He glanced at his watch. In twenty minutes, he would pull through the gap and draw up to the Rolvaag. The slack water in the lee of the ice islands would give him a steady platform for precise firing.
He began to visualize the kill. There could be no error, no possibility of reversal. He would position the Ramirez at least a mile away, to prevent more underwater excursions. He would illuminate the entire area with phosphorus flares. There would be no haste: the operation would be executed with care. But he wouldn't tease it out, make things unduly slow; he was no sadist, and the female captain in particular deserved a respectful death.
It would be best to hull her aft, he decided; at the waterline, so she would go down by the stern. It was most important that none escaped to provide an eyewitness account of what happened here. He would turn the 40-millimeter guns on the first lifeboats; that would keep the rest on board until the end. As the ship went down, the survivors would crowd into the forecastle, where he could better see them. He wanted most particularly to make sure the smooth one, the lying cabrón, would die. This man was behind everything. If anyone had ordered his son executed, it was him.
The tanker, now slowed to five knots, was drawing between the ice islands, passing close to the larger one. Very close, in fact; perhaps the rudder was damaged. The islands were so tall, so sheer, that the tanker appeared to be slipping into some monstrous hangar of gleaming azure. As the Rolvaag disappeared from view between them, he saw the ship begin a turn to port. That would take it behind the larger of the two islands and into its lee, temporarily out of the reach of his guns. It was a sad, hopeless effort.
"Sonar?" he called out, dropping the binoculars at last.
"Clear, sir."
That was it—there was no unexpected underwater ice; it was a clean drop from the top to the root of the ice island. Time to finish the job.
"Steady through the gap. Follow their course."
He turned to the tactical action officer. "Await my orders to engage with the guns."
"Aye, sir."
Vallenar swiveled back to the windows, raising the binoculars once again.
77: Rolvaag
5:20 P.M.
THE ROLVAAG passed between the ice islands, gliding into a tranquil, twilit world. The wind dropped, no longer gusting through the broken windows into the bridge. Suddenly the ship was released from the evil grip of the storm. Britton found the sudden silence in the midst of the storm unsettling. She stared up at the cliffs that rose up on either side, sheer as if cleaved with an ax. Below, at the waterline, the pounding surf on the windward side had formed an undercut of fantastic-looking caves. In the moonlight, the ice shone a pure, rich blue so deep she thought it one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. Funny, she thought, how the nearness of death could heighten one's sense of beauty.
Glinn, who had disappeared onto the port bridge wing, now returned, closing the door carefully behind him. He approached her, wiping flecks of spray from his shoulders.
"Steady as she goes," he said quietly. "Keep the tanker's head at this angle."
She did not bother relaying the useless and cryptic direction to Howell.
The ship had lost even more headway making a ninety-degree turn behind the ice island. Now they were gliding parallel to the ice at about a knot, still slowing. Once they stopped, they'd never start again.
She glanced at his profile, at the unreadable face. She almost asked whether he really thought they were going to successfully hide their almost-quarter-mile ship from the destroyer. But she kept silent. Glinn had made a supreme effort. There was nothing more he could do. In a few minutes, the Ramirez would round the ice island and that would be it. She tried not to think of her daughter. That was going to be hardest of all, letting go of her daughter.
In the lee of the island, everything seemed strangely quiet. There was a terrible silence on the bridge: there were no longer any orders to give or receive. The wind was gone, and the swell warping around the island was smooth and low. The wall of ice was only a quarter mile distant. Here and there, long fissures ran down from its top, deep runnels worn by icemelt and rain. She could see small waterfalls feathering into the moonlit sea, and hear the distant cracking and pinging of the ice. Beyond that came a distant keening sound of wind, raking the top of the ice island. It was an ethereal, otherworldly place. She watched an iceberg, recently calved off the island, drift away to the west. She wanted to be there when it slowly melted and disappeared into the sea. She wanted to be anywhere but here.
"It isn't over, Sally," Glinn said quietly, so that only she could hear. He was regarding her intently.
"Yes, it is. The destroyer killed all our power."
"You'll see your daughter again."
"Please don't say that." She brushed away a tear.
To her surprise, Glinn took her hand.
"If we get through this," he began, with a hesitation foreign to him, "I would like to see you again. May I do that? I would like to learn more about poetry. Perhaps you could teach me."
"Please, Eli. It's easier if we don't talk." She gave his hand a gentle pressure.
And then she saw the prow of the Ramirez nosing past the ice.
* * *
It was less than two miles away, slinking close to the blue wall of the ice island following their own wake, approaching like a shark closing on its disabled prey. The gun turrets were tracking them with a cool deliberation.
As Britton stared out the rearward bridge windows at those guns, waiting for the final deadly fire to erupt from their barrels, time slowed. The space between her heartbeats seemed to grow longer. She took in the scene around her: Lloyd, McFarlane, Howell, the watch officers, silently waiting. Waiting for death in the dark cold water.
There was a popping sound from the destroyer, and an array of Willey Peters soared into the air, exploding into a crooked line of brilliance. Britton shielded her eyes as the surface of the water, the deck of the tanker, the wall of the ice island, shed their colors under the terrible illumination. As the worst of the brightness eased, she squinted out the windows once again. The guns on the Ramirez lowered their elevation, pointing at them until all that could be seen were the black holes of the muzzles. The ship was now halfway through the gap and slowing fast. The shooting would be almost point-blank.
An explosion cracked through the air, echoing and reverberating between the islands. Britton jerked back instinctively, and felt Glinn's hand bear down on hers. This was it, then. She murmured a silent prayer for her daughter, and for death to be merciful and quick.
But no burst of flame had come from the destroyer's guns. Britton's eyes scanned the scene in confusion. She saw movement far above.
At the top of the ice cliff above the Ramirez, splinters and chunks of ice were spinning lazily into the air, rising above four drifting puffs of smoke. The echoes died, and for a moment the stillness returned. And then the ice island seemed to shift. The face of the cliff above the Ramirez began to slip, and the blue fissure opened between it and the rest of the island, rapidly widening; now Britton could see that a gigantic piece of ice, nearly two hundred feet high, was peeling away. The great plate of ice separated from the cliff and began to descend, breaking into several pieces as it did so, in a kind of slow, majestic ballet. As it merged with the sea, a wall of water began to rise: black at first, then green and white. Higher and higher the water rose, propelled by the great plunging mass of the ice, and then the sound began to reach her, a mingled cacophony of noise that grew steadily in volume. And still the wave mounted, so precipitous it began breaking over itself even as it formed, climbing, breaking, climbing again. The vast block of ice disappeared, driven below the surface by its own momentum, and the steep-walled wave broke free and headed, broadside, for the Ramirez.
There was a roar from its steam turbines as the destroyer tried to maneuver. But in an instant the wave was upon it; the destroyer yawed, rose, and rose still farther, heeling, the rust red of its bowplates exposed. For a sic
kening moment it seemed to pause, slanting far to starboard, its two masts almost horizontal to the sea, as the crest of the monstrous wave foamed over it. Seconds ticked by as the ship hovered there, clinging to the wave, poised between righting itself and foundering. Britton felt her heart pounding violently in her chest. Then the ship wavered and began to come upright, water shedding from its deck. It didn't work, she thought; God, it didn't work.
The righting movement slowed, the ship paused again, and then it sagged back into the water. There was a sigh of air from the superstructure, jets of spray shot in all directions, and the destroyer turned over, its slimy keel rolling heavily toward the sky. There was another, louder sigh; a moiling of water and foam and bubbling air around the hull; and then, with hardly a swirl, it disappeared into the icy deep. There was a second brief explosion of bubbles, and then those, too, disappeared, leaving behind black water.
It had taken less than ninety seconds.
Britton saw the freakish wave race toward them, spreading and attenuating as it did so.
"Hang on," murmured Glinn.
Positioned lengthwise to the wave, the tanker rose sharply, heeled, then came easily to rest.
Britton disengaged her hand from Glinn's and raised her binoculars, feeling the cold rubber against the sockets of her eyes. She could hardly comprehend that the destroyer was gone. Not a man, not a life raft—not even a cushion or bottle—appeared on the surface. The Almirante Ramirez had disappeared without a trace.
Glinn's eyes were on the island, and she followed his gaze. There, at the edge of the ice plateau, were four dark specks: men in dry suits, crossing their arms over their heads, fists together. One by one, the flares dropped into the sea, each with a faint hiss. Darkness returned.
Glinn raised his radio.
"Op accomplished," he said quietly. "Prepare to receive the launch."
78: Rolvaag
5:40 P.M.
PALMER LLOYD found himself momentarily unable to speak. He had been so certain of impending death that to stand here on the bridge, drawing breath, seemed a miracle. When he finally found his voice, he turned to Glinn. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"The chance of success was too slim. I myself did not believe it would succeed." His lips twitched briefly in an ironic smile. "It required luck."
In a sudden physical display of emotion Lloyd leapt forward, wrapping Glinn in a bear hug. "Christ," he said, "I feel like a condemned man getting a reprieve. Eli, is there anything you can't do?" He found himself crying. He didn't care.
"It's not over yet."
Lloyd simply grinned at the man's false modesty.
Britton turned to Howell. "Are we taking in water?"
"Nothing that the bilge pumps can't handle, Captain. As long as we have auxiliary power."
"And how long is that?"
"By shutting down all but essential systems, with the emergency diesel, more than twenty-five hours."
"Splendid!" Lloyd said. "We're in fine shape. We'll repair the engines and be on our way." He beamed at Glinn and then Britton, and then faltered a little. He wondered why they looked so grim. "Is there a problem?"
"We're DIW, Mr. Lloyd," said Britton. "The current's moving us back into the storm."
"DIW?"
"Dead in the water."
"We've weathered it so far. It can't get any worse than this. Can it?"
No one answered his question.
Britton spoke to Howell. "Give me status on our communications."
"All long-range and satellite communications down."
"Issue an SOS. Raise South Georgia on the emergency channel sixteen."
Lloyd felt a sudden chill. "What's this about an SOS?"
Again no one answered. Britton said, "Mr. Howell, what is the status on engine damage?"
After a moment Howell reported back. "Both turbines beyond repair, ma'am."
"Prepare for possible evacuation of the ship."
Lloyd could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Just what the hell are you talking about? Is the ship sinking?"
Britton turned a pair of cool green eyes on him. "That's my meteorite down there. I'm not leaving this ship."
"Nobody's leaving the ship, Mr. Lloyd. We'll only abandon ship as a last resort. Putting lifeboats out into this storm would probably be suicide anyway."
"For God's sake, then, let's not overreact. We can weather the storm and get a tow to the Falklands. Things aren't that bad."
"We have no steerage, no headway. Once we drift back into that storm, we'll have eighty-knot winds, a hundred-foot sea, and a six-knot current all pushing us in one direction, toward the Bransfield Strait. That's Antarctica, Mr. Lloyd. Things are that bad."
Lloyd felt stunned. Already, he could feel a swell rolling the ship. A gust of air came into the bridge.
"Listen to me," he said in a low voice. "I don't care what you have to do, or how you do it, but don't you lose my meteorite. Is that understood?"
Britton gave him a steady, hostile look. "Mr. Lloyd, right now I couldn't give a shit about your meteorite. My sole concern is my ship and crew. Is that understood?"
Lloyd turned to Glinn, looking for support. But Glinn had remained perfectly silent and still, his face its usual mask.
"When can we get a tow?"
"Most of our electronics are down, but we're trying to raise South Georgia. It all depends on the storm."
Lloyd broke away impatiently and turned to Glinn. "What's happening in the holding tank?"
"Garza is reinforcing the web with fresh welds."
"And how long will that take?"
Glinn did not answer. He did not need to; because now Lloyd could feel it, too. The motion of the ship was growing worse—ghastly, slow rolls that took forever to complete. And at the top of each roll, the Rolvaag cried in pain: a deep groaning that was half sound and half vibration. It was the dead hand of the meteorite.
79: Rolvaag
5:45 P.M.
HOWELL EMERGED from the radio room and spoke to Britton. "We've got South Georgia, ma'am," he said.
"Very good. Put them on voice, please."
The bridge intercom came to life. "South Georgia to tanker Rolvaag, acknowledged." The voice was tinny and faint, and Britton could recognize a Home Counties accent barely recognizable through the static.
She picked up a transmitter and opened the channel. "South Georgia, this is an emergency. We are severely damaged, without propulsion, repeat, without propulsion. We're drifting south-southeastward at a rate of nine knots."
"Acknowledged, Rolvaag. State your position."
"Our position is 61°15'12" South, 60°5'33" West."
"Advise as to your cargo. In ballast or oil?"
Glinn glanced up at her, a sharp look. Britton closed the channel.
"From this point on," Glinn said, "we begin telling the truth. Our truth."
Britton turned back to the transmitter. "South Georgia, we're converted to an ore carrier. We're fully loaded with, ah, a meteorite, mined on the Cape Horn islands."
There was another silence.
"Did not copy, Rolvaag. Did you say meteorite?"
"Affirmative. Our cargo is a twenty-five-thousand-ton meteorite."
"A meteorite of twenty-five thousand tons," the voice repeated impassively. "Rolvaag, please advise as to your intended destination."
Britton knew this was a subtle way of asking, What the hell are you doing down here?
"We're headed for Port Elizabeth, New Jersey."
There was another silence. Britton waited, wincing inwardly. Any knowledgeable mariner would know there was something very wrong with this story. Here they were, two hundred miles off the Bransfield Straits, well into a major storm. And yet this was their first distress call.
"Er, Rolvaag, may I ask if you have the latest weather report?"
"Yes, we do." But she knew he would give it to her anyway.
"Winds increasing to a hundred knots by midnight, seas topping forty meters, all of Drake Passage
under a Force 15 storm warning."
"It's almost Force 13 now," she replied.
"Understood. Please describe the nature of your damage."
Make it good, Glinn murmured.
"South Georgia, we were attacked without warning by a Chilean warship in international waters. Shells struck our engine room, forecastle, and maindeck. We have lost headway and steerage. We are DIW, repeat, Delta India Whiskey."
"Good Lord. Are you still under attack?"
"The destroyer struck an iceberg and sank thirty minutes ago."
"This is extraordinary. Why...?"
This was not a proper question to ask during an emergency distress call. But again, this was a most unusual emergency. "We have no idea why. The Chilean captain seems to have been acting alone, without orders."
"Did you identify the warship?"
"The Almirante Ramirez, Emiliano Vallenar, CO."
"Are you taking in water?"
"Nothing our bilge pumps can't handle."
"Are you in imminent danger?"
"Yes. Our cargo could shift at any moment and the ship might founder."
"Rolvaag, please stand by."
There was a sixty-second silence.
"Rolvaag, we fully appreciate your situation. We have SAR assets standing by here and at the Falklands. But we cannot, I repeat, we cannot undertake a search and rescue until the storm abates to Force 10 or less. Do you have satellite communications?"
"No. Most of our electronics are down."
"We will advise your government of your status. Is there anything else we can do?"
"Just a tow, as soon as possible. Before we end up on the Bransfield reefs."
The Ice Limit Page 38