The Ice Limit

"But you, señor, are outside my law. The law of Comandante Vallenar."

"I do not understand," said Glinn, although he did.

"You will not leave Chile with this meteorite."

"If we find it," said Glinn.

Vallenar paused ever so slightly, and in that pause Glinn saw that he did not, in fact, know they had found it.

"What is to prevent me from simply reporting this to the authorities in Santiago? They, at least, have not been bribed."

"You are free to report it to anyone you wish," said Glinn. "We are doing nothing illegal." He knew Vallenar would never report it. Vallenar was the kind of man who would settle things his own way.

Vallenar took a long drag on the cigar, blowing the smoke in Glinn's direction. "Tell me, señor... Ishmael, was it not?"

"Actually, my name is Glinn."

"I see. So tell me, Mr. Glinn, why have you come to my ship?"

Glinn knew he had to answer this carefully. "I was hoping, Comandante, that we could work out an arrangement with you."

He saw the expected anger in the captain's face, and pressed on. "I am authorized to give you one million dollars, gold, for your cooperation."

Vallenar suddenly smiled, his eyes veiled. "You have it on you?"

"Of course not."

The comandante lazily puffed on the puro. "Perhaps, señor, you think I have a price like the others. Because I am a South American, a dirty Latin, that I am always willing to cooperate in exchange for la mordida."

"It has been my experience that no one is incorruptible," said Glinn. "Americans included." He watched the comandante carefully. He knew he would refuse the bribe, but even in the refusal there would be information.

"If that has been your experience, then you have led a corrupt life, surrounding yourself with whores, degenerates, and homosexuals. You will not leave Chile with this meteorite. I request you to take your gold, señor, and fill your mother's whorish coño with it."

Glinn did not respond to this strongest of Spanish insults. Vallenar lowered his cigar. "There is another, matter. I sent a man over to make a reconnaissance of the island, and he has not returned. His name is Timmer. He is my oficial de comunicaciones, my signal officer."

Glinn was faintly surprised at this. He did not believe the comandante would bring up the subject, let alone admit the man was on a spying expedition. After all, this man Timmer had failed, and Vallenar was clearly someone to whom failure was contemptible.

"He slit the throat of one of our men. We are holding him.

The comandante's eyes narrowed, and for a moment his control seemed to slip. But he recovered and smiled again. "You will return him to me, please."

"I am sorry," said Glinn. "He committed a crime."

"You will return him to me at once, or I will blow your ship out of the water," Vallenar said, his voice rising.

Again, Glinn felt a twinge of puzzlement. This rash threat was far out of proportion to the situation. A signal officer was easily replaced, not of high rank. There was something more here than met the eye. His mind raced over the possibilities even as he was formulating his answer. "That would be unwise, since your man is in the ship's brig."

The comandante stared hard at Glinn. When he spoke again, his voice was even once more. "Give me back Timmer, and I may consider letting you take the meteorite."

Glinn knew this was a lie. Vallenar would no more let them go if they returned Timmer than they could return the man. The comandante, he understood from Puppup, had a fanatically loyal crew. Now, perhaps, he could understand why: Vallenar returned their loyalty just as fiercely. Glinn had believed the comandante to be a man to whom other people were dispensable. This was a side of Vallenar that he had not anticipated. It didn't fit the profile that his people back in New York had drawn up, or the background dossier he had obtained. Still, it was useful. He would have to reconsider Vallenar. At any rate, he now had the information he needed: he knew now what Vallenar knew. And his own team had had ample time to do what needed to be done.

"I will relay your offer to our captain," he said. "And I think it might be possible to arrange. I will have an answer for you by noon." Glinn bowed slightly. "And now, with your permission, I will return to my ship."

Vallenar smiled, making an almost successful effort to cover up a simmering anger. "You do that, señor. Because if I do not see Timmer with my own eyes by noon, then I will know that he is dead. And your lives will not be worth dog dirt under my heel."

Rolvaag,

11:50 P.M.

MCFARLANE TOOK the call in Lloyd's suite of deserted offices. Outside the wide span of windows, a breeze had sprung up, and a swell was rolling in from the west. The great ship stood in the lee of the sheer basaltic cliffs, its hawsers strung to the shore, affixed to steel bolts in the bedrock itself. All was in readiness, awaiting the cloaking fog that Glinn said was predicted for midnight.

The phone on Lloyd's desk began to blink angrily, and McFarlane reached for it with a sigh. It would be his third conversation with Lloyd that evening. He hated this new role, a go-between, a secretary. "Mr. Lloyd?"

"Yes, yes, I'm here. Has Glinn returned?" There was that same loud, continuous noise in the background he had heard during their last conversation. Idly, McFarlane wondered where Lloyd was calling from.

"He came back two hours ago."

"What did he say? Did Vallenar take the bribe?"

"No."

"Maybe he didn't offer enough money."

"Glinn seems to think that no amount of money would make a difference."

"Jesus Christ, everyone has a price! I suppose it's too late now, but I'd pay twenty million. You tell him that. Twenty million in gold, sent anywhere in the world. And American passports for him and his family."

McFarlane said nothing. Somehow, he didn't think Vallenar would be interested in American passports.

"So what's Glinn's plan?"

McFarlane swallowed. He hated this more by the minute. "He says it's foolproof, but he can't share it with us now. He says confidentiality is critical to its success —"

"What bullshit! Put him on. Now."

"I tried to find him when I heard you were calling. Again. He's not answering his page or radio. No one seems to know where he is."

"Damn him! I knew I shouldn't have put all my—"

His voice was drowned out by a roar of static. It returned, a little fainter than before. "Sam? Sam!"

"I'm here."

"Listen. You're the Lloyd representative down there. You tell Glinn to call me immediately, and tell him that's an order, or I'll fire his ass and personally throw him overboard."

"Yes," said McFarlane wearily.

"Are you in my office? Can you see the meteorite?"

"It's still hidden on the bluff."

"When will it be moved onto the ship?"

"As soon as the fog rolls in. I'm told it'll take a few hours to get it into the tank, maybe half an hour to secure it, and then we're off. We're supposed to be out of here no later than five A.M."

"That's cutting it close. And I hear there's another storm coming, bigger than the last."

"Storm?" McFarlane asked.

The only answer was static. He waited, but the line was dead. After a minute he hung up the phone and stared out the window. As he did so, he heard the electronic clock on Lloyd's desk chime out midnight.

I'll personally throw him overboard, he'd said.

And then McFarlane suddenly understood the sound he had heard behind Lloyd's voice: a jet engine.

Lloyd was on a plane.

Almirante Ramirez,

July 25, Midnight

COMANDANTE VALLENAR stood at the bridge, staring through the binocular scope. His ship lay at the northern end of the channel, where he had an unopposed view of the activity on shore. It was a revealing sight indeed.

The Americans had brought the big tanker in against the bluff and strung hawsers to shore. Clearly, the captain of the Rolvaag knew a thing or two about Cape Horn weather. They could not know of the uncharted undersea ledge to which he had anchored the Almirante Ramirez So instead they had tethered the ship in the lee of the island, hoping to protect themselves from the worst fury of the storm. With any luck, the offshore breeze would keep the ship away from the dangerous rocks. Still, it was a very risky maneuver for a vessel that large, particularly a ship using dynamic positioning, if the wind should change suddenly. It would have been much safer to take the ship away from land altogether. Something pressing was keeping them nearby.

And he did not have far to look for it. He swiveled the scope back to the center of the island and the wide-scale mining operation, taking place some two miles from the Rolvaag. He had been scrutinizing it even before the American, Glinn, had arrived. A few hours before, there had been a sudden increase in activity: explosions, the frantic grinding of machinery, workmen dashing here and there, huge lights bathing the worksite. The intercepted radio traffic indicated the work crews had found something. Something big.

But they were having great difficulty with this find. First, they broke their most powerful crane trying to lift it. And now they were trying to drag the thing with heavy machinery. But the radio chatter made it clear they were having little or no luck. No doubt the Rolvaag was staying nearby in case extra men or equipment was needed. Vallenar smiled: the Americans were not so competent after all. At this rate, it would take them weeks to get the meteorite on board the ship.

Of course, he would never allow that to happen. Once Timmer was safely back, Vallenar would disable the tanker to prevent their leaving, and then communicate the news of their attempted theft. It would preserve the honor of his country. When the politicians saw the meteorite — when they learned how the Americans had tried to steal it — they would understand. With that meteorite, he might even be promoted out of Puerto Williams. It would be the corrupt bastards in Punta Arenas, not he, who would suffer. But the timing was everything...

His smile faded as he thought of Timmer, locked in the brig of that tanker. That he had killed someone was no surprise; young Timmer was a quick thinker, eager to impress. What surprised Vallenar was that he had been caught. He looked forward to the debriefing.

He did not allow himself to think about the other possibility: that the American had lied, and Timmer was dead. There was a rustle, and the oficial de guardia came up behind him. "Comandante?"

Vallenar nodded without looking at him.

"We have received a second order to return to base, sir."

Vallenar said nothing. He waited, thinking.

"Sir?"

Vallenar looked back out into the darkness. The expected fog was now rolling in. "Observe radio silence. Acknowledge nothing."

There was a faint flickering in the officer's eyes at this request, but the man was far too well trained to question an order. "Yes, sir."

Vallenar watched the fog. It drifted in like smoke, creeping out of nowhere to shroud the seascape. The lights of the great tanker began flickering in and out, blotted by patches of fog, until they disappeared. In the middle of the island, the brilliant light of the worksite gave way to an indistinct glow, then yielded completely, leaving a wall of darkness before the bridge. He bent his head toward the FLIR scope, where the ship was outlined in a hazy yellow.

Vallenar straightened, then stepped back from the scope. He thought of Glinn. There was something strange about him, something unreadable. His visit to the Almirante Ramirez had been brazen. It had taken cojones. And yet it bothered him.

He stared out into the fog another moment. Then he turned to the deck officer. "Have the oficial central de informaciones de combate report to the bridge," he said softly but carefully.

Rolvaag,

Midnight

WHEN MCFARLANE arrived on the bridge, he found a troubled-looking group of officers huddled over the command station. A claxon had gone off and all hands had been called to quarters over the ship's PA. Britton, who had sent him an urgent summons, seemed not to notice his arrival. Outside the bank of windows lay a haze of fog. The powerful lights on the ship's forecastle were faint pinpricks of yellow.

"Has he got a lock on us?" Britton asked.

"Affirmative," answered a nearby officer. "With targeting radar."

She drew the back of her hand across her forehead, then glanced up and caught sight of McFarlane. "Where is Mr. Glinn?" she asked. "Why isn't he responding?"

"I don't know. He disappeared soon after returning from the Chilean ship. I've been trying to reach him myself."

Britton turned to Howell.

"He may not be on the ship," the chief mate said.

"He's on the ship. I want two search parties, one forward and one aft. Have them work their way midships. Do a high-order search. Bring him to the bridge immediately."

"That won't be necessary." Glinn, noiseless as ever, had materialized at McFarlane's side. Behind him were two men that McFarlane didn't remember having seen before. Their shirts bore the small circular EES insignia.

"Eli," McFarlane began, "Palmer Lloyd has been on the phone again —"

"Dr. McFarlane, silence on the bridge, if you please!" Britton barked. The note of command in her voice was overwhelming. McFarlane fell silent.

Britton turned toward Glinn. "Who are these men, and why are they on my bridge?"

"They are EES employees."

Britton paused a moment, as if digesting this. "Mr. Glinn, I wish to remind you — and Dr. McFarlane, as the onboard representative of Lloyd Industries — that, as master of the Rolvaag, I am the ultimate authority as to the handling and disposition of this vessel."

Glinn nodded. Or, at least, McFarlane thought he did; the gesture was so slight as to be imperceptible.

"I now intend to exercise my prerogative under such authority."

McFarlane noticed that the faces of Howell and the other bridge officers were hard-set. Clearly, something was about to happen. And yet Glinn seemed to receive this stiff announcement without concern.

"And how do you plan to exercise this prerogative?"

"That meteorite is not coming aboard my ship."

There was silence while Glinn looked at her mildly. "Captain, I think it would be better if we discussed this in private."

"No, sir." She turned to Howell. "Begin preparations to vacate the island. We leave in ninety minutes."

"One moment, if you please, Mr. Howell." Glinn's eyes remained on the captain. "May I ask what precipitated this decision?"

"You know my misgivings about that rock. You've given me no assurances, beyond guesswork, that the thing is safe to bring aboard. And just five minutes ago, that destroyer painted us with fire-control radar. We're a sitting duck. Even if the meteorite is safe, the conditions aren't. A severe storm is on its way. You don't load the heaviest object ever moved by man when you're staring down the business end of a four-inch gun."

"He will not fire. At least, not yet. He believes we have his man Timmer in the brig. And he seems remarkably eager to get him back safely."

"I see. And what will he do when he finds Timmer's dead?"

Glinn did not answer this question. "Running away without a proper plan is a guaranteed way to fail. And Vallenar won't let us leave until Timmer is returned."

"All I can say is that I'd rather try running now than with a bellyful of meteorite slowing us down."

Glinn continued to regard her with a mild, almost sad expression.

A technician cleared his throat. "I've got an inbound air contact bearing zero zero nine at thirty-five miles."

"Track it and get me a call sign," Britton said, without shifting position or dropping her gaze from Glinn.

There was a short, tense silence.

"Have you forgotten the contract you signed with EES?" Glinn asked.

"I've forgotten nothing, Mr. Glinn. But there is a higher law which supersedes all contracts: the law and custom of the sea. The captain has the last word on matters pertaining to her vessel. And, under present circumstances, I will not allow that meteorite on board."

"Captain Britton, if you will not speak privately with me, all I can do is assure you there is no need to worry." Glinn nodded to his men. One of them stepped forward, sitting down at an unused computer console of black steel. The words SECURE DATAMETRICS were stamped into its side. The other man took up a position behind him, his back to the console, facing the bridge officers. McFarlane realized this console was a smaller cousin of the mysterious machine Britton had pointed out to him in the cargo control room.

Britton watched the two strangers darkly. "Mr. Howell, remove all EES personnel from the bridge."

"That," said Glinn sorrowfully, "will not be possible."

Something in his tone seemed to make Britton hesitate. "What do you mean?"

"The Rolvaag is a marvelous ship, the latest in maritime computerization. As a precaution, EES has used that computerization against a contingency such as this. You see, our systems control the main computer. Normally, this control is transparent. But after the Rolvaag was brought in to shore, I deactivated the bypass. Now we alone have the authorization codes to control the main engines. You cannot transmit any engine or rudder orders until the correct sequence is punched in."

Britton looked at him, silent fury on her face.

Howell picked up a telephone on the command console. "Security to the bridge, on the double."

Britton turned to the watch officer. "Initiate engine sequence."

There was a pause as the officer entered a series of commands. "No response from the engines, ma'am. I've got a dead board."

"Run a diagnostic," she said.

"Captain," continued Glinn, "I'm afraid you will be required to observe the letter of your contract whether you like it or not."

She wheeled suddenly, her eyes locked on his. She said something to him in a voice too low for McFarlane to hear. Glinn stepped forward. "No," he almost whispered. "You promised to captain this ship back to New York. I merely added a safeguard to prevent a violation of that promise — by you, or by others."

Britton fell silent, her tall frame quivering slightly.

"If we leave now, rashly, without a plan, they will sink us." Glinn's voice remained low, persuasive, urgent. "Our very survival now depends on your following my lead. I know what I am doing."

Britton continued looking at him. "This will not stand."

"Captain, you must believe me when I tell you that, if we are to survive, we have only one course of action. You must cooperate with me, or we will all die. It is as simple as that."

"Captain," the watch officer began, "the diagnostics check out..." His voice died away as he saw Britton had not heard him.

A group of security officers appeared on the bridge.

"You heard the captain," barked Howell, motioning the security team forward. "Clear all EES personnel from the bridge." At the console, Glinn's operatives stiffened in preparation.

And then Britton slowly held up a hand.

"Captain —" Howell began.

"They may remain. "

Howell looked at her incredulously, but Britton did not turn.

There was a long, agonized silence. Then Glinn nodded to his team.

The seated man took a stubby metal key from around his neck and inserted it into the front of the console. Glinn stepped forward, typed a short series of commands, then turned to a numeric keypad and typed again, briefly.

The watch officer glanced up. "Sir, the board's gone green."

Britton nodded. "I hope to God you do know what you're doing." She did not look at Glinn as she spoke.

"If you trust anything, Captain, I hope you will trust this. I have made a professional pact — and a personal one — to bring the meteorite to New York. I have thrown tremendous resources into solving any problem we might encounter — including this one. I — we — will not fail."

If this had any impact on Britton, McFarlane could not see it. Her eyes remained distant.

Glinn stepped back. "Captain, the next twelve hours will be the most trying of the entire mission. Success now depends on a certain subordination of your authority as captain. For that I apologize. But once the meteorite is safely in the holding tank, the ship will be yours again. And by noon tomorrow, we'll be well on our way back to New York. With a prize beyond price."

As Glinn looked at her, McFarlane saw him smile: faint, tenuous, but there nonetheless.

Banks stepped out of the radio room. "I've got an ID on the bird, ma'am. It's a Lloyd Holdings helicopter, sending an encrypted call sign over the bridge-to-bridge frequency."

The smile vanished from Glinn's face. He darted a look at McFarlane. Don't look at me, McFarlane almost said. You should have kept him in the loop.

The officer at the radar console adjusted his headphones. "Captain, he's requesting permission to land."

"ETA?"

"Thirty minutes."

Glinn turned. "Captain, if you don't mind, I have a few matters to attend to. Make any necessary preparations for our departure you see fit. I'll return shortly."

He began walking away, leaving the two EES employees at the console. In the doorway, he paused. "Dr. McFarlane," he said, without looking around. "Mr. Lloyd will be expecting a welcome. Arrange it, if you please."

Rolvaag,

12:30 A.M.

WITH A depressing sense of déjà vu, McFarlane paced the maindeck, waiting for the helicopter to approach the tanker. For interminable minutes, there was nothing more than a low thud of rotors somewhere out in the murk. McFarlane watched the frenzied activity that had begun the moment the fog concealed their ship from the Almirante Ramirez. The bluff loomed beside them, the crags of rock softened by the fog. Atop stood the shack that enclosed the meteorite. Before him, the center tank lay open. A pale light drifted upward. McFarlane watched while, with astonishing speed, swarms of workmen began assembling a tower of gleaming struts. It rose out of the tank, its metal latticework glowing softly in the sodium lights. Now, two derricks swung additional prefabricated pieces of tower into place. At least a dozen welders were at work on the tower, and continuous streams of sparks cascaded downward onto the hard hats and shoulders of the engineers below. Despite its size and bulk, the whole structure looked oddly delicate: a complex spiderweb of three dimensions. For the life of him, McFarlane could not see how the meteorite was going to get into the tank once it was dragged on top of the tower.

The thudding sound grew suddenly louder, and McFarlane trotted back along the superstructure to the fantail. The big Chinook was emerging out of the fog, its rotors sending billows of fine spray up from the deck. A man with coned flashlights in his hands maneuvered the bird into position. It was a routine landing, with none of the excitement of Lloyd's arrival during their stormy rounding of Cape Horn.

Moodily, he watched as the helicopter's oversize tires sank onto the pad. Acting as a gofer between Lloyd and Glinn was a no-win situation. He wasn't a liaison: he was a scientist. This wasn't why he had hired on, and the knowledge made him angry.

A hatchway in the helicopter's belly opened. Lloyd stood within, a long black cashmere coat billowing out behind him, a gray fedora in one hand. Landing lights gleamed off his wet pate. He made the jump, landing gracefully for a man of his size, and then strode across the deck, unbowed, powerful, oblivious to the jumble of equipment and staff that streamed out of the chopper on the hydraulic ramp deployed behind him. He grasped McFarlane's hand in his steel grip, smiled and nodded, and continued walking. McFarlane followed him across the windswept deck and out of the noise of the blades. Near the forward railing, Lloyd stopped, scanning the fantastical tower from bottom to top. "Where's Glinn?" he shouted.

"He should be back on the bridge by now."

"Let's go."

The bridge was alive with tension, faces drawn in the pale illumination. Lloyd paused in the doorway for a moment, drinking it in. Then he stepped heavily forward.

Glinn was standing at the EES console, speaking in hushed tones to his man at the keyboard. Lloyd strode toward him, enfolding Glinn's narrow hand in his own. "The man of the hour," he cried. If he had been angry on the plane, he seemed to have recovered his high spirits. He waved one hand out toward the structure rising out of the tank. "Christ, Eli, that's incredible. Are you sure it's going to hold a twenty-five-thousand-ton rock?"

"Double overage," was Glinn's reply.

"I should have known. How the hell is it supposed to work?"

"Controlled failure."

"What? Failure? From your mouth? Heaven forbid."

"We move the rock to the tower. Then we set off a series of explosive charges. These will cause the levels of the tower to fail in sequence, bringing the meteorite down, bit by bit, into the holding tank."

Lloyd gazed at the structure. "Amazing," he said. "Has it ever been done before?"

"Not in quite this way."

"Are you sure it'll work?"

A wry smile appeared on Glinn's thin lips.

"Sorry I asked. All that's your department, Eli, and I'm not going to second-guess you on it. I'm down here for a different reason." He drew himself to his full height and looked around. "I'm not going to mince words. We've got a problem here, and it's not being dealt with. We've come too far to let anything stop us now. So I've come down to kick ass and take names." He pointed out into the dense fog. "There's a warship parked right off our bow. It's sent in spies. They're just waiting for us to make a move. And, goddammit, Eli, you've done nothing about it. Well, there's to be no more chickenshit wavering. Strong action is what's needed here, and from now on I'll be handling it personally. I'm traveling back to New York with you onboard the ship. But first, I'm getting the Chilean navy to recall this damn cowboy." He turned back toward the door. "It'll take my people just a few minutes to get up to speed. Eli, I'll expect you in my office in half an hour. I'm going to make some calls. I've dealt with this kind of tinpot political situation before."

During this brief speech, Glinn kept his deep gray eyes trained steadily on Lloyd. Now he touched his brow with a handkerchief and glanced at McFarlane. As usual, it was almost impossible to read anything into his gaze: Weariness? Disgust? Nothing at all?

Glinn spoke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lloyd. Did you say you had contacted the Chilean authorities?"

"No, not yet. I wanted to find out exactly what was happening here first. But I've got powerful friends in Chile, including the vice president and the American ambassador."

Casually, Glinn took a step closer to the EES console. "I'm afraid that will not be possible."

"What, exactly, will not be possible?" Surprise mingled with impatience in Lloyd's tone.

"Your involvement in any aspect of this operation. You would have done better to stay in New York."

Lloyd's voice sharpened with anger. "Glinn, don't go telling me what I can and can't do. I'll leave the engineering in your hands, but this is a political situation."

"I assure you I am dealing with all aspects of the political situation."

Lloyd's voice trembled. "Oh really? And what about that destroyer out there? It's armed to the teeth, and its guns are pointing at us, in case you didn't notice. You've not done a damn thing. Nothing."

Hearing this, Captain Britton glanced at Howell, and then — more significantly — at Glinn.

"Mr. Lloyd, I will say this only once. You gave me a job to do. I am doing it. Your role right now is very simple: let me carry out my plan. This is no time for drawn-out explanations."

Lloyd, instead of responding, turned to Penfold, who had been hovering unhappily in the door to the bridge. "Get Ambassador Throckmorton on the horn and conference him into the vice president's office in Santiago. I'll be down in a minute."

Penfold disappeared.

"Mr. Lloyd," said Glinn quietly. "You may remain on the bridge and observe. That is all."

"It's way too late for that, Glinn."

Glinn turned quietly and spoke to his man at the black computer. "Kill the power in the Lloyd Industries suite, and suspend ship-to-shore communications across the board."

There was a shocked silence. "You son of a bitch," Lloyd roared, recovering quickly. He turned to Britton. "I contravene that order. Mr. Glinn is relieved of authority."

It appeared that Glinn hadn't heard. He punched in another frequency on his radio. "Mr. Garza? I'll take that report now."

He listened for a moment, then replied, "Excellent. With the covering fog, let's start an early evacuation of the island. Order all nonessential personnel back on board. But follow the game plan precisely: instruct them to leave the lights on and the equipment running. I've had Rachel set the radio transmission routines to automatic. Bring the tender around the rear of the island, but be careful to always keep it within the radar shadow of the island or the Rolvaag."

Lloyd broke in, his voice shaking with rage. "Aren't you forgetting, Glinn, who's ultimately in charge of this operation? On top of firing you, I'm stopping all payments to EES." He turned to Britton. "Restore power to my suite."

It again appeared for several moments as if Glinn had still not heard Lloyd. Britton, also, made no move. Glinn continued speaking calmly into the radio, giving orders, checking on progress. A sudden gust of wind buffeted the bridge windows, sending streamers of rain down the Plexiglas. Lloyd's face flushed a deep purple as he looked around at the captain and the crew. But no one met his eyes. The work of the bridge went on.

"Did any of you hear me?" he cried.

And then at last Glinn turned back. "I am not forgetting that you are ultimately in charge, Mr. Lloyd," he answered, his voice suddenly conciliatory, even friendly.

Lloyd took a deep breath, momentarily thrown off balance.

Glinn continued to speak softly, persuasively, even kindly. "Mr. Lloyd, in any operation, there must be a single commander. You know that better than anyone. In our contract, I made you a promise. I'm not going to break that promise. If I seem insubordinate, please know that I am doing it for you. If you had contacted the Chilean vice president, all would have been lost. I know him personally: we used to play polo together on his Patagonian ranch. He would like nothing better than to give the Americans a swift poke in the eye."

Lloyd faltered. "You played polo with — ?"

Glinn went on, speaking rapidly. "I alone have all the facts. I alone know the path to success. I am not being secretive for the sake of coyness, Mr. Lloyd. There is a vital reason for this: it is essential to prevent second-guessing and freelance decision making. Frankly, the meteorite bears no intrinsic interest for me. But I promised to move this thing from point A to point B, and no one, no one, is going to stop me. So I hope you understand now why I am not going to relinquish control of this operation, or share with you explanations and prognostications. As for you withholding payment, we can settle that question like gentlemen once we are back on American soil."

"Look here, Glinn, that's all very well and good —"

"This discussion is over, and now, sir, you will obey me." Glinn's voice, still soft, suddenly took on a steely edge. "Whether that means staying here quietly, or disappearing into your office, or being escorted to the brig, is a matter of indifference to me."

Lloyd stared at him, dumbfounded. "You think you could put me in the brig, you arrogant bastard?"

The expression on Glinn's face provided the answer.

Lloyd was silent for a moment, his face almost purple with rage. Then he turned to Britton. "And who are you working for?"

But Britton's eyes, deep and green as the ocean, were still on Glinn. "I'm working for the man with the keys to the car," she said at last.

Lloyd stood there, swelling in fury. But he did not immediately react. Instead, he made a slow circuit of the bridge, his creaking wingtips leaving a trail of water, until he stopped at the bridge windows. There he stood, breathing heavily a moment, looking out at nothing in particular. "Once again, I order that power and communications be restored to my suite."

There was no sound, no answer. It was clear that no one, not even the lowest officer, intended to obey Lloyd.

Lloyd slowly turned, and his eyes fell square on McFarlane. He spoke in a low voice. "And you, Sam?"

Another hard gust buffeted the windows. McFarlane, standing in suspension, felt the shudder in the air. The bridge had fallen deathly quiet. He had a decision to make — and he found it one of the easiest decisions of his career.

"I'm working for the rock," said McFarlane quietly.

Lloyd continued looking at him, his eyes black, adamantine. Then, all at once, he seemed to crumple. The bull-like power seemed to drain out of his massive frame; his shoulders slumped; his face lost its fiery color. He turned, hesitated, then walked slowly off the bridge and disappeared out the door.

After a moment, Glinn bent once again toward the black computer and murmured to his man at the keyboard.

Rolvaag,

1:45 A.M.

CAPTAIN BRITTON stared straight ahead, betraying nothing of her feelings. She tried to measure her breathing, the rhythm of her heart — everything — to the pulse of the ship. Over the past hours, the wind had been picking up steadily, and it moaned and rattled about the ship. It was raining harder now, fat drops that shot out of the fog like bullets. The panteonero was not far away.

She transferred her attention to the spiderwebbed tower that rose out of the ship's tank. It was still well below the level of the bluff, and yet it seemed to be complete. She had no idea what the next step would be. It was uncomfortable, even humiliating, not knowing. She glanced over toward the EES computer and the man operating it. She had thought she knew everyone on board. And yet this man was a stranger who seemed to know a great deal about the operation of a supertanker. She pressed her lips more tightly together.

There were times, of course, when she relinquished command — taking on fuel, say, or when a harbor pilot came aboard. But those were comfortable, familiar patterns of running a ship, established over decades. This was not comfortable: it was a humiliation. Strangers were running the loading process, after lashing the ship to the shore and leaving her a sitting duck three thousand yards from a warship... Once again, she struggled to tuck away the feelings of anger and hurt. After all, her own feelings were not important — not when she thought about what waited for them, out there in the murk.

Anger and hurt... Her eyes flickered to Glinn, standing beside the black console, occasionally whispering words to his operative. He had just humiliated, even crushed, the world's most powerful industrialist, and yet he looked so slender, so ordinary. She continued looking covertly at him. She could understand her anger. But hurt was something else. More than once she had lain awake at night, wondering what went on in his mind, what made him tick. She wondered how a man who was so physically inconsequential — a man she might pass in the street without a second glance — could take up residence in her imagination so vividly. She wondered how he could be so ruthless, so disciplined. Did he really have a plan, or was he simply good at covering up a series of ad hoc reactions to unexpected events? The most dangerous people were those who knew they were always right. And yet Glinn had been always right. He seemed to know everything in advance, he seemed to understand everybody. He certainly had understood her — at least, the professional Sally Britton. Success now depends on a certain subordination of your authority as captain, he had said. She found herself wondering if he really knew how she felt about having her command subordinated, even temporarily, or if he even cared. She wondered why she cared that he cared.

She felt a shudder as pumps came on along both sides of the ship. Jets of seawater blasted through discharge pipes into the sea. The ship began to rise almost imperceptibly as the ballast tanks emptied. Of course: that's how the squat-looking tower would be raised to the level of the meteorite on the bluff. The whole ship would rise to meet it, bringing the platform flush with the rock. Again she felt humiliated at having control of the tanker taken from her, and yet awed at the audacity of the plan.

She remained stiffly at attention, speaking to no one, as the great ship rose in the water. It was a strange feeling, to see the ship going through the traditional, motions of deballasting — lashing the sea suctions, aligning the loading arms, opening the manifold blocks — and yet seeing them as an observer rather than a participant. And to observe it under such circumstances — tethered to shore in the lee of a storm-went against everything she had ever learned in her career.

At last the tower was even with the shed perched on the bluff. She watched Glinn murmur to the console operator. Instantly, the pumps ceased.

A loud crack echoed from the bluff. A cloud of smoke expanded as the metal shed blew apart. The smoke rolled away to merge with the fog, revealing the meteorite, bloodred under the sodium lights. Britton caught her breath. She was aware that all eyes on the bridge had locked on the meteorite. There was a collective gasp.

On the bluff, diesel engines roared into life and a complicated series of pulleys and capstans began to turn. A highpitched squeal sounded; diesel smoke billowed skyward to mingle with fog. Inch by inch, the meteorite began moving toward the reinforced edge of the bluff. Britton watched, transfixed, the flood of emotions inside her temporarily stilled. There was something regal about the meteorite's progress: stately, slow, regular. It crept past the edge onto the platform atop the tower. Then it stopped. Again she felt the whole ship vibrate as the computer-controlled pumps kept the ship trim, emptying precisely enough ballast to compensate for the growing weight of the meteorite.

Britton watched the process in tense silence. The meteorite would creep a little farther onto the platform, then stop, to an answering shudder from the ballast pumps. The jerky ballet continued for twenty minutes. At last, it was finished: the meteorite was centered atop the tower. She felt the Rolvaag's top-heaviness, the destabilization caused by the meteorite's weight; but she could also sense the ballast tanks now refilling with water, the ship sinking back down into the water for stability.

Glinn spoke again to the computer operator. Then, nodding at Britton, he walked out onto the bridge wing nearest the bluff. The bridge remained silent for another minute. Then she felt Chief Mate Howell come up behind her. She did not turn as he leaned toward her ear.

"Captain," he murmured. "I want you to know that we — I mean, the officers and myself — aren't happy about this. It isn't right, the way you were treated. We're behind you a hundred percent. You just say the word and..." There was no need to finish the sentence.

Britton remained rigidly at attention. "I thank you, Mr. Howell," she replied in a quiet voice. "But that will be all."

After a moment, Howell stepped back. Britton took a deep breath. The time for action had passed. Now, they were committed. The meteorite was no longer a land-based problem. It was on the ship. And the only way to get it off was to see the Rolvaag docked safely in New York. Once again she thought of Glinn, of the way he had wooed her into commanding the Rolvaag, how he had known everything about her, how much he had trusted her in customs at Puerto Williams. They had been a good team. She wondered if she had done the right thing in yielding her command to him, however temporary. But then she had had no choice.

Through all these thoughts, Britton stood rigidly at attention.

Outside, there was another sharp cracking sound; a gleaming row of titanium struts flew away from the top rung of the tower with a dozen puffs of smoke. They spun away, coruscating into the fog, dropping lazily out of sight. The meteorite sank onto the next layer of the tower; the whole ship shuddered again; and the ballast pumps rumbled into life. Then there was another round of explosions; another narrow layer of the tower crumpled into itself, and the meteorite sank a few inches closer to the tank.

A part of Britton realized this was an awesome engineering feat; utterly original, perfectly planned, beautifully executed. But another part of her found no pleasure in it. She glanced down the length of the vessel. The fog was getting patchier, and the sleety rain was now blowing horizontally across the windows. Soon the fog would blow away. Then the game would be up. Because Vallenar was not some engineering problem Glinn could solve with a slide rule. And their only bargaining chip lay deep inside the Rolvaag — not in the brig, but in Dr. Brambell's frozen morgue.

Rolvaag,

2:50 A.M.

LLOYD PACED his darkened study on the middle bridge deck with the restless fury of a caged beast. The wind had picked up, and every few minutes a gust would strike the ship with such force that the stern windows bowed and rattled in their frames. Lloyd barely noticed.

He paused a moment, then stared out through the open door of his private office into the sitting room beyond. Its surfaces were faintly illuminated in the dull red glow of emergency lights. The wall of television screens, black and featureless, blinked back the silent mockery of a hundred dim reflections of himself.

He spun away, trembling. His body swelled with anger inside his suit, straining the expensive fabric. It was incomprehensible. Glinn — a man he was paying three hundred million dollars — had ordered him from the bridge of his own ship. He had cut off the power to his suite, leaving him deaf, dumb, and blind. There were matters to take care of back in New York — critical matters. The enforced silence was costing him big money. And there was something else; something that hurt more than money. Glinn had humiliated him in front of the bridge officers and his own people.

Lloyd could forgive a lot of things, but that he could never forgive. Palmer Lloyd had faced down presidents, prime ministers, sheikhs, captains of industry, and mob kingpins. But this man was different.

In a paroxysm of rage he kicked out at one of the wing chairs, sending it crashing to the deck. And then suddenly he whirled around, listening intently.

The howl of the wind, the faint grinding of machinery from the bogus worksite, went on as they had before. But there had been another, more regular sound: something that Lloyd, in the full flood of his anger, had not immediately noticed. There it was again: the staccato pop of as explosion. It was very near; on the ship, in fact, because he could feel the deck shuddering faintly beneath his feet.

He waited in the faint light, muscles tense, curiosity now mingling with his outrage. There it was again: the sound, followed by the shudder.

Something was happening on the maindeck.

Quickly, he walked out through the sitting room, down the corridor, and into the central suite. Here, his secretaries and assistants sat awkwardly among the dead phones and darkened computers, talking quietly. The talk fell away as he passed through the long, low space. Noiselessly, Penfold slipped out of the shadows to pluck at his sleeve. Brushing him away, Lloyd moved past the closed elevators and opened the soundproofed door that led to his private apartment. He went through the rooms to the forward bulkhead of the superstructure. He wiped the condensation from a porthole with the cuff of his suit jacket and peered out.

Below, the deck was a hive of activity. Workers were battening down the deck equipment, checking fastenings, tightening hatches, making all the last frenzied preparations for a sea voyage. But what caught his attention was the bizarre tower that reared out of the tank. It was shorter than it had been before; much shorter, in fact. Smoke and steam encircled it, blending with the fog to create clouds that unfurled along the deck in a slow-motion ballet. As he watched, there was another rat-tat-tat of explosions. The meteorite dropped slightly and the ship shuddered again. Groups of workers scurried forward, clearing away the fresh debris before the next set of explosions.

Now he understood precisely what Glinn had meant by a controlled failure of the tower. They were blowing it apart, bit by bit. As he watched, Lloyd grasped that this was the best — probably the only — way of getting something that heavy into the tank. He caught his breath at the brilliance and the audacity of it.

At this thought, a fresh spasm of rage ripped through his body. But Lloyd closed his eyes against it, turning away, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Glinn had told him not to come; McFarlane had told him not to come. But he had come anyway. Just as he had leapt onto the meteorite when it was first exposed. He thought of what had happened to the man named Timmer, and he shuddered.

Perhaps coming down again, guns blazing, had not been the right thing to do. It was impulsive, and Lloyd knew enough about himself to know he was not normally an impulsive man. He was too close to this: it had become too personal. J.P. Morgan once said, "If you want something too much, you will not succeed in getting it." He had always lived by that philosophy: he had never been afraid to walk away from a deal, no matter how lucrative. The ability to fold a hand, even with four aces, had been his most valuable business asset. Now, for the first time in his life, he had drawn a hand that he could not fold. He was in the game to the finish, win or lose.

Lloyd found himself fighting an unfamiliar battle: a struggle to steady his mind. He considered that he had not made $34 billion by being unreasonable and hot-tempered. He had always avoided second-guessing his hired professionals. In this terrible moment of humiliation, defeat, and self-reflection, he realized that Glinn might, in fact, have been acting in his best interests by sending him from the bridge and cutting him off from the world. But even this thought touched off another wave of anger. Best interests or not, the man had been arrogant and high-handed. Glinn's coolness, his unflappability, his assumption of leadership, enraged Lloyd. He had been humiliated in front of everyone, and he would never forget nor forgive it. When all this was over, there would be a reckoning for Glinn, financial and otherwise.

But first they had to get the meteorite the hell out of there. And Glinn seemed to be the only man who could do it.

Rolvaag,

3:40 A.M.

CAPTAIN BRITTON, the meteorite will be inside the holding tank within ten minutes. The ship will be yours, and we can depart."

Glinn's words broke the long hush that had fallen over the bridge. Like the others, McFarlane had been staring at the slow, regular progress of the meteorite into the belly of the Rolvaag.

For another minute, maybe two, Britton stood unmoving, statuesque, staring out the windows of the bridge as she had ever since Lloyd's departure. At last she turned and looked directly at Glinn. After a significant moment she turned toward the second officer. "Wind speed?"

"Thirty knots from the southwest, gusting to forty, and rising."

"Currents?"

The murmured exchange continued, while Glinn leaned toward his man at the computer console: "Have Puppup and Amira report to me here, please."

There was another rapid series of explosions. The ship lurched, and the ballast pumps rumbled to compensate.

"There's a weather front coming in," Howell murmured. "We're losing our fog."

"Visibility?" Britton asked.

"Rising to five hundred yards."

"Position of the warship?"

"Unchanged at twenty-two hundred yards, zero five one."

A gust of wind hit the ship hard. Then there was a vast, hollow boom, different from anything McFarlane had felt before, and a shudder seemed to run through the very spine of the vessel.

"The hull just hit the bluff," said Britton quietly.

"We can't move yet," replied Glinn. "Will the hull stand it?"

"For a while," Britton answered expressionlessly. "Perhaps."

A door at the far end of the bridge opened and Rachel entered. She looked around, her bright alert eyes quickly sizing up the situation. She came up beside McFarlane. "Garza better get that thing in the tank before we're holed," she muttered.

There was another series of explosions, and the meteorite dropped farther. Its base was now hidden inside the frame of the ship.

"Dr. McFarlane," Glinn said without turning around. "Once the meteorite is secured in the tank, it becomes yours. I want you and Amira to monitor it round the clock. Let me know if there's any change in readings, or in the meteorite's status. I don't want any more surprises from that rock."

"Right."

"The lab is ready, and there's an observation platform above the tank. If you need anything, let me know."

"More lightning now," the second officer broke in. "Ten miles out."

There was a moment of silence.

"Speed this up," Britton said suddenly to Glinn.

"Can't," murmured Glinn, almost absentmindedly.

"Visibility one thousand yards," said the second officer. "Wind speed increasing to forty knots."

McFarlane swallowed. Everything had been moving ahead with such predictable, clockwork precision that he'd almost been lulled into forgetting the danger. He remembered Lloyd's question: So how are you going to deal with that destroyer out there? How indeed? He wondered what Lloyd was doing, down in his darkened staterooms. He thought, with surprisingly little regret, about the probable loss of his $750,000 fee, given what he had said to Lloyd. It hardly mattered to him now — now that he had the rock.

Another crackle of explosions, and titanium struts flashed out, bouncing and skidding along the maindeck and ricocheting off the rails. He could hear the thunk of additional struts falling away into the tank. There were occasional ticks of gravel on the bridge windows now, picked off the nearby bluff by the rising wind. The panteonero was descending in earnest.

Glinn's radio squawked. "Two more feet and we'll have clearance," came the metallic voice of Garza.

"Stay on this channel. I want you to call out each drop."

Puppup opened the door and entered the bridge, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Visibility two thousand yards," said the second officer. "The fog's lifting fast. The warship will have visual contact with us at any moment."

McFarlane heard a rumble of thunder. It was drowned out by another great boom as the vessel made contact with the bluff for a second time.

"Increase RPM on main engines!" barked Britton. A new vibration was added to the mix.

"Eighteen inches to go," came Garza's voice from the maindeck.

"Lightning at five miles. Visibility twenty-five hundred yards."

"Initiate blackout," Glinn said.

Instantly, the brilliantly lit deck was plunged into darkness as the ship went black. The ambient light from the superstructure cast a dull glow over the meteorite, its top now barely visible. The whole ship was shaking — whether from the meteorite's descent, the rollers now crashing along its flank, or the wind, it was impossible for McFarlane to tell. There was another round of explosions, and the meteorite sank still lower. Both Britton and Glinn were calling out commands now; there was an awkward moment in which the ship seemed to have two masters. As the fog rolled back, McFarlane could see that the channel was a turmoil of whitecaps, heaved up and down by combers. His eyes remained glued to the nocturnal seascape beyond the windows, waiting for the sharp prow of the destroyer to materialize.

"Six inches," said Garza over the radio.

"Prepare to close the hatch," Glinn said.

There was a flash of lightning to the southwest, followed shortly by a faint rumble.

"Visibility four thousand yards. Lightning at two miles."

McFarlane became aware of Rachel, gripping his elbow hard. "Jesus, that's too close," she murmured.

And there it was: the destroyer off to the right, a dim cluster of lights, flickering through the storm. As McFarlane stared, the fog peeled away from the destroyer. It was stationary, lights ablaze, as if flaunting its presence. There was another explosion, another shudder.

"She's in," came Garza's voice.

"Close the mechanical doors," Britton said crisply. "Slip cable, Mr. Howell. Smartly. Set course one three five."

There was a fresh set of explosions, and the great hawsers that moored the ship to the cliff dropped away, swinging lazily toward the bluff.

"Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady on course one three five," said Howell.

Almirante Ramirez,

3:55 A.M.

JUST OVER a mile away, Comandante Vallenar paced his own bridge. It was unheated, and, as he preferred, manned with the minimum complement. He stared out the forward windows toward the ship's castillo, the forecastle. He could see nothing through the lightening fog. Then, abruptly, he veered toward the oficial de guardia en la mer, the conning officer, who was standing in the radar alcove. He leaned over his shoulder to scrutinize the forward-looking infrared radar. The tanker's signature showed him nothing he did not already know, and answered none of his questions. Why was the ship still moored to the shore? In the gathering storm, it had become increasingly dangerous to remain. Could they be attempting to move the meteorite toward the ship? No — before the fog had moved in, he'd watched them struggling ineffectively with it in the island's interior. Even now, he could hear the frantic grinding of machinery. And the chatter of talk over the shore radio was continuing. Still, it seemed foolish to endanger the ship by leaving it strung to shore. And the man Glinn was no fool.

What, then, was going on?

Earlier, the loud thud of propeller blades had sounded over the wind as a helicopter hovered nearby, landed, then departed. There had been the sound of nearby explosions — much smaller than those from the island, but apparently originating from the vicinity of the ship. Or perhaps from the ship itself. Could there have been some accident on board? Were there casualties? Had Timmer commandeered a weapon and tried to escape?

He turned from the ancient green radar screen and gazed intently into the darkness. Through the flickering tatters of fog and sleet, he thought he glimpsed lights. The fog was lifting and he would soon have visual contact with the ship. He blinked hard, then looked again. The lights were gone. Wind whipped against the ship, whistling and crying. Vallenar had heard that cry before. It was a panteonero.

He'd already ignored several orders to return to base, each more urgent, more threatening, than the last. It was the corruption, the bribed officials, calling him back. By the Mother of God, they would thank him in the end.

He could feel the movement of his ship in the heavy swell, a corkscrew motion that he did not like. The anchor to the uncharted underwater ledge held — the best anchorage, the only anchorage, in the Franklin Channel.

What was going on?

He would not wait for noon to get an answer about Timmer. At first light, he would fire a few four-inch shells high into their bows — nothing that would sink the ship, of course, but enough to disable it and get their attention. Then he would deliver an ultimatum: hand over Timmer or die.

Something flickered through the parting sheets of fog. He stared, face close to the glass. There they were again: lights, no doubt of it. He strained into the darkness. The fog and sleet whipped past, but he saw it again, fleetingly; and then again. Now, the outline of the great ship was becoming visible in the lifting murk. He raised his binoculars — and the ship disappeared. He cursed as he examined the blackness. And then, again, he saw lights: one light now, very faint.

The bastards had darkened ship.

What were they hiding?

He stepped backward, glancing at the FLIR scope, trying to pull some kind of meaning out of the blurry green smear. Something, he sensed, was about to happen. Perhaps the time to act was now.

He turned to the boatswain's mate. "Sound general quarters," he said.

The mate leaned into the IMC. "General quarters, general quarters, all hands man battle stations."

A claxon horn went off. Almost immediately, the jefe de la guardia en la mer, the tactical action officer, appeared on the bridge and saluted.

Vallenar opened a stores closet and pulled out a bulky set of Sovietski night-vision goggles. Strapping them in place around his head, he stepped toward the windows and peered out again. The Russian technology was not as good as the ITT devices made by the Americans, but then again they were not nearly as expensive. He glanced out toward the tanker.

With the goggles, he could see more clearly. Figures were scurrying across the deck, clearly making 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."

Britton looked at Glinn's man. "Employ all countermeasures. If he fires a missile, deploy chaff, CIWS, as necessary. "

There was a delay, then a shudder, as the ship began to slow and turn.

"This isn't going to work," Howell muttered.

Glinn did not bother to answer. He knew that, in fact, the tactic would work. Even if the electronic countermeasures failed, Vallenar would be aiming high at the bow, where it would cause the most excitement with the least damage. He wouldn't try to sink the Rolvaag — not yet, at any rate.

A long two minutes passed in the darkness. Then there was an eruption of light along the side of the destroyer as its four-inch guns fired. Some tense seconds later, there was an explosion off the Rolvaag's port bow, and another, and a third, faint geysers of water rising in the darkness and twisting away in the wind. Glinn noted that, as he expected, the shells were going wide.

The officers on the bridge exchanged pale, shocked glances. Glinn watched them with sympathy. He knew that, even in the best of circumstances, coming under fire for the first time was traumatic.

"I'm getting movement on the destroyer," Howell said, staring at the radar.

"May I suggest all ahead flank, steady course one eight zero," Glinn said gently.

The helmsman did not repeat the order, instead glancing over at the captain. "That'll take us out of the main channel, inside the reefs," he said, voice wavering ever so slightly. "They're uncharted..."

Glinn motioned to Puppup.

"Yes, guv?"

"We're taking the reef side of the channel."

"Sure thing." Puppup skipped over to stand beside the helmsman.

Britton sighed. "Execute the order."

Surf crashed into the bow, sending foam across the deck. Puppup peered out into the dark.

"Take it a little to the left, there."

"Make it so, Mr. Howell," Britton said tersely.

"Left five degrees rudder," said Howell, "steady on course one seven five."

There was a moment of strained silence. Then the helmsman spoke. "Aye, sir, steady at one seven five."

Howell leaned over the radar. "They're picking up speed, up to twelve knots now to our eight." He stared hard at Glinn. "What the hell's your plan now?" he asked. "You think we can outrun that bastard? You crazy? In a few minutes he'll be close enough to sink us with his four-inchers, despite our jamming."

"Mr. Howell!" Britton said sharply. The chief mate fell silent.

Glinn glanced at his man at the computer. "Armed?" he asked.

The man nodded.

"Wait for my signal."

Glinn looked out through the window at the destroyer. He, too, could see it was now moving faster through the water. Even an old warship like that could do thirty-four knots. It was a beautiful sight, in the dark at least: the brilliant cluster of lights, the "bone in the throat," the watery reflections off the underside of the gun turrets. He waited another moment, letting the destroyer build up plenty of headway.

"Fire in the hole."

It was gratifying to see the two sudden geysers of water rip along the destroyer's stern; to see the high wind carry the water right across the flying bridge; and, more gratifying still, to hear the twin reports, barely seven seconds later. He watched as the destroyer began to swing broadside to the swell.

With both screws stripped, Comandante Vallenar would swiftly end up on the rocks. Glinn wondered, with faint amusement, how Vallenar would now explain the loss of his ship. Assuming he survived, of course.

There was a report from the destroyer, and then another: it was firing its four-inch guns again. Then the reports were punctuated with the higher sound of 40-millimeter cannon. In a moment, all the ship's guns were firing in a furious gesture of impotent rage, the cluster of flashes like manic strobes against the velvety darkness of the sea. But with the Almirante Ramirez's radar useless, their steerage gone, their ship wallowing broadside to a heavy sea, and the Rolvaag in blackout, slipping away into the dark night on a new course, their shots were, naturally, going wild.

"A touch more to the left there, guv," said Puppup, stroking one mustache, squinting into the darkness.

"Left five degrees rudder," said Britton to the helmsman, without waiting for Howell.

The ship changed course almost imperceptibly.

Puppup peered out intently. The minutes ticked on. Then he bent his head toward Glinn. "We're out of it."

Britton watched him retreat again to the far shadows of the bridge. "Steady as she goes," she said. "All ahead flank."

The massive reports continued to echo crazily among the mountain peaks and silent glaciers, rolling and booming, gradually growing fainter. Soon they were heading into the open ocean.

Thirty minutes later, on the west side of Horn Island, they slowed just long enough to make a running recovery of the tender.

Then Britton spoke: "Take her round the Horn, Mr. Howell."

Cabo de Hornos came dimly into view and the sound of firing finally disappeared, swallowed by the howl of the wind and the thunder of the sea along the hull. It was over. Glinn had never once looked back at Desolation Island — at the bright lights of its works, at the machines that still raced furiously on their imaginary errands. Now, with the op completed, he felt his breathing pick up, his heart rate begin to increase again.

"Mr. Glinn?"

It was Britton. She was looking at him, her eyes luminous and intense.

"Yes?"

"How are you going to explain the sinking of a warship of a foreign nation?"

"They fired first. We acted in self-defense. Besides, our charges only knocked out their steerage. The panteonero will sink them."

"That isn't going to cut it. We'll be lucky not to spend the rest of our lives in prison."

"I respectfully disagree, Captain. Everything we've done has been legal. Everything. We were a legal mining operation. We recovered an ore body, a meteorite, it so happens, which fell well within the legal language of our mining contract with Chile. From the very beginning, we were harassed, forced to pay bribes, and threatened. One of our men was murdered. Finally, as we departed, we were fired upon by a freelancing warship. And yet, during this entire period, there was no warning to us from the Chilean government, no official communication whatsoever. I assure you, we're going to lodge the strongest possible protest with the State Department on our return. We've been treated outrageously." He paused, then added with the faintest of smiles, "You don't really think our government will see it any other way, do you?"

Britton continued regarding him, her eyes quite beautifully green, for what seemed a long time. Now she came close and spoke in his ear.

"You know what?" she whispered. "I think you're certifiable."

There was, Glinn thought, a note of admiration in her voice.

Rolvaag,

4:00 A.M.

PALMER LLOYD sat in his study, slouched deep in the lone upright wing chair, his broad back to the door. His custommade English shoes, now dry, had nudged the useless phone and laptop to one comer of the small table. Outside the bank of windows, a faint phosphorescence lay across the violent surface of the ocean, throwing rippling patterns of green light around the darkened study, giving the impression that the room lay on the bottom of the sea.

Lloyd gazed out motionlessly at that faint light. He had sat motionless through it all: the firing of the guns, the brief chase with the Chilean destroyer, the explosions, the tempestuous trip around the Cape.

With a soft click, the lights in the study came on, instantly turning the stormscape beyond the windows to an indistinct black. In the private office beyond, the wall of television sets lit up, suddenly crowded with dozens of silent talking heads. Further, in the suite of offices, a telephone rang; then another, and another. Still Palmer Lloyd did not move.

Even Lloyd could not say precisely what was going through his mind. Over the dark hours, there had been anger, of course; there had been frustration, humiliation, denial. All these feelings he understood. Glinn had summarily removed him from the bridge, clipped his wings, left him powerless. Such a thing had never happened to him before. What he could not quite understand — what he could not explain — was the growing feeling of joy that shot through all these other feelings, suffusing them like light through a screen. The loading of the rock, the disabling of the Chilean ship, had been a magnificent piece of work.

Under the unexpected glare of self-examination, Lloyd realized that Glinn had been correct to send him away. His own bull-in-a-china-shop methods would have been disastrous alongside such a carefully balanced scheme. And now the lights were back on. Glinn's message to him was crystal clear.

He remained still, a fixed spot at the center of freshly renewed activity, and thought about his past successes. This, too, would be a success. Thanks to Glinn.

And who had hired Glinn? Who had chosen the right man — the only man — for the job? Despite the humiliation, Lloyd congratulated himself on his choice. He had chosen well. He had succeeded. The meteorite was safely aboard. With the destroyer out of action, nothing could stop them. Soon, they would be in international waters. And then it was a straight shot to New York. There would be an uproar, of course, when they returned to the States. But he relished a good fight — especially when he was in the right.

He inhaled deeply, as the feeling of joy continued to swell. The phone on his desk began to ring, but still he ignored it. There was a tapping at the door, no doubt Penfold; he ignored that too. A violent gust shook the windows, splattering them with rain and sleet. And then at last Lloyd stood up, dusted himself off, and squared his shoulders. Not yet, but soon — very soon — it would be time to return to the bridge and congratulate Glinn on his — on their — success.

Almirante Ramirez,

4:10 A.M.

COMANDANTE VALLENAR stared into the blackness of the Cape Horn night, gripping the engine-room telegraph, steadying himself against the steep rolling of the ship. It was all too clear what had happened... and why.

Pushing the fury to the back of his consciousness, he concentrated on a mental calculation. In the sixty-knot panteonero, the destroyer's windage would produce a two-knot drift; combine that with the two-knot easterly set of the current, and he had about one hour before his ship was thrust onto the reefs beyond Isla Deceit.

Behind him, he could feel the silence of his officers. They were awaiting the orders to abandon ship. They were going to be disappointed.

Vallenar took a breath, controlling himself with an iron will. When he spoke to the officer of the deck, his voice was steady, without quaver. "Damage assessment, Mr. Santander."

"It is difficult to say, Comandante. Both screws appear to be stripped. Rudder damaged but functional. No hull breach reported. But the ship has lost headway and steerage. We are dead in the water, sir."

"Send two divers over the side. Report specific damage to the screws."

This order was greeted with a deeper silence. Vallenar turned, very slowly, raking the assembled officers with his eyes.

"Sir, it will be death to send anyone overboard in this sea." said the officer of the deck.

Vallenar held him in his gaze. Unlike the others, Santander was relatively new to his command: a mere six months spent here at the bottom of the world. "Yes," said Vallenar, "I see the problem. We cannot have that."

The man smiled.

"Send a team of six. That way, at least one should survive to complete the job."

The smile vanished.

"That's a direct order. Disobey, and you will be leading that team."

"Yes, sir," said the officer of the deck.

"There is a large wooden crate in along the starboard side of Forward Hold C, marked `40 mm ordnance.' Inside is a spare screw." Vallenar had prepared for many emergencies, the loss of a screw included. Hiding spare parts aboard ship was a good way to get around the corrupt officials of the Punta Arenas Navy Yard. "After documenting the damage, you will cut what sections you need from the spare screw. Divers will weld these sections to the damaged screws to give us propulsion. We will be on the shoals of Isla Deceit in less than sixty minutes. There will be no order given to abandon ship. There will be no distress call. You will either give me propulsion, or all hands will go down with the ship."

"Yes, sir," said the officer of the deck in a near whisper. The looks of the other bridge officers betrayed what they thought of this desperate plan. Vallenar ignored them. He did not care what they thought: he cared only that they obeyed. And for now, they were obeying.

Rolvaag,

7:55 A.M.

MANUEL GARZA stood on a narrow metal catwalk, peering down at the great red rock that lay far below him. From this height it looked almost small: an exotic egg, sitting in a nest of steel and wood. The webbing surrounding it was a fine piece of work: damn fine, perhaps the best thing he had done in his life. Marrying brute strength to pinpoint precision had been remarkably difficult, a challenge that only someone like Gene Rochefort could appreciate. Garza found himself sorry that Rochefort wasn't here to see it; beautiful engineering was one of the few things that had brought a smile to the man's pinched face.

The TIG welding crew had followed him down the access tunnel and were now stepping through the hatchway onto the catwalk, making a racket in their heavy rubber boots. They were a colorful bunch: yellow suits and gloves, welding diagrams with individual jobs colored in red.

"You've got your assignments," Garza said. "You know what to do. We need to lock that son of a bitch into place and we need to do it before the seas get any rougher."

The foreman gave Garza a mock salute. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits; the meteorite was in the hold, the Chilean destroyer was out of the picture, and they were on their way home.

"Oh, and one other thing. Try not to touch it."

The men laughed at the little joke. Someone made a crack about Timmer's ass achieving escape velocity; there was a reference to being mailed home in Tupperware containers. But nobody moved toward the elevator cage leading to the bottom of the tank. Garza could see that, despite the humor and the high spirits, there was a deep nervousness. The meteorite might be safely in the Rolvaag, but it had lost none of its ability to inspire dread.

There was only one way to handle this: quickly. "Go to it," Garza said, slapping the foreman on the back with an air of heartiness.

Without further delay, the men began stepping into the cage. Garza almost stayed behind — after all, he could direct the entire operation better from the observation unit at the end of the catwalk — but decided that would be unseemly. He stepped into the cage and slid the grating shut.

"Into the belly of the beast, Mr. Garza?" one man asked.

"Gotta keep you jackasses out of trouble."

They descended to the bottom of the tank, where a series of metal beams had been laid across the keel rider, forming a floor. Buttressing members ran from the cradle in all directions, distributing the weight of the meteorite toward all corners of the ship. Following the directions on their welding diagrams, the men branched out, climbing along struts and disappearing into the complex lattice that surrounded the meteorite. Soon they were all in place, but the tank remained silent for a long moment; it was as if, down here beside the rock, nobody wanted to be the first to begin. And then the bright points of light began popping out in the dim space, casting crazy shadows as the welders fired up their equipment and went to work.

Garza checked the assignment list and the master diagram, satisfying himself that everybody was doing just what he was supposed to. There was a faint chorus of sizzling as the TIG welders bit into the metal, fusing the cradle into place at a host of critical nodes. He ran his gaze over the welders in turn. It was unlikely some cowboy would get too close to the rock, but he made sure nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance he could hear an occasional drip. Searching idly for the source, he glanced at the longitudinal bulkheads rising sixty feet to the top of the tank, ribbed and worked like a metal cathedral. Then he glanced down at the bottom girders. The hull plates were wet. No surprise there, under the circumstances. He could hear the measured boom of surf along the hull, feel the gentle, slow-motion rolling of the ship. He thought of the three membranes of metal that lay between him and the bottomless ocean. It was a disquieting thought, and he pulled his gaze away, looking now at the meteorite itself, inside its webbed prison.

Although from down here it looked more imposing, it was diminished by the vastness of the tank. Once again, he tried to comprehend how something so small could weigh so much. Five Eiffel towers packed into twenty feet of meteorite. Curved, pebbled surface. No scooped-out hollows like a normal meteorite. Stunning, almost indescribable color. He'd love to give his girlfriend a ring made out of that stuff. And then his memory flashed back to the various chunks of the man named Timmer, laid out in the command hut. Nope; no ring.

He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes. The work was estimated to take twenty-five. "How's it going?" he called to the crew foreman.

"Almost there," the foreman called back, his voice echoing and distorted in the great tank. Garza stood back and waited, feeling the ship rolling more heavily now. The smell of cooking steel, tungsten, and titanium was strong in the air.

At last the TIG welders began snapping off as the welders finished their work. Garza nodded. Twenty-two minutes: not bad. Just a few more critical welds and they'd be done.

Rochefort had designed things to keep those welds to a minimum. Whenever possible, he'd kept things simple. Less likely to fail. He may have been a prig, but he was a damn good engineer. Garza sighed as the ship began to roll again, wishing again Rochefort could have seen his plan become real here in this tank. Someone got killed on almost every job. It was a little like war; better not to make too many friends...

He realized that the vessel was still rolling. This is a big one, he thought. There was a faint flurry of creaks and groans. "Hold tight!" he called out to the crew as he turned away and grasped the lift railing for support. The ship heeled, more, and still more.

Then he found himself lying on his back, in the pitchdark, pain coursing through him. How did he get there? A minute could have passed, or an hour; there was no way to tell. His head swirled: there had been an explosion. Somewhere in the blackness, a man was screaming — hideously — and there was a strong smell of ozone and burnt metal in the air, overlaid with a whiff of woodsmoke. Something warm and sticky coated his face, and the pain throbbed in rhythm with the beat of his heart. But then it began to go away — far away — and soon he was able to sleep once again.

Rolvaag,

8:00 A.M.

PALMER LLOYD had taken his time arriving on the bridge. He had to brace himself. He could show no lingering childish resentment.

He was received with polite, even deferential nods. There was a new feeling on the bridge, and it took him a moment to understand. The mission was almost over. He was no longer a passenger, a nuisance at a critical moment. He was Palmer Lloyd, owner of the most important meteorite ever discovered, director of the Lloyd Museum, CEO of Lloyd Holdings, the seventh richest man in the world.

He came up behind Britton. Over the gold bars on her shoulder, he could see a monitor displaying a global positioning diagram. He had seen this screen before. Their ship showed on the screen as a cross, the long axis indicating direction of travel. Its forward end was steadily approaching a red line that arced gently across the diagram. Every few seconds, the screen flickered as the chart information was updated via satellite. When they crossed that line, they would be in international waters. Home free.

"How long?" he asked.

"Eight minutes," Britton replied. Her voice, though cool as ever, had lost the tightness of those harrowing final minutes at the island.

Lloyd glanced over at Glinn. He was standing beside Puppup, hands clasped behind his back, his face the usual mask of indifference. Still, Lloyd felt sure he could see a smugness lingering in those impassive eyes. As well it should. They were minutes from one of the greatest scientific and engineering achievements of the twentieth century. He waited, not rushing it.

He glanced around the rest of the company: the crew of the watch, tired but satisfied, anticipating their relief. Chief Mate Howell, inscrutable. McFarlane and Amira, standing together silently. Even the crafty old doctor, Brambell, had emerged from his hole belowdecks. It was as if, on some unspoken signal, they had assembled to witness something momentous.

Lloyd straightened up, a small gesture meant to attract attention. He waited until all eyes were on him, then turned to Glinn.

"Mr. Glinn, may I offer you my heartfelt congratulations," he said.

Glinn bowed slightly. Smiles and glances went around the bridge.

At that moment the bridge door opened and a steward came in, wheeling a stainless-steel cart. The neck of a champagne bottle peeked out from an urn of crushed ice. A dozen crystal glasses were racked up beside it.

Lloyd rubbed his hands together delightedly. "Eli, you liar. You may be an old woman about some things, but your timing today has been exquisite."

"I did tell an untruth when I said I'd only brought one bottle along. Actually, I brought a case."

"Marvelous! Let's have at it, then."

"We'll have to make do with this single bottle. This is a ship's bridge. Fear not — the moment we reach New York Harbor, I'll uncork the other ten myself. Meanwhile, please do the honors." And he gestured toward the cart.

Lloyd strode over, slid the bottle out of the ice, and held it up with a grin.

"Don't drop it this time, guv," Puppup said, almost inaudibly.

Lloyd looked at Britton. "How much longer?"

"Three minutes."

The wind beat against the windows. The panteonero was growing, but — Britton had informed him — they would round Staten Island and be in the lee of Tierra del Fuego long before the southwesterly wind shifted to the more dangerous northwest. He unwired the cork and waited, the bottle cold in his hand.

For a moment, the only sounds on the bridge were the moan of the wind and the distant thundering of the ocean. Then Britton looked up from the screen and glanced at Howell, who nodded his affirmation.

"The Rolvaag has just crossed into international waters," she said quietly.

A small cheer erupted. Lloyd popped the cork and began pouring judicious measures all around.

Suddenly the grinning face of Puppup appeared before Lloyd, his skinny arms holding up two glasses. "Right here, guv. One for me and one for me friend." He ducked his head.

Lloyd emptied the bottle into the glasses. "Who's your friend?" he asked, smiling indulgently. The man's role, though not large, had been crucial. He would find him a good job at the Lloyd Museum, in maintenance perhaps, or even security. Or maybe, as the last surviving Yaghan Indian, there might be something even better. Perhaps he should consider some kind of exhibit, after all. It would be tasteful and correct — a far cry from those nineteenth-century exhibitions of primitive people-but it could be a draw. Especially with Puppup on hand as the last living example. Yes, he would have to think about it...

"Hanuxa," Puppup answered, with another duck and grin. Lloyd looked up in time to see his rabbitlike retreat, drinking two-fistedly from both glasses.

The chief mate's voice broke through the hubbub. "I've got a surface contact at thirty-two miles, bearing three one five true at twenty knots."

Instantly, the conversation ceased. Lloyd glanced over at Glinn, eager for assurance, and felt a prickly sensation stir in his gut. The man had an expression on his face he had never seen before: a look of sick surprise.

"Glinn?" he said. "It's some merchant vessel, right?"

Without answering, Glinn turned to his operative at the EES console and spoke a few words in an undertone.

"It's the Almirante Ramirez," said Britton in an undertone.

"What? How can you know that from the radar?" Lloyd asked, the prickly sensation turning into a flush of disbelief.

Britton looked at him. "There's no way to tell for sure, but it's in the right place at the right time. Most shipping would be heading through the Strait of Le Maire, particularly in this weather. But this one's coming after us, with all it's got."

Lloyd watched as Glinn conferred with the man at the computer. There was the faint sound of a dial tone, of highspeed dialing, the hiss of a digital handshake.

"I thought you put that son of a bitch out of action," Lloyd said.

Glinn straightened up, and Lloyd was immediately reassured to see that the collected, confident expression had returned to his face. "Our friend proves unusually resourceful."

"Resourceful?"

"Comandante Vallenar has managed to repair his vessel, at least partly. Quite an achievement. I can scarcely believe it possible. But it makes no difference."

"Why not?" Britton asked.

"It's all in the computer profile. He will not pursue us into international waters."

"That's a rather arrogant prediction, if you ask me. The man's crazy. He might do anything."

"You are in error. Comandante Vallenar, despite everything, is a naval officer at heart. He prides himself on his honor and loyalty, and on a set of abstract military ideals. For all these reasons, he will not pursue us beyond the line. To do so would be to embarrass Chile — and create an unpleasant incident with his country's largest supplier of foreign aid. Furthermore, he will not take a crippled ship too deeply into a building storm."

"So why's he still coming?"

"Two reasons. First, he doesn't know our exact location, and he still hopes to cut us off before we reach international waters. Second, our comandante is a man of the noble gesture. Like a dog running to the end of his chain knowing his quarry is out of reach, he will drive full bore to the edge of his country's waters, then turn back."

"Fancy analysis," said Britton, "but is it right?"

"Yes," said Glinn, "it is right." His voice was serene with conviction.

Lloyd smiled. "I've made the mistake of not trusting you before. I'm satisfied. If you say he won't cross, he won't cross."

Britton said nothing. Glinn turned to her with a personal, almost intimate gesture, and Lloyd was surprised to see him clasp her hands gently. He did not quite catch Glinn's words, but Britton appeared to flush.

"All right," she said, in a voice that was just audible.

Puppup suddenly appeared, both glasses empty, holding them up in a supplicating gesture. Lloyd glanced at him, noticing the way he unconsciously kept his balance despite an unusually heavy roll of the deck. "Any more, then?" the Yaghan asked. "For me and me friend, I mean."

There was no time to answer. There was a sudden vibration, a subsonic boom, that shook the very frame of the tanker. The bridge lights flickered, and the banks of monitors sank into a wash of gray electronic snow. Immediately, Britton and the rest of the officers were at their stations. "What the hell was that?" Lloyd asked sharply.

No one answered him. Glinn had returned to his operative's side and was conferring with him in low, urgent tones. There was a deep vibration in the ship, almost like a groan. It was followed by another.

And then, as abruptly as it began, the disturbance ceased: the screens returned, the lights brightened and steadied. There was a chorus of chirps and whirrs as devices across the bridge rebooted.

"We don't know what it was," Britton said, finally answering Lloyd's question. Her eyes swept over the instrumentation. "Some kind of general malfunction. An explosion, perhaps. It seems to have affected all ship's systems." She turned to the chief mate. "I want a damage assessment right away."

Howell picked up the telephone and made two quick calls. After the second, he replaced the phone, face ashen. "It's the holding tank," he said, "the one with the meteorite. There's been a serious accident."

"What kind of accident?" Glinn asked.

"A discharge from the rock."

Glinn turned to McFarlane and Amira. "Get on it. Find out what happened and why. And Dr. Brambell, you better get to —"

But Brambell had already disappeared from the bridge.

Almirante Ramirez,

8:30 A.M.

VALLENAR STARED hard into the murk, as if the act of staring itself would bring the elusive tanker into view.

"Status," he murmured again to the conning officer.

"With the jamming, sir, it's hard to tell. My best estimate is that the target is heading zero nine zero at approximately sixteen knots."

"Range?"

"Sir, I can't tell exactly. Somewhere around thirty nautical miles. We wouldn't even have that close a fix, except their jamming seemed to drop briefly a few minutes ago."

Vallenar could feel a rhythmic surge to his ship: a sickening lifting and dropping of the deck. He had only felt this motion once before, when he had been caught in a storm south of Diego Ramirez during a training mission. He knew what this odd motion meant: the distance between the wave crests had begun to exceed twice the length of the Almirante Ramirez. He could see the following sea from the aft windows: long muscular swells, topped with a breaking line of water, coming at his stern and foaming along the hull before disappearing forward into the darkness. Once in a while a giant wave, a tigre, would come up from behind, the water piling up against the rudder, giving the helmsman a loose wheel and threatening to shove the destroyer around, causing it to broach to. It would only get worse when they turned south and took the sea on their beam.

Reaching thoughtfully into his pocket, he withdrew a puro and examined its soiled outer leaves absently. He thought of the two dead divers, their cold stiff bodies wrapped in tarps and stored in sea lockers aft. He thought of the three others, who never resurfaced, and a fourth, shivering now in the last stages of hypothermia. They had done their duty — no more, and no less. The ship was seaworthy. True, they could make only twenty knots with their damaged propellers. But the tanker was only making sixteen. And the long eastward run toward international waters was giving him the time he needed to achieve his strategy.

He glanced back at the conning officer. The crew was frightened: of this storm, of this chase. That fear was good. Frightened men worked faster. But Timmer had been worth any ten of them.

He bit off the end of the cigar and spat it away. Timmer had been worth the entire complement...

Vallenar mastered himself, taking the time to light the cigar carefully, methodically. The glowing red tip reflected back from the inky windows. By now they surely knew he was coming after them once again. This time he would be more careful. He had fallen into their trap once, and he would not allow it to happen again. Initially, his plan had been to cripple the ship. But now it was clear that Timmer was dead. The time for mere crippling was long past.

Five hours, maybe less, would bring them into range of his four-inch guns. In the meantime, if there was even a short respite from jamming, the Exocets were ready to fire at a moment's notice.

This time, there would be no mistake.

Rolvaag,

9:20 A.M.

AS MCFARLANE ran down the center corridor of the medical suite, Rachel on his heels, he almost collided with Brambell, stepping through the operating room door. He was a very different Brambell than the wry, dry man of the dinner table: this Brambell was grim, his movements brusque, his wiry frame tense.

"We're here to see —" McFarlane began, but Brambell was stalking down the hall and disappearing behind 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."