Then he smiled cynically to himself. Life didn't work like that. It was so much easier to see himself back again in the Kalahari, a little more money in his pocket, a little chubby from ship's food, tracking down the elusive Bushmen and renewing his search for the Okavango. And nothing would erase what he had done to Nestor—particularly now that his old friend and partner was dead.
As he gazed out over the ship's stem, McFarlane became aware of another odor on the sea air: tobacco. Looking around, he realized he wasn't alone. From the far side of the fly deck, a small pinpoint of red winked against the dark, then disappeared again. Someone had been quietly standing there; a fellow passenger enjoying the night.
Then the red ember jerked and bobbed as the person rose to approach him. With surprise, he realized it was Rachel Amira, Glinn's physicist, and his own alleged assistant. Between the fingers of her right hand were the final inches of a thick cigar. McFarlane sighed inwardly at having his solitary reverie intruded upon, especially by this sardonic woman. "Ciao, boss. Any orders for me?"
McFarlane remained silent, feeling a swell of annoyance at the word "boss." He hadn't signed on to be a manager. Amira didn't need a nursemaid. And she didn't seem too pleased with the arrangement either. What could Glinn have been thinking?
"Three hours at sea, and I'm bored already." She waved the cigar. "Want one?"
"No thanks. I want to taste my dinner."
"Ship's cooking? You must be a masochist." She leaned against the rail beside him with a bored sigh. "This ship gives me the willies."
"How so?"
"It's just so cold, so robotic. When I think of going to sea, I think of iron men running all over the decks, jumping at barked orders. But look at this." She jerked a finger over her shoulder. "Eight hundred feet worth of deck, and nothing stirring. Nothing. It's a haunted ship. Deserted. Everything's done by computer."
She has a point, McFarlane thought. Even though by modern supertanker standards the Rolvaag was only moderate sized, it was still huge. Yet only a skeleton crew was necessary to man it. With all the ship's complement, the EES specialists and engineers, and the construction crew, there were still fewer than one hundred people aboard. A cruise ship half the Rolvaag's size might carry two thousand.
"And it's so damned big," he heard her say, as if answering his own thoughts.
"Talk to Glinn about that. Lloyd would have been happier spending less money for less boat."
"Did you know," said Amira, "that these tankers are the first man-made vessels big enough to be affected by the earth's rotation?"
"No, I didn't." Here was a woman who liked the sound of her own voice.
"Yeah. And it takes three sea miles to stop this baby with engines full astern."
"You're a regular fund of tanker trivia."
"Oh, I'm good at cocktail conversation." Amira blew a smoke ring into the darkness.
"What else are you good at?"
Amira laughed. "I'm not too bad at math."
"So I've heard." McFarlane turned away, leaning over the rail, hoping she would take the hint.
"Well, we can't all be airline stewardesses when we grow up, you know." There was a moment of blessed silence as Amira puffed at the cigar. "Hey, you know what, boss?"
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me that."
"It's what you are, right?"
McFarlane turned to her. "I didn't ask for an assistant. I don't need an assistant. I don't like this arrangement any more than you do."
Amira puffed, a sardonic smile hovering, her eyes full of amusement.
"So I've got an idea," McFarlane said.
"What's that?"
"Let's just pretend you're not my assistant"
"What, you firing me already?"
McFarlane sighed, suppressing his first, impulsive reaction. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together. So let's work together as equals, okay? Glinn doesn't need to know. And I think we'd both be happier."
Amira examined the lengthening ash, then tossed the cigar over the rail into the sea. When she spoke, her voice sounded a little more friendly. "That thing you did with the sandwich cracked me up. Rochefort's a control freak. It really pissed him off, getting covered with jelly. I liked that."
"I made my point."
Amira giggled and McFarlane glanced in her direction, at the eyes glinting in the half-light, at the dark hair disappearing into the velvet behind her. There was a complex person in there, hiding behind the tomboy, one-of-the-guys façade. He looked back out to sea. "Well, I'm sure I'm not going to be Rochefort's good buddy."
"Nobody is. He's only half human."
"Like Glinn. I don't think Glinn would even take a leak without first analyzing all possible trajectories."
There was a pause. He could tell his joke had displeased her.
"Let me tell you a little about Glinn," Amira said. "He's only had two jobs in his life. Effective Engineering Solutions. And the military."
There was something in her voice that made McFarlane glance back at her.
"Before starting EES, Glinn was an intelligence specialist in the Special Forces. Prisoner interrogation, photo recon, underwater demolition, that kind of stuff. Head of his A-Team. Came up through Airborne, then the Rangers. Earned his bones in the Phoenix program during Vietnam. "
"Interesting."
"Damn right." Amira spoke almost fiercely. "They excelled in hot-war situations. From what Garza tells me, the team's kill-loss ratio was excellent."
"Garza?"
"He was engineer specialist on Glinn's team. Second in command. Back then, instead of building things, he blew stuff up."
"Garza told you all this?"
Amira hesitated. "Eli told me some of it himself."
"So what happened?"
"His team got their asses kicked trying to secure a bridge on the Cambodian border. Bad intel on enemy placements. Eli lost his whole team, everyone except Garza." Amira dug into her pocket, pulled out a peanut, shelled it. "And now Glinn runs EES. And does all the intel himself. So you see, Sam, I think you've misread him."
"You seem to know a lot about him."
Amira's eyes suddenly grew veiled. She shrugged, then smiled. The ardent look faded as quickly as it had appeared. "It's a beautiful sight," she said, nodding out across the water toward the Cape May light. It wavered in the velvety night: their last contact with North America.
"That it is," McFarlane replied.
"Care to bet how many miles away it is?"
McFarlane frowned. "Excuse me?"
"A small wager. On the distance to that lighthouse."
"I'm not a betting man. Besides, you probably have some arcane mathematical formula at your fingertips."
"You'd be right about that." Amira shelled some more peanuts, tossed the nuts into her mouth, then flung the shells into the sea. "So?"
"So what?"
"Here we are, bound for the ends of the earth, out to snag the biggest rock anybody's ever seen. So, Mr. Meteorite Hunter, what do you really think?"
I think—" McFarlane began. Then he stopped. He realized he wasn't allowing himself to hope that this second chance—which after all had come out of nowhere—might actually work out.
"I think," he said aloud, "that we'd better get down to dinner. If we're late, that captain of ours will probably keelhaul us. And that's no joke on a tanker."
12: Rolvaag
June 26, 12:55 A.M.
THEY STEPPED out of the elevator. Here, five decks closer to the engines, McFarlane could feel a deep, regular vibration: still faint, yet always present in his ears and his bones.
"This way," Amira said, motioning him down the blue-and-white corridor.
McFarlane followed, glancing around as they went. In dry dock, he'd spent his days and even most nights in the container labs on deck, and today marked his first time inside the superstructure. In his experience, ships were cramped, claustrophobic spaces. But everything about the Rolvaag seemed built to a different scale: the pa
ssages were wide, the cabins and public areas spacious and carpeted. Glancing into doorways, he noticed a large-screen theater with seats for at least fifty people, and a wood-paneled library. Then they rounded a corner, Amira pushed open a door, and they stepped into the officer's mess.
McFarlane stopped. He had been expecting the indifferent dining area of a working ship. But once again the Rolvaag surprised him. The mess was a vast room, extending across the entire aft forecastle deck. Huge windows looked out onto the ship's wake, boiling back into the darkness. A dozen round tables, each set for eight and covered with crisp linen and fresh flowers, were arranged around the center of the room. Dining stewards in starched uniforms stood at their stations. McFarlane felt underdressed.
Already, people were beginning to gravitate toward the tables. McFarlane had been warned that seating arrangements on board ship were regimented, at least at first, and that he was expected to sit at the captain's table. Glancing around, he spotted Glinn standing at the table closest to the windows. He made his way across the dark carpeting.
Glinn had his nose in a small volume, which he quickly slipped into his pocket as they approached. Just before it vanished, McFarlane caught the title: Selected Poetry of W.H. Auden. Glinn had never struck him as a reader of poetry. Perhaps he had misjudged the man after all.
"Luxurious," McFarlane said as he looked around. "Especially for an oil tanker."
"Actually, this is fairly standard," Glinn replied. "On such a large vessel, space is no longer at a premium. These ships are so expensive to operate, they spend practically no time in port. That means the crews are stuck on board for many, many months. It pays to keep them happy."
More people were taking their places beside the tables, and the noise level in the room had increased. McFarlane looked around at the cluster of technicians, ship's officers, and EES specialists. Things had happened so quickly that he only recognized perhaps a dozen of the seventy-odd people now in the room.
Then quiet fell across the mess. As McFarlane glanced toward the door, Britton, the captain of the Rolvaag, stepped in. He had known she was a woman, but he wasn't expecting either her youth—she couldn't be more than thirty-five—or her stately bearing. She carried herself with a natural dignity. She was dressed in an impeccable uniform: naval blazer, gold buttons, crisp officer's skirt. Small gold bars were affixed to her graceful shoulders. She came toward them with a measured step that radiated competence and something else—perhaps, he thought, an iron will.
The captain took her seat, and there was a rustle as the rest of the room followed her lead. Britton removed her hat, revealing a tight coil of blond hair, and placed it on a small side table that seemed specially set up for that purpose. As McFarlane looked closer, he noticed her eyes betrayed a look older than her years.
A graying man in an officer's uniform came up to whisper something in the captain's ear. He was tall and thin, with dark eyes set in even darker sockets. Britton nodded and he stepped back, glancing around the table. His easy, fluid movements reminded McFarlane of a large predator.
Britton gestured toward him with an upraised palm. "I'd like to introduce the Rolvaag's chief mate, Victor Howell."
There were murmured greetings, and the man nodded, then moved away to take his position at the head of a nearby table. Glinn spoke quietly. "May I complete the introductions?"
"Of course," the captain said. She had a clear, clipped voice, with the faintest trace of an accent.
"This is the Lloyd Museum meteorite specialist, Dr. Sam McFarlane."
The captain grasped McFarlane's hand across the table. "Sally Britton," she said, her hand cool and strong. And now McFarlane identified the accent as a Scottish burr. "Welcome aboard, Dr. McFarlane."
"And this is Dr. Rachel Amira, the mathematician on my team," Glinn continued, continuing around the table. "And Eugene Rochefort, chief engineer."
Rochefort glanced up with a nervous little nod, his intelligent, obsessive eyes darting about. He was wearing a blue blazer that might have looked acceptable if it had not been made of polyester that shined under the dining room lights.
His eyes landed on McFarlane's, then darted away again. He seemed ill at ease.
"And this is Dr. Patrick Brambell, the ship's doctor. No stranger to the high seas."
Brambell flashed the table a droll smile and gave a little Japanese bow. He was a devious-looking old fellow with sharp features, fine parallel wrinkles tracing a high brow, thin stooped shoulders, and a head as glabrous as a piece of porcelain.
"You've worked as a ship's doctor before?" Britton inquired politely.
"Never set foot on dry land if I can help it," said Brambell, his voice wry and Irish.
Britton nodded as she slipped her napkin out of its ring, flicked it open, and laid it across her lap. Her movements, her fingers, her conversation all seemed to have an economy of motion, an unconscious efficiency. She was so cool and poised it seemed to McFarlane a defense of some kind. As he picked up his own napkin, he noticed a card, placed in the center of the table in a silver holder, with a printed menu. It read: Consommé Olga, Lamb Vindaloo, Chicken Lyonnaise, Tiramisu. He gave a low whistle.
"The menu not to your liking, Dr. McFarlane?" Britton asked.
"Just the opposite. I was expecting egg salad sandwiches and pistachio ice cream."
"Good dining is a shipboard tradition," said Britton. "Our chief cook, Mr. Singh, is one of the finest chefs afloat. His father cooked for the British admiralty in the days of the Raj."
"Nothing like a good vindaloo to remind you of your mortality," said Brambell.
"First things first," Amira said, rubbing her hands and looking around. "Where's the bar steward? I'm desperate for a cocktail."
"We'll be sharing that bottle," Glinn said, indicating the open bottle of Chateau Margaux that stood beside the floral display.
"Nice wine. But there's nothing like a dry Bombay martini before dinner. Even when dinner's at midnight." Amira laughed.
Glinn spoke up. "I'm sorry, Rachel, but there are no spiritous liquors allowed on board the ship."
Amira looked at Glinn. "Spiritous liquors?" she repeated with a brief laugh. "This is new, Eli. Have you joined the Christian Women's Temperance League?"
Glinn continued smoothly. "The captain allows one glass of wine, taken before or with dinner. No hard liquor on the ship."
It was as if a lightbulb came on over Amira's head. The joking look was replaced by a sudden flush. Her eyes darted toward the captain, then away again. "Oh," she said.
Following Amira's glance, McFarlane noticed that Britton's face had turned slightly pale under her tan.
Glinn was still looking at Amira, whose blush continued to deepen. "I think you'll find the quality of the Bordeaux makes up for the restriction."
Amira remained silent, embarrassment clear on her face. Britton took the bottle and filled glasses for everyone at the table except herself. Whatever the mystery was, McFarlane thought, it had passed. As a steward slipped a plate of consommé in front of him, he made a mental note to ask Amira about it later.
The noise of conversation at the nearest tables rose once again, filling a brief and awkward silence. At the nearest table, Manuel Garza was buttering a slab of bread with his beefy paw and roaring at a joke.
"What's it like to handle a ship this big?" McFarlane asked. It was not simply a polite question to fill the silence: something about Britton intrigued him. He wanted to see what lay under that lovely, perfect surface.
Britton took a spoonful of consommé. "In some ways, these new tankers practically pilot themselves. I keep the crew running smoothly and act as troubleshooter. These ships don't like shallow water, they don't like to turn, and they don't like surprises." She lowered her spoon. "My job is to make sure we don't encounter any."
"Doesn't it go against the grain, commanding—well—an old rust bucket?"
Britton's response was measured. "Certain things are habitual at sea. The ship won't remain this way
forever. I intend to have every spare hand working cleanup detail on the voyage home."
She turned toward Glinn. "Speaking of that, I'd like to ask you a favor. This expedition of ours is rather... unusual. The crew have been talking about it."
Glinn nodded. "Of course. Tomorrow, if you'll gather them together, I'll speak to them."
Britton nodded in approval. The steward returned, deftly replacing their plates with fresh ones. The fragrant smell of curry and tamarind rose from the table. McFarlane dug into the vindaloo, realizing a second or two later that it was probably the most fiery dish he had ever eaten.
"My, my, that's fine," muttered Brambell.
"How many times have you been around the Horn?" McFarlane asked, taking a large swig of water. He could feel the sweat popping out on his brow.
"Five," said Britton. "But those voyages were always at the height of the southern summer, when we were less likely to encounter bad weather."
Something in her tone made McFarlane uneasy. "But a vessel this big and powerful has nothing to fear from a storm, does it?"
Britton smiled distantly. "The Cape Horn region is like no place else on earth. Force 15 gales are commonplace. You've heard of the famed williwaws, no doubt?"
McFarlane nodded.
"Well, there's another wind far more deadly, although less well known. The locals call it a panteonero, a 'cemetery wind.' It can blow at over a hundred knots for several days without letup. It gets its name from the fact that it blows mariners right into their graves."
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