there were no longer any orders to give or receive. The wind was gone, and the swell warping around the island was smooth and low. The wall of ice was only a quarter mile distant. Here and there, long fissures ran down from its top, deep runnels worn by icemelt and rain. She could see small waterfalls feathering into the moonlit sea, and hear the distant cracking and pinging of the ice. Beyond that came a distant keening sound of wind, raking the top of the ice island. It was an ethereal, otherworldly place. She watched an iceberg, recently calved off the island, drift away to the west. She wanted to be there when it slowly melted and disappeared into the sea. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

'It isn't over, Sally,' Glinn said quietly, so that only she could hear. He was regarding her intently.

'Yes, it is. The destroyer killed all our power.'

'You'll see your daughter again.'

'Please don't say that.' She brushed away a tear.

To her surprise, Glinn took her hand.

'If we get through this,' he began, with a hesitation foreign to him, 'I would like to see you again. May I do that? I would like to learn more about poetry. Perhaps you could teach me.'

'Please, Eli. It's easier if we don't talk.' She gave his hand a gentle pressure.

And then she saw the prow of the Ramirez nosing past the ice.

It was less than two miles away, slinking close to the blue wall of the ice island following their own wake, approaching like a shark closing on its disabled prey. The gun turrets were tracking them with a cool deliberation.

As Britton stared out the rearward bridge windows at those guns, waiting for the final deadly fire to erupt from their barrels, time slowed. The space between her heartbeats seemed to grow longer. She took in the scene around her: Lloyd, McFarlane, Howell, the watch officers, silently waiting. Waiting for death in the dark cold water.

There was a popping sound from the destroyer, and an array of Willey Peters soared into the air, exploding into a crooked line of brilliance. Britton shielded her eyes as the surface of the water, the deck of the tanker, the wall of the ice island, shed their colors under the terrible illumination. As the worst of the brightness eased, she squinted out the windows once again. The guns on the Ramirez lowered their elevation, pointing at them until all that could be seen were the black holes of the muzzles. The ship was now halfway through the gap and slowing fast. The shooting would be almost point-blank.

An explosion cracked through the air, echoing and reverberating between the islands. Britton jerked back instinctively, and felt Glinn's hand bear down on hers. This was it, then. She murmured a silent prayer for her daughter, and for death to be merciful and quick.

But no burst of flame had come from the destroyer's guns. Britton's eyes scanned the scene in confusion. She saw movement far above.

At the top of the ice cliff above the Ramirez, splinters and chunks of ice were spinning lazily into the air, rising above four drifting puffs of smoke. The echoes died, and for a moment the stillness returned. And then the ice island seemed to shift. The face of the cliff above the Ramirez began to slip, and the blue fissure opened between it and the rest of the island, rapidly widening; now Britton could see that a gigantic piece of ice, nearly two hundred feet high, was peeling away. The great plate of ice separated from the cliff and began to descend, breaking into several pieces as it did so, in a kind of slow, majestic ballet. As it merged with the sea, a wall of water began to rise: black at first, then green and white. Higher and higher the water rose, propelled by the great plunging mass of the ice, and then the sound began to reach her, a mingled cacophony of noise that grew steadily in volume. And still the wave mounted, so precipitous it began breaking over itself even as it formed, climbing, breaking, climbing again. The vast block of ice disappeared, driven below the surface by its own momentum, and the steep-walled wave broke free and headed, broadside, for the Ramirez.

There was a roar from its steam turbines as the destroyer tried to maneuver. But in an instant the wave was upon it; the destroyer yawed, rose, and rose still farther, heeling, the rust red of its bowplates exposed. For a sickening moment it seemed to pause, slanting far to starboard, its two masts almost horizontal to the sea, as the crest of the monstrous wave foamed over it. Seconds ticked by as the ship hovered there, clinging to the wave, poised between righting itself and foundering. Britton felt her heart pounding violently in her chest. Then the ship wavered and began to come upright, water shedding from its deck. It didn't work, she thought; God, it didn't work.

The righting movement slowed, the ship paused again, and then it sagged back into the water. There was a sigh of air from the superstructure, jets of spray shot in all directions, and the destroyer turned over, its slimy keel rolling heavily toward the sky. There was another, louder sigh; a moiling of water and foam and bubbling air around the hull; and then, with hardly a swirl, it disappeared into the icy deep. There was a second brief explosion of bubbles, and then those, too, disappeared, leaving behind black water.

It had taken less than ninety seconds.

Britton saw the freakish wave race toward them, spreading and attenuating as it did so.

'Hang on,' murmured Glinn.

Positioned lengthwise to the wave, the tanker rose sharply, heeled, then came easily to rest.

Britton disengaged her hand from Glinn's and raised her binoculars, feeling the cold rubber against the sockets of her eyes. She could hardly comprehend that the destroyer was gone. Not a man, not a life raft — not even a cushion or bottle — appeared on the surface. The Almirante Ramirez had disappeared without a trace.

Glinn's eyes were on the island, and she followed his gaze. There, at the edge of the ice plateau, were four dark specks: men in dry suits, crossing their arms over their heads, fists together. One by one, the flares dropped