This was a disappointingly dry beginning, and it was with relief that he saw the door open and Glinn enter. Behind him followed Puppup, ducking and smiling, barely recognizable from the drunk they had brought on board the previous afternoon. His long gray hair was braided back from his forehead, and the neatly groomed but still wispy mustache drooped from his pendulous lip.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” Glinn said. “I’ve been speaking to Mr. Puppup. He seems content to assist us.”
Puppup grinned and shook hands all around again. McFarlane found his hand curiously cool and dry.
“Come to the windows,” Glinn said. McFarlane strolled over and gazed out. Through the torn and roiling mists he could now make out, to the northeast, a barren island rising from the water, little more than the jagged top of a drowned mountain, white surf clawing and leaping at its base.
“That,” murmured Glinn, “is Isla Barnevelt.”
A distant squall line passed, like the drawing of a curtain from the storm-wracked horizon. Another island came into view: black, rugged, its mountainous heights whirling with snow and fog.
“And that is Isla Deceit. The easternmost of the Cape Horn islands.”
Beyond it, the fresh light exposed another wilderness of drowned mountaintops poking from the sea. As they watched, the light was extinguished as quickly as it had come. Midnight seemed to close around the vessel, and another squall struck them full on, its fury battering the windows, hail rattling off the ship like machine gun fire. McFarlane felt the big ship lean.
Glinn withdrew a folded piece of paper. “I received this message half an hour ago.” He handed it to McFarlane.
McFarlane unfolded it curiously. It was a brief cable: On no account are you to make landfall on the target island without further instructions from me. Lloyd.
McFarlane handed it back to Glinn, who returned it to his pocket. “Lloyd’s told me nothing about his plans. What do you think it means? And why not simply telephone or e-mail?”
“Because he may not be near a telephone.” Glinn drew himself up. “The view from the bridge is even nicer. Care to come along?”
Somehow, McFarlane did not think the EES head was interested in the view. He followed. Glinn was correct, however: from the bridge, the fury of the seas was even more awe-inspiring. Angry black waves broke and fought among themselves, and the wind worried at their tops and ran deep runnels through their troughs. As McFarlane watched, the Rolvaag’s forecastle nodded downward into a massive sea, then struggled up again, sheets of seawater cascading from its flanks.
Britton turned toward them, her face spectral in the artificial glow. “I see you’ve brought the pilot,” she said, glancing a little dubiously toward Puppup. “Once we round the Horn, we’ll see what advice he can give us for the approach.”
At her side, Victor Howell stirred. “There it is now,” he said. Far ahead of the ship, a break in the storm threw a gleam of light upon a fissured crag, taller and darker than the others, rising from the frantic seas.
“Cabo de Hornos,” said Glinn. “Cape Horn. But I’ve come about something else. We should expect a visitor momentarily—”
“Captain!” the third officer interrupted, bent over a screen. “The Slick 32 is picking up radar. I’ve got an air contact, approaching from the northeast.”
“Bearing?”
“Zero four zero true, ma’am. Directly for us.”
The air on the bridge grew tense. Victor Howell walked quickly to the third officer and peered over his shoulder at the screen.
“Range and speed?” Britton asked.
“Forty miles, and approaching at about one hundred and seventy knots, ma’am.”
“Reconnaissance aircraft?”
Howell straightened up. “In this weather?”
A wild gust of wind sent rain rattling against the windows.
“Well, it sure isn’t some hobbyist in a Cessna,” Britton murmured. “Could it be a commercial aircraft, straying off course?”
“Unlikely. The only things that fly down here are chartered puddle-jumpers. And they’d never be up in something like this.”
“Military?”
Nobody answered. Except for the howl of the wind and the crash of the sea, the bridge remained completely silent for the space of a minute.
“Bearing?” the captain asked again, more quietly.
“Still dead on, ma’am.”
She nodded slowly. “Very well. Sound stations, Mr. Howell.”
Suddenly, the communications officer, Banks, leaned out of the radio room. “That bird out there? It’s a Lloyd Holdings helicopter.”
“Are you sure?” Britton asked.
“I’ve verified the call sign.”
“Mr. Banks, contact that chopper.”
Glinn cleared his throat. As McFarlane watched, he replaced the folded sheet into his jacket. Throughout the sudden excitement he had shown neither alarm nor surprise. “I think,” he said quietly, “you had better prepare a landing area.”
The captain stared at him. “In this weather?”
Banks stepped back out of the radio room. “They’re requesting permission to land, ma’am.”
“I don’t believe it,” Howell cried. “We’re in the middle of a Force 8 gale.”
“I don’t believe you have a choice,” Glinn said.
• • •
Over the next ten minutes, there was an explosion of activity as preparations were made for a landing. When McFarlane arrived at the hatchway leading out onto the fantail, Glinn at his side, a stern-looking crewman wordlessly issued them safety harnesses. McFarlane tugged the bulky thing on and snapped it into place. The crewman gave it a quick tug, grunted his approval, then undogged the hatch.
As McFarlane stepped through, the blast of wind threatened to carry him over the railing. With an effort, he snapped his harness to the external railing and moved toward the landing pad. Crewmen were stationed along the deck, their harnesses securely strapped to the metal railings. Even though the ship had throttled back her engines to just enough power to claw a steerageway through the seas, the deck pitched. A dozen flares were snapped on and placed around the perimeter, fitful sprays of crimson against the driving sleet and snow.
“There it is!” somebody cried.
McFarlane squinted into the storm. In the distance, the huge form of a Chinook helicopter hung in the air, running lights glowing. As he watched, the helicopter approached, yawing from left to right as gusts of wind hit it. An alarm suddenly screamed nearby, and a series of orange warning lights lit up the Rolvaag’s superstructure. McFarlane could hear the beat of the chopper’s engines straining against the fury of the storm. Howell shouted directions through a bullhorn even as he kept the radio plastered to his face.
Now the chopper was banking into hover position. McFarlane could see the pilot in the nose, struggling with the controls. The sleet pelted them with the redoubled blast from the blades. The chopper’s belly bucked from side to side as it gingerly approached the swaying deck. A violent gust sent it shearing to one side, and the pilot quickly banked away, coming around for a second attempt. There was a desperate moment where McFarlane felt sure the pilot would lose control, but then its tires settled onto the pad and crewmen rushed to place wooden chocks beneath its wheels. The cargo door rolled open. A flurry of men, women, machines, and equipment tumbled out.
And then McFarlane saw the unmistakable figure of Lloyd drop to the wet surface of the pad, larger than life in foul-weather gear and boots. He jogged from the underside of the aircraft, the sou’wester on his head whipping back in the storm. Catching sight of McFarlane and Glinn, he gave an enthusiastic wave. A crewman raced to secure a safety belt and harness to him, but Lloyd motioned him away. He walked up, wiping the rain from his face, and grasped McFarlane and Glinn by the hands.
“Gentlemen,” he boomed over the storm, a huge smile on his face. “The coffee’s on me.”
Rolvaag,
11:15 A.M.
G
LANCING AT his watch, McFarlane entered the elevator and punched a button for the middle bridge deck. He’d passed this empty deck many times, wondering why Glinn had always kept it off-limits. Now, as the elevator rose smoothly, he realized what it had been reserved for. It was as if Glinn had known all along that Lloyd would be dropping in.
The elevator doors opened to a scene of frantic activity: the ringing of phones, the whirr of faxes and printers, and the bustle of people. There were several secretaries at desks ranged along one wall, men and women taking calls, typing at workstations, scuttling about on Lloyd Holdings business.
A man in a light-colored suit approached him, threading his way through the hubbub. McFarlane recognized the oversized ears, drooping mouth, and fat pursed lips as belonging to Penfold, Lloyd’s personal assistant. Penfold never seemed to walk toward anything, but instead approached from an angle, as if a direct approach would be too brazen.
“Dr. McFarlane?” Penfold said in his high, nervous voice. “This way, please.”
He led McFarlane through a door, down a corridor, and into a small sitting room, with black leather sofas arranged around a glass- and gold-leafed table. A door opened into yet another office, and from it McFarlane could hear Lloyd’s basso profundo voice.
“Please sit down,” said Penfold. “Mr. Lloyd will be with you shortly.” He vanished, and McFarlane settled back into the creaking leather sofa. There was a wall of television sets tuned to various news channels from around the world. The latest magazines lay on the table: Scientific American, the New Yorker, and the New Republic. McFarlane picked one up, began flipping through it absently, then put it down again. Why had Lloyd come down so abruptly? Had something gone wrong?
“Sam!” Looking up, he saw the huge man standing in the doorway, filling it with his bulk, radiating power, good humor, and boundless self-confidence.
McFarlane rose. Lloyd moved toward him, beaming, arms outstretched. “Sam, it’s fine to see you again.” He squeezed McFarlane’s shoulders between his beefy palms and examined him, still gripping his shoulders. “I can’t tell you how exciting it is to be here. Come in.”
McFarlane followed Lloyd’s broad back, beautifully draped in Valentino. Lloyd’s inner office was spare: a row of windows, the cold light of the Antarctic regions flooding in, two simple wing chairs, a desk with a phone, a laptop computer—and two wineglasses beside a freshly opened bottle of Chateau Margaux.
Lloyd gestured at the wine. “Care for a glass?”
McFarlane grinned, and nodded. Lloyd poured the ruby liquid into a glass, filling another for himself. He settled his bulk into a chair, and held his glass up. “Cheers.”
They clinked and McFarlane sipped the exquisite wine. He wasn’t much of a connoisseur, but even the grossest palate could appreciate this.
“I hate Glinn’s habit of keeping me in the dark,” Lloyd said. “Why wasn’t I told about this being a dry ship, Sam? Or about Britton’s history? I can’t fathom Glinn’s thinking on this one. He should have briefed me back in Elizabeth. Thank God there’s been no problem.”
“She’s an excellent captain,” McFarlane said. “She’s handled the ship with great skill. Knows it inside and out. Crew respects the hell out of her. Doesn’t take guff from anybody, either.”
Lloyd listened, frowning. “That’s good to know.” The phone buzzed. Lloyd picked it up. “Yes?” he said impatiently. “I’m in a meeting.”
There was a pause while Lloyd listened. McFarlane watched him, thinking that what Lloyd had said about Glinn was true. Secretiveness was a habit with Glinn—or, perhaps, an instinct.
“I’ll call the senator back,” Lloyd said after a moment. “And no more calls.” He strode over to the window and stood, hands clasped behind his back. Although the worst of the storm had passed, the panoramic windows remained streaked with sleet. “Magnificent,” Lloyd breathed, something like reverence in his voice. “To think we’ll be at the island within the hour. Christ, Sam, we’re almost there!”
He swiveled away from the window. The frown was gone, replaced by a look of elation. “I’ve made a decision. Eli needs to hear it, too, but I wanted you to know first.” He paused, exhaled. “I’m going to plant the flag, Sam.”
McFarlane looked at Lloyd. “You’re going to what?”
“This afternoon, I’m taking the launch to Isla Desolación.”
“Just you?” McFarlane felt a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Just me. And that crazy old Puppup, of course, to guide me to the meteorite.”
“But the weather—”
“The weather couldn’t be better!” Lloyd stepped away from the windows and paced restlessly between the wing chairs. “This kind of moment, Sam, isn’t given to many.”
McFarlane sat in his chair, the strange feeling growing. “Just you?” he repeated. “You won’t share the discovery?”
“No, I won’t. Why the hell should I? Peary did the same thing on his last dash to the Pole. Glinn’s got to understand. He may not like it, but it’s my expedition. I’m going in alone.”
“No,” McFarlane said quietly. “No, you’re not.”
Lloyd stopped pacing.
“You’re not leaving me behind.”
Lloyd turned in surprise, his piercing eyes on McFarlane. “You?”
McFarlane said nothing, maintaining eye contact.
After a moment, Lloyd began to chuckle. “You know, Sam, you’re not the man I first met hiding behind a bush in the Kalahari Desert. It never occurred to me you’d care about something like this.” His smile suddenly vanished. “What would you do if I said no?”
McFarlane stood up. “I don’t know. Something rash and ill-advised, probably.”
Lloyd’s whole frame seemed to swell. “Are you threatening me?”
McFarlane held his eyes. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
Lloyd continued looking at him steadily. “Well, well.”
“You sought me out. You knew what I’d dreamed of my entire life.” McFarlane carefully watched Lloyd’s expression. This was a man unused to being challenged. “I was out there trying to put the past behind me. And you arrived, dangling it, like a carrot on a stick. You knew I’d bite. And now I’m here, and you can’t leave me out. I won’t miss this.”
There was a tense silence in which McFarlane could hear the distant clatter of keys, the ringing of phones. Then, abruptly, Lloyd’s hard features softened. He placed a hand on his bald head and smoothed his shiny pate. Then he ran his fingers down through his goatee. “If I bring you, then what about Glinn? Or Amira? Or Britton? Everyone’s going to want a piece of this.”
“No. It’ll be just us two. I’ve earned it; you’ve earned it. That’s all. You have the power to make it happen.”
Lloyd continued to stare at him. “I think I like the new Sam McFarlane,” he said at last. “I never fully bought that tough-guy cynic act anyway. But I have to tell you, Sam: this interest of yours had better be healthy. Do I have to speak more plainly? I don’t want a repeat of that Tornarssuk business.”
McFarlane felt a stab of anger. “I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You heard it. Let’s not play coy.”
McFarlane waited.
Lloyd dropped his hand with a deprecating smile. “It’s been years since someone stood up to me like that. It’s bracing. God damn you, Sam, all right. We’ll do it together. But you realize Glinn’s going to try to scotch everything.” He walked back toward the bank of windows, checking his watch as he did so. “He’s going to be an old woman about this.”
As if he had timed the moment—and later, McFarlane realized he probably had—Glinn came gliding into the office. Behind followed Puppup, silent and wraithlike, rapidly becoming a fixture in Glinn’s shadow, his alert black eyes filled with some private amusement. Puppup covered his mouth, bowing and genuflecting in the strangest fashion.
“Right on time, as always,” Lloyd boomed, turning toward Glinn and taking his hand. “Listen, Eli
, there’s something I’ve decided. I’d like your blessing, but I know I’m not going to get it. So I want to warn you in advance, there’s no power on heaven or earth that’s going to prevent me from carrying it out. Is that clear?”
“Very clear,” said Glinn, settling comfortably into one of the wing chairs and crossing his legs.
“There’s no use arguing with me about this. The decision’s made.”
“Wonderful. I wish I could go along.”
For an instant, Lloyd appeared to be dumbfounded. Then his look turned into fury. “You son of a bitch, you’ve got the ship wired.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I knew from the very beginning you would insist on making the first visit to the meteorite.”
“But that’s impossible. Even I didn’t know—”
Glinn waved his hand. “Don’t you think that, in analyzing every possible path of failure and success, we had to take your psychological profile into account? We knew what you were going to do even before you knew yourself.” He glanced at McFarlane. “Did Sam here insist on going along, too?”
Lloyd simply nodded.
“I see. The port stern launch will be your best bet. It’s the smallest and most maneuverable. I’ve arranged for Mr. Howell to take you in. I’ve also ordered haversacks with food, water, matches, fuel, flashlights, and so forth—and, of course, a GPS unit and two-way radios. I assume you’ll want Puppup to guide you?”
“Delighted to be of assistance,” sung out Puppup.
Lloyd glanced from Glinn to Puppup and back again. After a moment, he gave a rueful chuckle. “Nobody likes to be predictable. Does anything surprise you?”
“You didn’t hire me to be surprised, Mr. Lloyd. You’re only going to have a few hours of daylight, so you need to push off as soon as the ship arrives in the Franklin Channel. You might want to consider waiting until tomorrow morning.”
Lloyd shook his head. “No. My time is short here.”
Glinn nodded, as if he had expected as much. “Puppup tells me of a small half-moon beach on the lee end of the island. You can run the motor launch right up on the shingle. You’ll need to be in and out of there fairly quickly.”
The Ice Limit Page 15
