"Rachel," he said. "Listen. Last night was wonderful. But let's leave it like that. At least for now."
Her look sharpened. "Meaning?"
"Meaning we have a job to do. Together. And it's complicated enough as it is. So let's not push things, okay?" She blinked quickly, then nodded, a brief smile covering the disappointment, even hurt, that had flashed across her face. "Okay," she said, looking away.
McFarlane put his arms around her. With her heavy parka, it was like embracing the Michelin man. With a gloved finger, he gently raised her face toward his.
"Is it okay?" he asked.
She nodded again. "It's not the first time I've heard it," she said. "It gets easier."
"What does that mean?"
She shrugged. "Nothing. I guess I'm just not very good at this kind of thing, that's all."
They held each other as the cold wind eddied around them. McFarlane looked down at the stray hairs curling away from the hood of Rachel's parka. And then, on impulse, he asked a question he'd been wondering about since the first night on the fly deck. "Was there ever anything between you and Glinn?"
She looked at him, then pulled away, her expression becoming guarded. Then she sighed, relaxing. "Oh, why the hell not tell you. It's true. Once upon a time, Eli and I had a thing. Just a little thing, I suppose. It was... very nice." A smile rose on her lips, then slowly faded. She turned away and sat down in the snow, legs kicked out before her, gazing out over the white vista beneath them.
McFarlane sat down beside her. "What happened?"
She glanced over. "Do I really need to spell it out? Eli broke it off." She smiled coldly. "And you know what? Everything was going great. There was nothing wrong. I'd never been happier in my life." She paused. "I guess that's what spooked him. He couldn't bear the thought that it wouldn't always stay that great. So when things couldn't get any better, he cut it off. Just like that. Because if things can't get any better, they can only get worse. That would be a failure. Right? And Eli Glinn is a man who can't fail." She laughed mirthlessly.
"But you two still think alike, in some ways," said McFarlane. "Like yesterday, in the library. I kind of figured you'd speak up. About what happened to Rochefort and Evans, I mean. But you didn't. Does that mean their deaths are okay with you, too?"
"Please, Sam. No death is okay. But almost every project I've worked on with EES has seen casualties. It's the nature of this business."
They sat a moment, looking away from each other. Then Rachel rose to her feet.
"Come on," she said quietly, dusting herself off. "Last one back has to clean the test tubes."
39: Almirante Ramirez
2:45 P.M.
COMANDANTE EMILIANO Vallenar stood on the destroyer's puente volante, the flying bridge, scanning the enormous tanker with his field binoculars. Slowly, carefully, his eyes traveled from the bow, along the maindeck, on and on and on, until at last he reached the superstructure. As always, it was an interesting journey. He had lingered on it so long, and so carefully, that he felt he knew every rusted porthole, every davit, every smear of oil. There were certain things on this so-called ore carrier that he found suspicious: those antennas, hidden low, that looked distinctly as if they belonged to some passive electronic surveillance measuring device. And a very tall antenna at the top of the mast, despite its broken appearance, looked like an air-search radar.
He lowered the binoculars, reached into his coat with a gloved hand, and pulled out the letter from the geologist in Valparaiso.
Estimable Sir,
The rock which you so kindly furnished me is a somewhat unusual type of striated quartz—specifically, silicon dioxide—with microscopic inclusions of feldspar, hornblende, and mica. However, I am sorry to tell you that it is of no value whatsoever, either for commercial purposes or to mineral collectors. In response to your specific query, there are no traces of gold, silver, or any other valuable ores, minerals, or compounds present. Nor is this type of mineral found in association with deposits of oil, gas, oil shale, or other commercial hydrocarbon products.
Once again, I am humbly sorry to convey this information to you, as it must surely discourage any pursuit of your great-uncle's mining claim.
Vallenar traced the embossed seal at the top of the letter with his hand. Then, in a spasm of disgust, he balled it in his fist and shoved it into his pocket. The analysis was not worth the paper it was written on.
Once again, he raised the binoculars in the direction of the foreign vessel. No ship of its size should be moored here. In the Horn islands there was only one known anchorage, Surgidero Otter, and that was on the far side of Isla Wollaston. In the Franklin Channel, there was no decent holding ground at all, with the exception of an uncharted ledge that he, alone, had discovered. The currents were strong. Only a very ignorant captain would try to moor here. And then he would have surely run mooring cables to shore.
But this vessel had dropped anchor in bad ground, and had been sitting there for a number of days, swinging back and forth with the tide and wind, as if it had found the finest holding ground in the world. At first, Vallenar had been astonished by this. It seemed miraculous. But then he had noticed small, infrequent swirls of water at the vessel's stern, and he realized that its stern thrusters were running. Always running. They were adjusting their thrust to keep the ship stationary in the ever-changing currents of the channel, except at the change of tide, when he could see they were being used to swing the ship around.
And that could mean only one thing: the anchor cables were a deception. The ship was equipped with a dynamic positioning system. This required a link to a geopositioning satellite and a powerful computer operating the ship's engines, working together to maintain an exact position on the surface of the earth. It was the very latest technology. Vallenar had read about it, but never seen it. No ship in the Chilean navy was equipped with DPS. Even in a small vessel, it was extremely costly to install and burned a tremendous amount of fuel. And yet here it was, on this alleged shabby converted tanker.
He breathed deeply, swiveling the binoculars from the ship to the island beyond. He took in the equipment shed, the road leading inland to the mine. There was a large scar on a hillside where heavy equipment was at work, beside what might be leaching pools. But there was also a deception here. There were no hydraulic nozzles or sluicing work to indicate placer mining. Except for the pools, it was a neat operation. Too neat, in fact. He had grown up in a mining camp in the north, and he knew what they were like.
In his heart, the comandante now knew the Americans were not digging for gold. And any fool could see they were not digging iron ore. It looked more like a diamond pipe operation than anything else. But if the Americans were mining diamonds, why then had they brought such a huge vessel with them? The whole operation, from start to finish, carried a strong odor of duplicity.
He wondered if the work had anything to do with the legends about the island, the old myths of the Yaghans. He vaguely remembered the borracho, Juan Puppup, rambling on about some legend in the bar one evening. He tried to remember what it was: something about an angry god and his fratricidal son. When he got his hands on Puppup, he would make sure the mestizo's last earthly act would be to tell him everything he knew.
Footsteps approached, then the oficial de guardia, the officer of the deck, appeared at his side. "Comandante," the man said, snapping a salute. "Engine room reports all engines on line."
"Very well. Make your course zero nine zero. And please send Mr. Timmer to me."
The officer saluted again, then turned and left the flying bridge. Vallenar scowled as he watched the man retreat down the metal stairway. New orders had come in; as usual, they amounted to more worthless patrolling in desolate waters.
With his good hand, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and found the chunk of rock that had been returned with the letter. It was barely larger than a prune. And yet he was convinced it held the secret to what the Americans were doing. They had learned somethin
g from the prospector's machine and the sack of rocks. Something important enough to bring a vast amount of money and equipment to this remote, dangerous place.
Vallenar clutched the rock tightly. He needed to know what the Americans knew. If the moronic geologist at the university could not help him, he would find somebody who could. He knew that Australia had some of the best geologists in the world. That was where he would send it, by urgent express. They would unlock the pebble's secret. Then he would know what they were after. And how to respond.
"Sir!" The voice of Timmer intruded on his thoughts.
Vallenar glanced over at the man's trim figure, standing at rigid attention; glanced over his blue eyes and sunbleached hair, his spotless uniform. Even in a crew that had been drilled for instant, instinctive obedience, Oficial de Comunicaciones Timmer stood out. His mother had come to Chile from Germany in 1945; a beautiful woman, cultivated, sensual. Timmer had been raised with discipline. And he was no stranger to the use of force.
"At ease," said Vallenar, his tone softening. Timmer relaxed almost imperceptibly.
Vallenar clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out at the flawless sky. "We are heading east," he said, "but we will return here tomorrow. Bad weather is expected."
"Yes, sir." Timmer continued staring straight ahead.
"On that day, I will have an assignment for you. It will involve a degree of risk."
"I look forward to it, sir."
Comandante Vallenar smiled. "I knew you would," he said, the faintest touch of pride in his voice.
40: Rolvaag
2:50 P.M.
MCFARLANE PAUSED just inside the outer door of the Rolvaag's sick bay. He'd always had a morbid fear of doctors' offices and hospitals—any place with intimations of mortality. The Rolvaag's waiting room was devoid even of the false sense of tranquillity such places ordinarily tried to project. The well-thumbed magazines, the shabby Norman Rockwell reproductions, were missing. The only decoration was a large medical school poster detailing, in full color, various diseases of the skin. The place smelled so strongly of rubbing alcohol and iodine that McFarlane believed the strange old doctor must be using them for rug cleaner.
He hesitated a moment, feeling a little foolish. This errand can wait, he thought. But then, with a deep breath, he found himself walking across the room and into a long hallway. He stopped at the last door and rapped on the frame.
Captain Britton and the doctor were inside, quietly discussing a chart that lay open on the table between them. Brambell sat back in his chair, casually closing the folder as he did so. "Ah, Dr. McFarlane." The dry voice held no surprise. He stared at McFarlane, eyes unblinking, waiting.
This can wait, he thought again. But it was too late; they were both looking at him expectantly. "Masangkay's effects," he said aloud. "Those things with the body? Now that you've completed the tests, can they be released?"
Brambell continued to look at him. It was a stare not of human compassion but of clinical interest. "There was nothing of value among them," he answered.
McFarlane leaned against the doorframe and waited, refusing to betray anything to the watchful eyes. At last, the doctor sighed. "Once they've been photographed, I see no reason to keep them. What precisely are you interested in?"
"Just let me know when they're ready, will you?" McFarlane pushed himself away from the frame, nodded to Britton, and turned back toward the waiting room. As he pulled open the outer door, he heard quick footsteps behind him.
"Dr. McFarlane." It was Captain Britton. "I'll walk topside with you."
"Didn't mean to break up the party," McFarlane said, swinging out into the hall.
"I have to get back up to the bridge anyway. I'm expecting an update on that approaching storm."
They moved down the wide corridor, dark except for the regular stripes of sunlight that slanted inward from the round portholes.
"I'm sorry about your friend Masangkay, Dr. McFarlane," she said with unexpected kindness.
McFarlane glanced at her. "Thanks." Even in the dim corridor, her eyes were bright. He wondered if she was going to probe his nostalgic desire for Nestor's effects, but she remained silent. Once again, he was struck by an indefinable feeling of kinship. "Call me Sam," he said.
"Okay, Sam."
They stepped out of the stairwell onto the maindeck.
"Take a turn around the deck with me," Britton said.
Surprised, McFarlane followed her back through superstructure to the fantail. Something in her stately bearing, in the sway of her walk, reminded him of his ex-wife, Malou. A pale golden light lay over the ship's stern. The water of the channel shone a rich, deep blue.
Britton walked past the landing pad and leaned against the rail, squinting into the sun. "Sam, I have a dilemma. I frankly don't like what I'm hearing about that meteorite. I fear it will endanger the ship. A seaman always trusts her gut. And I really don't like seeing that out there." She motioned toward the low, slender line of the Chilean destroyer lying in the waters beyond the channel. "On the other hand, from what I've seen of Glinn, I have every reason to expect success." She glanced at him. "You see the paradox? I can't trust Eli Glinn and my own instincts both. And if I need to act, I need to act now. I'm not going to put anything in the hold of my ship that isn't safe."
In the pitiless sunlight, Britton looked older than her years. She's thinking of aborting the mission, he thought in surprise.
"I don't think Lloyd would be very happy if you balked now," he said.
"Lloyd isn't the master of the Rolvaag. I'm speaking to you, as I did before, because you're the only one I can speak to."
McFarlane looked at her.
"As captain, I can't confide in any of my officers or crew. And I certainly can't speak to EES personnel about these concerns. That leaves you, the meteorite expert. I need to know if you think that meteorite will endanger my ship. I need your view, not Mr. Lloyd's."
McFarlane held her gaze a moment longer. Then he turned back toward the sea.
"I can't answer your question," he said. "It's dangerous enough—we've learned that the hard way. But will it specifically endanger the ship? I don't know. But I think maybe it's too late for us to stop, even if we wanted to."
"But in the library, you spoke up. You had concerns. Just as I did."
"I'm very concerned. But it isn't that simple. That meteorite is as deep a mystery as any in the universe. What it represents is so important that I think we've got no choice but to continue. If Magellan had soberly taken into account all the risks, he never would have begun his voyage around the world. Columbus would never have discovered America."
Britton was silent, studying him intently. "You think this meteorite is a discovery on a par with Magellan or Columbus?"
"Yes," he said finally. "I do."
"In the library, Glinn asked you a question. You didn't answer it."
"I couldn't answer it."
"Why?"
He turned and looked into her steady green eyes. "Because I realized—despite Rochefort, despite everything—I want that meteorite. More than I've ever wanted anything."
After a pause, Britton drew herself up. "Thank you, Sam," she said. Then, turning smartly, she headed for the bridge.
41: Isla Desolación
July 20, 2:05 P.M.
MCFARLANE AND Rachel stood at the edge of the staging area, in the cold afternoon sun. The eastern sky was clear and bright, the landscape below painfully sharp in the crisp air. But the sky to the west looked very different: a vast, dark cloak that stretched across the horizon, tumbling low, moving in their direction, blotting out the mountain peaks. A gust of wind swirled old snow around their feet. The storm was no longer just a blip on a screen: it was almost on top of them.
Garza came toward them. "Never thought I'd like the look of a storm as ugly as that one," he said, smiling and pointing westward.
"What's the plan now?" McFarlane asked.
"Cut and cover, from here to the shore," said Gar
za with a wink.
"Cut and cover?"
"Instant tunnel. It's the simplest engineered tunnel, a technique that's been used since Babylon. We dig a channel with a hydraulic excavator, roof it over with steel plates, and throw dirt and snow on top to hide it. As the meteorite is dragged toward the shore, we backfill the old tunnel and dig new tunnel ahead."
Rachel nodded toward the hydraulic excavator. "That baby makes Mike Mulligan's steam shovel look like a Tonka toy."
McFarlane thought back to all that had been accomplished in the two days since the meteorite crushed Rochefort and Evans. The tunnels had been cleared and reshored, and double the number of jacks positioned under the rock. The meteorite had been raised without a hitch, a cradle built underneath it, and the dirt cleared away. A gigantic steel flatbed cart had been brought up from the ship and positioned next to it. Now it was time to drag the meteorite and its cradle onto the cart. Garza had made it all look so easy.
The engineer grinned again. He was garrulous, in high spirits. "Ready to see the heaviest object ever moved by mankind get moved?"
"Sure," said McFarlane.
"The first step is positioning it on the cart. We'll have to uncover the meteorite for that. Briefly. That's why I like the look of that storm. Don't want those damn Chileans getting a gander at our rock."
Garza stepped back and spoke into his radio. Farther away, Stonecipher made a motion with his hands to the crane operator. As McFarlane watched, the crane operator began removing the steel roofing plates off the cut that held the meteorite and stacking them nearby. The wind was picking up, whistling about the huts and whipping snow along the ground. The final metal plate twisted wildly in the air as the crane operator fought to hold the boom steady against the gusts. "To the left, to the left!" Stonecipher called into his radio. "Now, boom down, boom down, boom down... Cut." After a tense moment, it, too, was set safely aside. McFarlane gazed into the open trench.
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