McFarlane stopped dead.
“That’s right,” Glinn continued in an undertone. “He’s the one who collected the tomographic sounder and the rock samples and sold them in Punta Arenas. On top of everything else, his absence in Puerto Williams will be most helpful to us. Now that we have attracted attention to Isla Desolación, he won’t be around to gossip and spread rumor.”
McFarlane looked again at the drunk. “So he’s the bastard who robbed my partner.”
Glinn laid a hand on McFarlane’s arm. “He’s extremely poor. He found a dead man with some valuable things. It’s understandable, and forgivable, that he’d look to make a small profit. There was no harm in it. If not for him, your old friend might still be lying undiscovered. And you would not have the opportunity to finish his work.”
McFarlane pulled away, even as he was forced to admit to himself that Glinn was right.
“He will be most useful to us,” Glinn said. “I can promise you that.”
Silently McFarlane followed the group as they made their way down the murky hillside toward the harbor.
Rolvaag,
2:50 P.M.
BY THE time the launch exited the Beagle Channel and approached the Rolvaag, a heavy, bitter fog had enveloped the sea. The small group remained inside the wheelhouse, huddled on flotation cushions, barely speaking. Puppup, who was propped upright between Glinn and Sally Britton, showed no signs of regaining consciousness. However, several times he had to be prevented from nodding to one side and snuggling himself against the captain’s pea coat.
“Is he shamming?” the captain asked, as she plucked the old man’s frail-looking hand from her lapel and gently pushed him away.
Glinn smiled. McFarlane noticed that the cigarettes, the racking cough, the rheumy eyes had all vanished; the cool presence had returned.
Ahead, the ghostly outline of the tanker now appeared above the heavy swell, its sides rising, rising above them, only to disappear again into the soupy atmosphere. The launch came alongside and was hoisted into its davits. As they went aboard, Puppup began to stir. McFarlane helped him shakily to his feet in the swirling fog. Couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds, he thought.
“John Puppup?” Glinn said in his mild voice. “I am Eli Glinn.”
Puppup took his hand and gave it a silent shake. He then solemnly shook hands with everyone else around him, including the launch tender, a steward, and two surprised deckhands. He shook the captain’s hand last and longest of all.
“Are you all right?” Glinn asked.
The man looked around with bright black eyes, stroking his thin mustache. He seemed to be neither surprised nor perturbed by the strange surroundings.
“Mr. Puppup, you’re probably wondering what you’re doing here.”
Puppup’s hand suddenly dove into his pocket and removed the wad of soiled money; he counted it, grunted with satisfaction that he hadn’t been robbed, and replaced it.
Glinn gestured toward the steward. “Mr. Davies here will see you to your cabin, where you can get washed up and put on a fresh change of clothes. Does that suit you?”
Puppup looked at Glinn curiously.
“Maybe he doesn’t speak English,” McFarlane murmured.
Puppup’s eyes swiftly fixed on him. “Speaks the king’s own, I does.” His voice was high and melodious, and through it McFarlane heard a complex fugue of accents, Cockney English strongly predominating.
“I’ll be happy to answer all your questions once you’ve had a chance to settle in,” Glinn said. “We will meet in the library tomorrow morning.” He nodded to Davies.
Without another word, Puppup turned away. All eyes followed him as the steward led the way into the aft superstructure.
Overhead, the ship’s blower rasped into life. “Captain to the bridge,” came the metallic voice of Victor Howell.
“What’s up?” McFarlane asked.
Britton shook her head. “Let’s find out.”
• • •
The bridge looked out into an all-enveloping cloud of gray. Nothing, not even the deck of the ship, was visible. As he stepped through the door, McFarlane caught the tense atmosphere within. Instead of the normal skeleton complement, there were half a dozen ship’s officers on the bridge. From the radio room, he could hear the high-speed clatter of a computer keyboard.
“What do we have, Mr. Howell?” Britton asked calmly.
Howell looked up from a nearby screen. “Radar contact.”
“Who is it?” McFarlane asked.
“Unknown. They’re not responding to our hails. Given its speed and radar cross-section, it’s probably a gunboat.” He peered back, throwing some switches. “Too far to get a good look on the FLIR.”
“Where away?” Britton asked.
“They seem to be circling, as if searching for something. Wait a moment, the course has steadied. Eight miles, bearing one six zero true, and closing. The ESM’s picking up radar. We’re being painted.”
The captain joined him quickly and peered into the radar hood. “They’re CBDR. Estimated time to CPA?”
“Twelve minutes, at current speed and heading.”
“What does all that alphabet soup mean?” McFarlane asked.
Britton glanced at him. “CBDR—constant bearing and decreasing range.”
“Collision course,” Howell murmured.
Britton turned to the third officer, who was manning the command station. “Are we under way?”
The officer nodded. “Steam’s up, ma’am. We’re on dynamic positioning.”
“Tell the engine room to goose it.”
“Aye, aye.” The officer picked up a black-handled telephone.
There was a low shudder as the ship’s engines revved. Anticollision alarms began to sound.
“Taking evasive action?” McFarlane asked.
Britton shook her head. “We’re too big for that, even with engine steering. But we’re going to give it a shot.”
From far above on the radar mast, the ship’s foghorn gave a deafening blast.
“Course unchanged,” Howell said, head glued to the radar hood.
“Helm’s answering,” said the third officer.
“Rudder amidships.” Britton walked toward the radio room and opened the gray metal door. “Any luck, Banks?”
“No response.”
McFarlane walked to the forward bank of windows. The line of wipers was clearing the film of mist and sleet that seemed to constantly renew itself. Sunlight struggled to break through the heavy gauze beyond. “Can’t they hear us?” he asked.
“Of course they can,” Glinn said quietly. “They know perfectly well we’re here.”
“Course unchanged,” Howell murmured, peering into the radar hood. “Collision in nine minutes.”
“Fire flares in the direction of the ship,” Britton said, back at the command station.
Howell relayed the order, and Britton turned to the watch officer. “How’s she steer?”
“Like a pig, ma’am, at this speed.”
McFarlane could feel a heavy strain shuddering through the ship.
“Five minutes and closing,” Howell said.
“Fire some more flares. Fire them at the ship. Put me on ICM frequency.” Britton picked up a transmitter from the command station. “Unidentified vessel three thousand yards off my port quarter, this is the tanker Rolvaag. Change your course twenty degrees to starboard to avoid collision. Repeat, change your course twenty degrees to starboard.” She repeated the message in Spanish, then turned up the gain on the receiver. The entire bridge listened silently to the wash of static.
Britton replaced the transmitter. She looked at the helmsman, then at Howell.
“Three minutes to collision,” Howell said.
She spoke into the blower. “All hands, this is the master speaking. Prepare for collision at the starboard bow.”
The foghorn ripped once again through the thinning veils of mist. A claxon was going off, and lights were blinking
on the bridge.
“Coming up on the starboard bow,” Howell said.
“Get damage and fire control ready,” Britton replied. Then she pulled a bullhorn from the bulkhead, raced toward the door leading onto the starboard bridge wing, tore it open, and vanished outside. As if at a single thought, Glinn and McFarlane followed.
The moment he stepped outside, McFarlane was soaked by the frigid, heavy haze. Below, he could hear confused sounds of running and shouting. The foghorn, even louder here on the exposed deck, seemed to atomize the thick air that surrounded them. Britton had run to the far end of the wing and was leaning over the railing, suspended a hundred feet above the sea, bullhorn poised.
The fog was beginning to break up, streaming across the maindeck. But off the starboard bow, it seemed to McFarlane that the mist was thickening, growing darker again. Suddenly, a forest of antennas solidified out of the gloom, forward anchor light glowing pale white. The foghorn once again blasted its warning, but the vessel came unrelentingly toward them at full speed, a creamy, snarling wake of foam cutting across its gray bows. Its outlines became clearer. It was a destroyer, its sides pitted and scarred and streaked with rust. Chilean flags fluttered from its superstructure and fantail. Four-inch guns, stubby and evil-looking, sat in housings on the fore and aft decks.
Britton was screaming into the bullhorn. Collision alarms sounded, and McFarlane could feel the bridge wing shaking beneath him as the engines tried to pull away. But it was impossible to turn the big ship quickly enough. He planted his feet, grasping the railing, preparing for impact.
At the last moment, the destroyer sheered to port, gliding past the tanker with no more than twenty yards to spare. Britton lowered the bullhorn. All eyes followed the smaller vessel.
Every gun of the destroyer—from the big deck turrets to the 40-millimeter cannon—was trained on the bridge of the Rolvaag. McFarlane stared at the ship in mingled perplexity and horror. And then his eyes fell on the destroyer’s flying bridge.
Standing alone, in full uniform, was the naval comandante they had met that morning in customs. Wind tugged at the gold bars on his officer’s cap. He was passing so close beneath them that McFarlane could see the beads of moisture on his face.
Vallenar paid them no mind. He was leaning against a .50-caliber machine gun mounted to the rail, but it was a posture of false ease. The barrel of the gun, its perforated snout heavy with sea salt and rust, was aimed directly at them, an insolent promise of death. His black eyes skewered them one at a time. His withered arm was clutched against his chest at a precise angle to his body. The man’s gaze never wavered, and as the destroyer slid by, both he and the machine gun rotated slowly, keeping them in view.
And then the destroyer fell astern of the Rolvaag, slipping back into the mist, and the specter was gone. In the chill silence that remained, McFarlane heard the destroyer’s engines rumble up to full speed once again, and felt the faintest sensation of rocking as its wake passed beneath the tanker. It had the gentle up-and-down motion of a baby’s cradle, and, if it had not been terrifying, would have been distinctly comforting.
Rolvaag,
July 13, 6:30 A.M.
MCFARLANE STIRRED in the predawn darkness of his stateroom. The bedsheets were twisted around him in a cyclone of linen, and the pillow beneath his head was heavy with sweat. He rolled over, still half asleep, instinctively reaching for Malou’s comforting warmth. But save for himself, the berth was empty.
He sat up and waited for his pounding heart to find its normal rhythm as the disconnected images of a nightmare—a ship, tossed on a stormy sea—receded from his mind. As he passed a hand across his eyes, he realized that not everything had been a dream: the motion of the water was still with him. The ship’s movement had changed; instead of the usual gentle roll, it felt shuddery and rough. Throwing aside the sheets, he walked to the window and pulled the curtain back. Sleet splattered against the Plexiglas, and there was a thick coating of ice along its lower edge.
The dark set of rooms seemed oppressive and he dressed hurriedly, eager for fresh air despite the nasty conditions. As he trotted down the two flights of stairs to the maindeck, the ship rolled and he was forced to steady himself on the railing for support.
As he opened the door leading out of the superstructure a blast of icy wind buffeted his face. It was bracing, and it drove the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. In the half-light he could see the windward vents, davits, and containers plastered with ice, the deck awash in slush. McFarlane could now hear clearly the boom of a heavy sea running the length of the ship. Out here, the roll of the vessel was more pronounced. The dark, moiling seas were periodically whitened with great combing waves, the faint hiss of the breaking water coming to his ears over the moaning of the wind.
Someone was leaning up against the starboard railing, head sunk forward. As he approached, he saw it was Amira, bundled once again in the ridiculously oversized parka.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She turned toward him. Deep within the furred hood of the parka, he made out a green-tinged face. A few tendrils of black hair escaped, whipped back by the wind.
“Trying to puke,” she said. “What’s your excuse?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Amira nodded. “I’m hoping that destroyer comes by again. I’d like nothing better than to unload the contents of my stomach on that ugly little comandante.”
McFarlane did not answer. The encounter with the Chilean vessel, and speculation about Comandante Vallenar and his motives, had dominated dinner-table talk the previous night. And Lloyd, when he heard of the incident, had become frantic. Only Glinn seemed unconcerned.
“Will you look at this?” Amira said. Following her gaze, McFarlane saw the dark form of a jogger, clad only in gray warm-ups, making its way along the port rail. As he stared, he realized it was Sally Britton.
“Only she would be man enough to go jogging in this weather,” Amira said sourly.
“She’s pretty tough.”
“More like crazy.” Amira snickered. “Look at that sweatshirt bouncing around.”
McFarlane, who had been looking at it, said nothing.
“Don’t get me wrong. I take a purely scientific interest. I’m thinking how one would calculate an equation of state for those rather impressive breasts.”
“An equation of state?”
“It’s something we physicists do. It relates all the physical properties of an object—temperature, pressure, density, elasticity—”
“I get the picture.”
“Look,” Amira said, abruptly changing the subject. “There’s another wreck.”
In the bleak winter distance, McFarlane could see the outline of a large ship, its back broken on a rock.
“What is that, four?” Amira asked.
“Five, I think.” As the Rolvaag headed south from Puerto Williams toward Cape Horn, the sightings of giant shipwrecks had grown more frequent. Some were almost as large as the Rolvaag. The area was a veritable graveyard of shipping, and the sight no longer brought any surprise.
Britton had by now rounded the bow and was heading in their direction.
“Here she comes,” said Amira.
As Britton drew up to them, she slowed, jogging in place. Britton’s warm-up suit was damp with sleet and rain, and it clung to her body. Equation of state, McFarlane thought to himself.
“I wanted to let you know that, at nine o’clock, I’m going to issue a deck safety-harness order,” she said.
“Why’s that?” McFarlane asked.
“A squall is coming.”
“Coming?” Amira said with a bleak laugh. “It looks like it’s already here.”
“As we head out of the lee of Isla Navarino, we’re going to be heading into a gale. Nobody will be allowed on deck without a harness.” Britton had answered Amira’s question, but she was looking at McFarlane.
“Thanks for the warning,” McFarlane said. Britton nodded to him
, then jogged away. In a minute she was gone.
“What is it you have against her?” McFarlane said.
Amira was silent a moment. “Something about Britton bugs me. She’s too perfect.”
“I think that’s what they call an air of command.”
“And it seemed so unfair, the whole ship suffering because of her booze problem.”
“It was Glinn’s decision,” said McFarlane.
After a moment, Amira sighed and shook her head. “Yeah, that’s vintage Eli, isn’t it? You can bet there’s an unbroken line of impeccable logic leading up to that decision. He just hasn’t told anybody what it is.”
McFarlane shivered under a fresh blast of wind. “Well, I’ve had enough sea air to last awhile. Shall we get some breakfast?”
Amira let out a groan. “You go ahead, I’ll wait here awhile longer. Sooner or later, something’s bound to come up.”
• • •
After breakfast, McFarlane headed to the ship’s library, where Glinn had asked to meet him. The library, like everything about the vessel, was large. Windows, streaked with sleet, covered one wall. Beyond and far below, he could see snow driving almost horizontally, whirling into the black water.
The shelves contained a wide assortment of books: nautical texts and treatises, encyclopedias, Reader’s Digest condensations, forgotten best-sellers. He browsed through them, waiting for Glinn, feeling unsettled. The closer they got to Isla Desolación—to the spot where Masangkay died—the more restless he became. They were very close now. Today, they would round the Horn and anchor in the Horn Islands at last.
McFarlane’s fingers stopped at the slender volume: The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket. This was the Edgar Allan Poe title Britton mentioned at dinner that first night at sea. Curious, he took it to the nearest sofa. The dark leather felt slippery as he settled into it and cracked the book. The pleasant smell of buckram and old paper rose to his nostrils.
My name is Arthur Gordon Pym. My father was a respectable trader in sea stores at Nantucket, where I was born. My maternal grandfather was an attorney in good practice. He was fortunate in everything, and had speculated very successfully in stocks of the Edgarton New-Bank, as it was formerly called.
The Ice Limit Page 14
