"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.
56: 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 1MC. "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 cuto
uts, 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.
57: 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 co
urse 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.
The Ice Limit Page 31