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 aforeign 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.
58: 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 corner 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.
59: 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 c
annot 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.
60: 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.
61: 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."
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