"Hill."
Glinn raised a radio. "Hill. This is Glinn. Report." He took his thumb from the transmit button and listened. "Hill!" he called again. Then he switched frequencies. "Forward post? Thompson?" He was answered by a loud hiss of static.
He dropped the radio. "Radio's out, I'm not getting any responses." He turned back to Garza, who was pulling on his snowsuit. "Where are you going?"
"To the electrical hut."
"Negative. We'll go together."
Glinn's tone had become sharper, military. "Yes, sir," Garza replied briskly.
There was a clattering outside, then Amira tumbled in from the communications hut, snow clinging to her shoulders.
"Power's down everywhere," she gasped. "All we've got is the reserve."
"Understood," Glinn said. A small Glock 17 pistol had appeared in his hand. He checked the magazine, then tucked it into his belt.
McFarlane had turned to reach for his own snowsuit. As he thrust his arms into the sleeves, he saw Glinn look at him. "Don't even say it," McFarlane began. "I'm coming with you."
Glinn hesitated, and saw his resolve. He turned to Amira. "You stay here."
"But—"
"Rachel, we need you here. Lock the door after we leave. We'll have a guard here shortly."
Within moments, three of Glinn's men, Thompson, Rocco, and Sanders, appeared at the door, powerful torches in their hands and Ingram M10 submachine guns slung over their shoulders.
"Everyone accounted for except Hill, sir," Thompson said.
"Sanders, have guards posted at every hut. Thompson, Rocco, you come with me." Glinn strapped on snowshoes, grabbed a torch, and led the way out into the swirling dark.
McFarlane struggled with the unfamiliar snowshoes. Hours of drowsing by the stove had made him forget how cold it was outside, how sharp the snowflakes felt when the wind drove them against his face.
The electrical hut lay only fifty yards away. Garza unlocked the door and they entered the small space, Thompson and Rocco sweeping it with their torches. The smell of burnt wiring hung in the air. Garza knelt to pull open the gray metal cover of the master control cabinet. As he did so, a cloud of acrid smoke billowed out into the light of the torches.
Garza ran his finger down the panel. "Totally fried," he said.
"Estimated time to repair?" Glinn asked.
"Main switching box, ten minutes, max. Then we can run diagnostics."
"Do it. You men, get outside and guard the door."
The construction chief worked in silence while McFarlane looked on. Glinn tried the radio again; finding it was still broadcasting nothing but noise, he replaced it in his pocket. At length, Garza stepped back and threw a series of switches. There was a click and a hum, but no lights. With a grunt of surprise, Garza opened a nearby metal locker, withdrew a palmtop diagnostic computer, plugged it into a jack on the master control cabinet, and switched it on. A small blue screen flickered into life.
"We've got multiple burnouts, up and down the line," he said after a moment.
"What about the surge suppressors?"
"Whatever it was, it caused one hell of a spike. Over a billion volts in under a millisecond, with a current exceeding fifty thousand amps. No dampeners or surge suppressors could protect against that."
"A billion volts?" McFarlane said in disbelief. "Not even lightning is that powerful."
"That's right," Garza said, pulling the tool from the panel and dropping it into a pocket of his snowsuit. "A burst of this size makes lightning look like static cling."
"Then what was it?"
Garza shook his head. "God knows."
Glinn stood still a moment, gazing at the fused components. "Let's check the rock."
They stepped back out into the storm, moved past the huts, and struggled across the staging area. Even from a distance, McFarlane could see that the tarp had been torn from its tethers. As they drew nearer, Glinn made a suppressing motion with his hand, then instructed Rocco and Thompson to enter the shack and descend into the tunnel. Pulling out his pistol, Glinn moved forward carefully, Garza at his side. McFarlane stepped up to the edge of the trench, the tattered remains of the tarp billowing skyward like ghostly linen. Glinn angled the beam of the torch downward, into the tunnel.
Dirt, rocks, and charred wood were scattered everywhere. Part of the cart was twisted and fused, hissing faintly. sending up clouds of steam. Globs of foamy metal, now resolidified, spattered the tunnel. Beneath the cart, several rows of tires had melted together and were now burning, sending up foul clouds of smoke.
Glinn's eyes moved rapidly around the scene, following his torch. "Was it a bomb?"
"Looks more like a gigantic electrical arc."
Lights wavered at the far end of the tunnel, then Thompson and Rocco approached beneath them, waving away the pall of smoke. They began spraying fire suppressant on the burning tires.
"See any damage to the meteorite?" Glinn called down.
There was a pause as the men below made a visual inspection. "Can't see a scratch on it."
"Thompson," Glinn said, pointing down into the trench. "Over there."
McFarlane followed his arm to a spot beyond the cart. Something was burning fitfully. Nearby, ragged clumps of matter and bone glistened in the flickering light. Thompson shined his torch toward one of them. There was a hand, a piece of what looked like a flayed human shoulder, a twisted length of grayish entrails.
"Christ," McFarlane groaned.
"Looks like we found Hill," said Garza.
"Here's his gun," Thompson said.
Glinn shouted down into the tunnel. "Thompson, I want you to check the rest of the tunnel system. Report anything you find. Rocco, roust up a med team. Let's get those remains gathered up."
"Yes, sir."
Glinn looked back toward Garza. "Get the perimeter secured. Gather all surveillance data and get it analyzed right away. Call back to the ship for a general alert. I want a new power grid up and running in six hours."
"All communications with the ship are down," said Garza. "We're getting nothing but noise on all channels."
Glinn turned back toward the tunnel. "You! Thompson! When you're done here, take a snowcat to the beach. Contact the ship from the landing area. Use Morse if you have to."
Thompson saluted, then turned and made his way down the tunnel. In a moment he disappeared from view in the smoke and darkness.
Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Go get Amira and any diagnostic tools you'll need. I'm going to have a team sweep the tunnels. Once the area's secured, and Hill's body is removed, I want you to examine the meteorite. Nothing elaborate for the time being. Just determine what happened here. And don't touch that rock."
McFarlane looked down. At the base of the cart, Rocco was slipping what looked like a lung onto a folded section of tarp. Above, the meteorite steamed in its wooden bed. He wasn't about to touch it, but he said nothing.
"Rocco," Glinn called out, pointing to an area just to the rear of the damaged cart, where there was a faint flickering "You've got another small fire over there."
Rocco approached it with the extinguisher, then stopped short. He looked up at them. "I think it's a heart, sir."
Glinn pursed his lips. "I see. Extinguish it, Mr. Rocco, and carry on."
44: Isla Desolación
July 21, 12:05 A.M.
AS MCFARLANE trudged across the staging area toward the row of huts, the wind pressed rudely at his back, as if trying to force him to his knees. Beside him, Rachel stumbled, then recovered.
"Is this storm ever going to end?" she asked.
McFarlane, his mind a whirlwind of speculation, did not reply.
In another minute they were inside the medical hut. He peeled out of his suit. The air was rich with the smell of roasted meat. He saw that Garza was speaking into a radio.
"How long have you had communications?" he asked Glinn.
"Half an hour, or thereabouts. Still spotty, but improving."
"That's
odd. We just tried to contact you from the tunnel and got nothing but radio noise." McFarlane began to speak again, but fell silent, forcing his mind to work through the weariness.
Garza lowered his radio. "It's Thompson, from the beach. He says Captain Britton refuses to send anyone over with the equipment until the storm dies down. It's too dangerous."
"That's not acceptable. Give me that radio." Glinn spoke rapidly. "Thompson? Explain to the captain that we've lost communications, the computer network, and the power grid. We need the generator and the equipment, and we need them now. Lives are at risk. If you encounter any more difficulties, let me know and I'll see to it personally. Get Brambell out here, too. I want him to examine Hill's remains."
Distantly, McFarlane watched Rocco, hands and forearms hidden by heavy rubber gloves, removing charred body parts from a tarp and placing them in a freezer-locker.
"There's something else, sir," Garza said, listening once again to the radio. "Palmer Lloyd's in communication with the Rolvaag. He demands to be patched through to Sam McFarlane."
McFarlane felt himself shocked back into the stream of events. "It's not exactly the best time, is it?" he said with a disbelieving laugh, looking at Glinn. But the expression on Glinn's face took him by surprise.
"Can you rig up a squawk box?" Glinn asked.
"I'll grab one from the communications hut," Garza said.
McFarlane spoke to Glinn. "You're not really going to chitchat with Lloyd, are you? Now, of all times?"
Glinn returned the look. "It beats the alternative," he replied.
Only much later did McFarlane realize what Glinn meant.
* * *
Within minutes, the hut's transmitter had been jury-rigged with an external speaker. As Garza attached his radio, a wash of static filled the room. It faded into silence, grew louder, then faded again. McFarlane glanced around: at Rachel, huddled near the stove for warmth; at Glinn, pacing in front of the radio; at Rocco, industriously sorting body parts in the back of the room. He had a theory—or the beginnings of one. It was still too raw, too full of holes, to be shared. And yet he knew he had little choice.
There was a squeal of feedback, then a ragged voice emerged from the speaker. "Hello?" it said. "Hello?" It was Lloyd, distorted.
Glinn leaned forward. "This is Eli Glinn, Mr. Lloyd. Can you hear me?"
"Yes! Yes, I can! But you're damned faint, Eli."
"We're experiencing some kind of radio interference. We'll have to be brief. There's a great deal going on at the moment, and our battery power is limited."
"Why? What the hell is going on? Why didn't Sam call in for his daily briefing? I couldn't get a straight answer from that bloody captain of yours."
"There's been an accident. One of our men is dead."
"Two men, you mean. McFarlane told me about that incident with the meteorite. Damn shame about Rochefort."
"There's been a new fatality. A man named Hill."
There was a piercing shriek from the speaker. Then Lloyd's voice returned, even fainter now: "—happened to him?"
"We don't know yet," Glinn said. "McFarlane and Rachel Amira have just returned from examining the meteorite." He motioned McFarlane toward the speaker.
McFarlane moved forward with great unwillingness. He swallowed. "Mr. Lloyd," he began. "What I'm about to tell you is theoretical, a conclusion based on what I've observed. But I think we were wrong about how Nestor Masangkay died."
"Wrong?" said Lloyd. "What do you mean? And what does it have to do with the death of this man Hill?"
"If I'm right, it has everything to do with it. I think both men died because they touched the meteorite."
For a moment, the hut was silent save for the pop and stutter of the radio.
"Sam, that's absurd," Lloyd said. "I touched the meteorite."
"Bear with me. We thought Nestor was killed by lightning. And it's true, the meteorite is a powerful attractor. But Garza can tell you that the blast in the tunnel was on the order of a billion volts. No lightning bolt could produce that kind of power. I examined the cart and meteorite. The pattern of damage shows definite signs that the meteorite threw out a massive blast of electricity itself."
"But I laid my damn cheek against it. And I'm still here."
"I know that. I don't have an answer yet to why you were spared. But nothing else fits. The tunnel was deserted, the meteorite was shielded from the elements. No other force was acting upon it. It looks like a bolt of electricity came out of the rock, passed through part of the cart and cradle, spraying molten metal outward. And beneath the cart, I found a glove. It was the only piece of Hill's clothing not burned. I think he dropped the glove so he could touch the meteorite."
"Why would he do something like that?" Lloyd asked impatiently.
This time, it was Rachel who spoke up. "Why did you?" she asked. "That's one mighty strange-looking rock. You can't always predict what someone's going to do the first time they see it."
"Jesus, this is unbelievable," Lloyd said. There was a moment of silence. "But you can proceed. Right?"
McFarlane darted a look at Glinn.
"The cart and the cradle have been damaged," Glinn said. "But Mr. Garza tells me they can be repaired within twenty-four hours. The meteorite remains a question, however."
"Why?" Lloyd asked. "Was it damaged?"
"No," Glinn continued. "It appears to be unscathed. I'd given standing orders from the beginning to treat this thing as if it was dangerous. Now—if Dr. McFarlane's right—we know that it is. We must take additional precautions to load that rock onto the ship. But we have to move fast: it's also dangerous to remain here any longer than absolutely necessary."
"I don't like it. You should have figured out these precautions before we ever left New York."
It seemed to McFarlane that Glinn's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Mr. Lloyd, this meteorite has confounded all our expectations. We're now outside the parameters of the original EES analysis. That has never happened before. Do you know what that normally means?"
Lloyd did not reply.
"We abort the project," Glinn finished.
"That is not a goddamn option!" Lloyd was suddenly shouting, but the reception had grown so poor that McFarlane had to strain to hear. "I don't want that kind of talk. You hear me? Glinn, you get the goddamn rock on the boat and you bring it home."
Abruptly, the radio cut out.
"He terminated the transmission," said Garza.
The hut was silent; all eyes were on Glinn.
Over the man's shoulder, McFarlane could see Rocco, still at his grisly task. He had what looked like a piece of skull in his gloved hands, an eyeball hanging from it, held only by the ocular nerve.
Rachel sighed, shook her head, and rose slowly from her wooden chair. "So what do we do?"
"For now, help us get the plant back on line. Once we have power, you two will tackle that problem." Glinn turned to McFarlane. "Where's Hill's glove?"
"Right here." McFarlane reached wearily for his satchel, pulled out a sealed baggie, and held it up.
"That's a leather glove," Garza said. "The construction team was issued Gore-Tex gloves."
There was a sudden silence.
"Mr. Glinn?"
Rocco's voice was so sharp, the note of surprise so clear, that everyone glanced toward him. He still had the piece of skull in his hand, poised in front of his chin, as if he were about to take a snapshot with it.
"Yes, Mr. Rocco?"
"Frank Hill had brown eyes."
Glinn's face flicked from Rocco to the skull and then back again, the mute question clear on his face.
With an oddly delicate motion, Rocco drew the cuff of his shirt across the dangling eyeball, wiping it clean.
"This isn't Hill," he said. "This eye is blue."
45: Isla Desolación
12:40 A.M.
GLINN STOPPED, arrested by the sight of the eyeball dangling from a strip of nerve. "Mr. Garza?" His voice was unusually calm.
>
"Sir."
"Get a team together. Find Hill. Use probes, thermal sensors."
"Yes, sir."
"But keep a sharp eye out. Watch for booby traps, snipers. Don't rule out anything."
Garza disappeared into the night. Glinn took the shattered eye from Rocco and began rotating it under his gaze. It seemed to McFarlane that he scrutinized it as one might a piece of fine porcelain. Then he walked over to the table where the body parts lay divided between the tarp and the cold-storage locker.
"Let's see what we've got here," he murmured. As McFarlane watched, he began sorting through them, handling each piece, peering at it critically, setting it down again and moving to the next, like a shopper browsing the meat section of a supermarket.
"Blond," he said, holding up a tiny hair to the light. He began assembling pieces of the head. "High cheekbones... close-cropped hair... Nordic features..." He put them aside and continued rummaging. "Death's head tattoo on the right arm... Young, perhaps twenty-five."
His examination lasted fifteen minutes, during which nobody else spoke. At last, he straightened up and went to wash his hands in the sink. There was no water, so he flicked the excess matter from his hands and wiped them with a towel. Then he paced the length of the hut, turned, walked back.
Suddenly, Glinn went still. He seemed to have come to a decision. He plucked a radio from the table. "Thompson?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's the status on the generator?"
"Britton is bringing it herself; she wouldn't risk her crew. She says Brambell will come as soon as it's safe. The storm is supposed to ease by dawn."
The radio beeped and Glinn switched frequencies. "Found Hill," came Garza's terse voice.
"Yes?"
"He was buried in a snowdrift. Throat cut. Very professional piece of work."
"Thank you, Mr. Garza." Glinn's profile was dully illuminated in the emergency light of the hut. A single bead of sweat stood on his brow.
"And there's a pair of snowshoes hidden in the entrance shack. Like the glove, they're not ours."
The Ice Limit Page 26