The Ice Limit

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  “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.”

  There was a whisper of static. Then the voice returned. “Good luck, Rolvaag. God bless.”

  “Thank you, South Georgia.”

  Britton replaced the transmitter, leaned on the console, and stared out into the night.

  Rolvaag,

  6:40 P.M.

  AS THE Rolvaag drifted out of the lee of the ice island, the wind caught it and shoved it brutally back into the storm. The wind gathered force, and in moments they were soaked again with freezing spray. Sally Britton could feel that the ship, with no headway left, was completely at the mercy of the storm. It was a repulsive, helpless feeling.

  The storm began to strengthen with a clockwork regularity. Britton watched it build, minute by minute, until it reached an intensity she barely believed possible. The moon had fallen behind thick clouds, and nothing could be seen beyond the bridge. The storm was there, inside the bridge, all around them: in the lashings of spray, in the bits of razor-sharp ice whipping through, in the smell of death at sea crowding in. But it was the sound that unnerved her most: a continuous dull roar that seemed to come from all directions at once. The temperature on the bridge was nineteen degrees Fahrenheit and she could feel ice building in her hair.

  She continued to receive regular reports of their status, but found herself issuing few orders. Without power or steerage there was little she could do but wait. The feeling of helplessness was nigh unbearable. Based on the motion of the ship, she estimated significant wave heights at well over one hundred feet, and they were moving as powerfully as a freight train. These were the waves that circled the globe, pushed by the winds, never hitting shore, building, ever building. These were the waves of the Screaming Sixties, the biggest seas on earth. Only the sheer size of the Rolvaag was saving it now. As the ship rose on each wave, the winds climbed to a gibbering wail. At the peak of the wave the whole superstructure would vibrate and hum, as if the winds were attempting to decapitate the ship. Then there would be a shudder, and the ship would heel, slowly, achingly. The wave-by-wave battle was recorded by the inclinometer: ten, twenty, twenty-five degrees. As the angle became critical, all eyes stared at this normally insignificant instrument. Then the crest of the wave would pass and Britton would wait for the ship to recover: the most terrible moment of all. But each time the ship did recover, first imperceptibly, then more quickly, gradually righting into an equally unnerving overcorrection, as its great inertia caused it to lean momentarily against the wave. It would slide into the next trough, shielded by the surrounding mountains of water, into an eerie stillness almost more frightening than the storm above. The process would repeat again, and again, in an endless, cruel cadence. Throughout all this, there was nothing she—or any of them—could do.

  Britton turned on the forward superstructure spotlights to check the Rolvaag’s maindeck. Most of the containers and several davits had been torn from their moorings and swept overboard, but the mechanical door and the tank hatches were solid. The vessel was still taking in water from the shell hole near the king posts, but the bilge pumps were compensating. The Rolvaag was a well-built, seaworthy vessel; it would be weathering the storm nicely—were it not for the monstrous weight in her belly.

  By seven, the storm had reached Force 15, with gusts up to one hundred knots. When the ship topped a wave, the force of the wind coming through the bridge threatened to suck them out into the darkness. No storm could keep up this kind of violence for long. Soon, Britton hoped, it would begin to break. It had to.

  She kept checking the surface scopes, irrationally, looking for a contact that might indicate a rescue. But they were streaked with grass, giving mostly sea return. At the crest of each wave, they cleared long enough to show a growler field—small bergs—about eight miles ahead. Between the ship and the growler field lay a single ice island, smaller than those they had passed but several miles long nevertheless. As the ship was pushed deeper into the ice, the waves would mitigate; but, of course, then there would be more ice to deal with.

  The GPS, at least, was steady and clear. They were about one hundred and fifty miles northwest of the South Shetland Islands, an uninhabited row of fanglike mountains sticking up from the Antarctic seas, surrounded by reefs and ripping currents. Beyond lay the Bransfield Strait, and, beyond that, pack ice and the brutal coast of Antarctica. As they drew closer to the coast, the seas would drop but the currents would get worse. One hundred and fifty miles … if South Georgia could launch a rescue at 6 A.M … . It all depended on that thing down in the hold.

  She thought of asking Glinn for a progress report. But then she realized she did not want a report. Glinn had been as silent as she, and she wondered just what was going through his mind. She, at least, could read the movement of
the ship. For the others it must be simple, sheer terror.

  The ship rolled; a frightening roll. But as the roll approached the apex, she felt an odd hitch, a catch, to it. At the same time, Glinn raised his radio to his ear, listening intently. He saw her look.

  “It’s Garza,” he said. “I can’t hear him over the storm.”

  She turned to Howell. “Patch him through. Maximum gain.”

  Suddenly Garza’s voice boomed through the bridge. “Eli!” he was calling. The amplification gave the panic in his voice a ragged, desperate edge. In the background, Britton could hear the groan and screech of tortured metal.

  “Here.”

  “We’re losing the primary crosspieces!”

  “Stick with it.”

  Britton wondered at Glinn’s calm, steady voice.

  The ship began to heel again.

  “Eli, the whole thing’s unraveling faster than we can keep up with—” The ship heeled farther, and another scream of metal drowned out Garza’s voice.

  “Manuel,” said Glinn. “Rochefort knew what he was doing when he designed that web. It’s much stronger than you think. Take it one step at a time.”

  Still the ship slanted.

  “Eli, the rock—It’s moving! I can’t—” The radio went dead.

  The ship paused, shuddered throughout its frame, then slowly began to right itself. Britton felt that little hitch again, like a pause, almost as if the ship had caught on something for a moment.

  Glinn kept his eyes to the speaker. After a moment, it crackled once again. Garza’s voice came back on. “Eli? Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think the thing shifted slightly, but it came back into place.”

  Glinn almost smiled. “Manuel, do you see how you’re overreacting? Don’t panic. Focus on the critical points and let the others go. Triage the situation. There’s a tremendous amount of redundancy built into that web. Double overage. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The ship began another roll; a slow, screeching, agonizing motion. Again she felt the pause, and then she felt something new, different in the motion … Something ugly.

  Britton looked at Glinn, then at Lloyd. She could see that they hadn’t noticed. When the meteorite had moved, she could feel how it affected the entire ship. The massive Rolvaag had almost pivoted on the crest of that last wave. She wondered if it was her imagination. She waited while the ship sank down into the unnatural peace of the trough, then began to rise again. She turned on the maindeck lights and sealights: she wanted to see the conformation of the ship on the water. It was rising, shuddering as if to shake off its burden, the heavy black water surging off its sides and out the scuppers. As they came up the thing in the hold began to groan again; slowly, the ship reared up the long face of the wave, shivering as it rose into the wind. The bow broke through the topmost comb of water, and the groaning became a shriek of protesting metal and timber, echoing through the bones of the ship. There it was: the Rolvaag made that same ugly motion at the top, a yaw that almost became a pivot, then a lying back down in the water. There was a hesitation before it recovered—and that was the worst of all.

  Once, on a terrible storm off the Grand Banks, she had seen a ship break its back. The hull had come apart with a horrific noise; black water had boiled in, instantly flooding the ship’s deepest compartments. Nobody had a chance to get off: all were sucked down into the deep. It was a sight that still disturbed her sleep to this day.

  She glanced at Howell. He had noticed the slow recovery, too: he was staring at her, frame rigid, round eyes white in a deathly pale face. She had never seen him so frightened. “Captain … ” he began, his voice breaking.

  She gestured him silent. She knew what he was going to say. It was her duty to say it.

  She glanced at Glinn. His face remained strangely confident and serene. She had to look away. For all his knowledge, the man did not know the feel of a ship.

  The Rolvaag was on the verge of breaking up.

  They began to subside into another trough, the wind abruptly dropping to zero. She took the opportunity to look around the bridge: Lloyd, McFarlane, Amira, Glinn, Howell, Banks, the other officers of the watch. All silent. All watching her. All waiting for her to do something, to keep them alive.

  “Mr. Lloyd,” she said.

  “Yes?” He stepped over, eager to help.

  This was going to be hard.

  A hideous shudder rattled the consoles and windows as the ship took a major cross-swell. When the sound eased as the ship slipped back down, Britton could breathe again.

  “Mr. Lloyd,” she said again. “The meteorite must go.”

  Rolvaag,

  7:00 P.M.

  ON THESE words, McFarlane felt a queer feeling in his gut. A galvanic charge seemed to spread through his body. Never. It was impossible. He tried to shake off the seasickness and fear of the last harrowing minutes.

  “Absolutely not,” he heard Lloyd say. The words were quiet, barely audible above the roar of the sea. Nevertheless, they carried a tremendous force of conviction. A hush fell on the bridge as the ship went deeper into the preternatural calm of the trough.

  “I am the captain of this ship,” Britton said quietly. “The lives of my crew depend on it. Mr. Glinn, I order you to trigger the dead man’s switch. I order it.”

  After the briefest of hesitations, Glinn turned toward the EES console.

  “No!” screamed Lloyd, seizing Glinn’s arm in a powerful grip. “You touch that computer and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”

  With a short, sharp motion, Glinn twisted out of the grip, throwing Lloyd off balance. The big man stumbled, then drew himself up, panting. The ship slanted again and a metallic groan ran through the length of the hull. All movement stopped as everyone clung to the nearest handhold.

  “You hear that, Mr. Lloyd?” Britton cried over the sound of protesting metal. “That son of a bitch down there is killing my ship!”

  “Glinn, stay away from that keyboard.”

  “The captain has given an order,” Howell shouted, his voice high.

  “No! Only Glinn has the key, and he won’t do it! He can’t, not without my permission! Eli, do you hear me? I order you not to initiate the dead man’s switch.” Lloyd moved suddenly to the EES computer, blocking it with his body.

  Howell turned. “Security! Seize this man and remove him from the bridge.”

  But Britton held up a hand. “Mr. Lloyd, step away from the computer. Mr. Glinn, execute my command.” The vessel had begun to heel still farther, and a terrifying crackle shot through the ship’s steel, rising in pitch to a muffled howl of tearing metal, abruptly cut off as they began to right.

  Lloyd gripped the computer, his eyes wild. “Sam!” he cried, his wild eyes seizing on McFarlane.

  McFarlane had been watching, dumbstruck, almost paralyzed with conflicting emotions: terror for his life, desire for the rock and its boundless mysteries. He would rather go down with it than give it up now. Almost.

  “Sam!” Lloyd was almost pleading now. “You’re the scientist here. Tell them about all the research you did, the island of stability, the new element … ” He was becoming incoherent. “Tell them why it’s so important. Tell them why they can’t dump the rock!”

  McFarlane felt his throat constrict—and realized, for the first time, how utterly irresponsible it had been to take the rock to sea. If it sank now, it would drive itself deep into the abyssal mud of the ocean bottom, two miles down, never to be seen again. The loss to science would be catastrophic. It was unthinkable.

  He found his voice. “Lloyd’s right. It might be the most important scientific discovery ever made. You can’t let it go.”

  Britton turned to him. “We no longer have a choice. The meteorite is going to the bottom—no matter what we do. So that leaves us with only one question. Are we going to let it take us with it?”

  Rolvaag,

  7:10 P.M.

  MCFARLANE LOOKED
at the faces around him: Lloyd, tense and expectant; Glinn, veiled and unreadable; Rachel, clearly as conflicted as he was; Britton, an expression of utter conviction on her face. It was a haggard group, ice crystallizing in their hair, faces raw and bleeding with the cuts of the flying ice.

  “We can abandon ship instead,” Lloyd said, his voice panicky. “Hell, let the ship drift without us. It’s drifting anyway. Maybe it’ll survive on its own. We don’t have to jettison the rock.”

  “It’s close to suicide to launch lifeboats in this sea,” Britton replied. “It’s below zero out there, for God’s sake.”

  “We can’t just drop it,” Lloyd continued, desperate now. “It would be a crime against science. This is all an overreaction. We’ve already been through so much. Glinn, for God’s sake, tell her she’s overreacting.”

  But Glinn said nothing.

  “I know my ship,” was all Britton said.

  Lloyd veered wildly between threats and pleas. Now he turned back to McFarlane. “There must be something. Some way, Sam! Tell them again about the value to science, about the irreplaceable … ”

  McFarlane looked at Lloyd’s face. It was ghastly in the orange emergency lights. He struggled against his own nausea, fear, and cold. They couldn’t let it go. He seemed suspended: he thought of Nestor, and what it meant to die, and he thought of sinking in the cold dark bottomless water—and suddenly he was very, very afraid of death. The fear surged over him, temporarily usurping the intellectual functioning of his brain.

  “Sam! Jesus Christ, tell them!”

  McFarlane tried to speak, but the wind had risen and his words were lost in the howl.

  “What?” Lloyd cried. “Everyone, listen to Sam! Sam—”

  “Let it go,” McFarlane said.

  An incredulous look filled Lloyd’s face, and he was temporarily speechless.