The Ice Limit

by Douglas Preston; Lincoln Child

  “You heard her,” McFarlane said. “It’s going to the bottom regardless. The fight’s over.” A feeling of hopelessness swept over him. He felt a warmth at the corners of his eyes and realized it was tears. Such a waste, such a waste …

  Abruptly, Lloyd turned, abandoning McFarlane for Glinn. “Eli? Eli! You’ve never failed me before, there’s always been something in that bag of tricks. Help me here, I beg you. Don’t let them drop the rock.”

  His voice had taken on a pathetic, beseeching tone. The man was unraveling before their eyes.

  Glinn said nothing as the ship began to roll again. McFarlane followed Britton’s eyes to the inclinometer. All talk ceased as the wind shrieked through the broken bridge windows. Then the terrible sound began again. The Rolvaag hesitated, thirty degrees on its side, everyone clinging desperately, the vessel wallowing broadside to. McFarlane gripped a bulkhead rail. The terror he felt was now helping to clear his mind, sweeping away his regret. All he wanted to do was get rid of it.

  “Recover,” he heard Britton murmur. “Recover.”

  The ship remained heeled stubbornly to port. The bridge hung so far out over the side of the ship that McFarlane could see nothing but black water below the windows. He was swept with a feeling of vertigo. And then, with an immense shudder, it gradually began to right.

  As soon as the deck leveled, Lloyd let go of the computer, his face torn with a mixture of horror, rage, and frustration. McFarlane could see the same terror working in him, clearing his mind as well, illuminating the sole rational course left them.

  “All right,” Lloyd finally said. “Let it go.” He buried his face in his hands.

  Britton spoke to Glinn. “You heard him. Get rid of it, now.” Relief sounded clearly through the tension in her voice.

  Slowly, almost mechanically, Glinn sat down at the EES console. He placed his fingers on the keyboard. Then he glanced at McFarlane. “Tell me, Sam. If the meteorite reacts to salinity, what will happen when it hits the open ocean underneath the ship?”

  McFarlane started. In all the mayhem, he had not stopped to consider this. He thought quickly.

  “Seawater is a conductor,” he replied. “The meteorite’s discharge will be attenuated through it.”

  “Are you sure it won’t blow up the ship?”

  McFarlane hesitated. “No.”

  Glinn nodded. “I see.”

  They waited. There was no sound of typing. Glinn sat hunched over the keyboard, motionless.

  Silence fell again as the ship subsided into another trough.

  Glinn half turned his head, fingers still poised over the keys. “This is an unnecessary step,” he said quietly. “And it is also too dangerous.”

  His long white hands fell away from the keys, and he stood up slowly to face them. “The ship will survive. Rochefort’s work has never failed. There is no need to use the dead man’s switch. In this instance, I am in agreement with Mr. Lloyd.”

  There was a moment of shocked silence.

  “When the meteorite comes into contact with seawater, the explosion could sink the ship,” Glinn went on.

  “I told you, the charge will be dispersed through the seawater,” said McFarlane.

  Glinn pursed his lips. “So you think. We can’t risk damaging the jettison doors. If they can’t be closed, the tank will flood.”

  Britton spoke: “What’s certain is that if the meteorite isn’t jettisoned, the Rolvaag will go down. Eli, don’t you understand? We aren’t going to last a dozen more rolls.”

  The ship began to rise on the next wave.

  “Sally, you’re the last person I’d expect to panic.” Glinn’s voice was calm, confident. “We can ride this out.”

  Britton took an audible breath. “Eli, I know my ship. It’s over, for God’s sake. Can’t you see that?”

  “Not at all,” said Glinn. “The worst has passed. Trust me.”

  The word trust hung in the air as the ship rolled farther and farther. The bridge seemed to have been shocked into paralysis, every eye on Glinn. And still the ship rolled.

  Garza’s voice came on the speaker, faint now, fading in and out. “Eli! The web is failing! Did you hear me? Failing!”

  Glinn wheeled toward the microphone. “Stay with it, man. I’ll be down there in a moment.”

  “Eli, the foundation of the cradle is being rocked to pieces. There’s metal everywhere. I’ve got to get the men out of here.”

  “Mr. Garza!” Britton spoke into the ship’s intercom. “This is the captain speaking. Are you familiar with the dead man’s switch?”

  “I built it.”

  “Then trigger it.”

  Glinn stood, impassive. McFarlane watched him, trying to understand this sudden change. Was Glinn right? Could the ship—the meteorite—survive? Then he glanced at the faces of the officers. The abject terror in their eyes told him a different story. The ship poised at the crest of the wave, twisted, groaned, sank back again.

  “The dead man’s switch must be initiated from the EES computer on the bridge,” said Garza. “Eli has the codes … ”

  “Can you do it manually?” Britton asked.

  “No. Eli! For God’s sake, hurry. We don’t have much time before this thing rolls right through the side of the ship.”

  “Mr. Garza,” Britton said. “Order your men to their abandon stations.”

  Glinn spoke: “Garza, I contravene that order. We won’t fail. Stay at your work.”

  “No way, sir. We’re evacuating.” The radio went dead.

  Glinn looked pale. He glanced around the bridge. The ship subsided into a trough, and silence fell.

  Britton stepped toward Glinn and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “Eli,” she said. “I know you have it in you to admit failure. I know you’ve got courage enough to do that. Right now you’re the only one with the power to save us and this ship. Execute the dead man’s switch, please.”

  McFarlane watched as she stretched out her other hand and clasped Glinn’s. He seemed to waver.

  Suddenly, silently, Puppup returned to the bridge. He was streaming wet, dressed once again in his old rags. There was a strange excitement in his face, an expectancy, that chilled McFarlane.

  Glinn smiled and squeezed Britton’s hand. “What nonsense. Sally, I really expected more of you. Don’t you see we can’t fail? We’ve planned far too carefully for that. There’s no need to invoke the dead man’s switch. In fact, under the circumstances, it would be dangerous to do so.” He looked around. “I don’t blame any of you. This is a complex situation, and fear is an understandable reaction. But you have to consider what I’ve just brought you through, virtually single-handedly. I can promise you, the web will hold, and the ship will weather the storm. We’re certainly not going to end it here—not because of a regrettable failure of nerve.”

  McFarlane wavered, feeling a surge of hope. Maybe Glinn was right. The man was so persuasive, so confident. He had succeeded under the most unlikely circumstances. He saw that Lloyd, too, looked eager, wanting to be convinced.

  The ship rose. It heeled. All talk ceased as everyone clung for their lives to whatever handholds they could find. The screeching chorus of warping, tearing metal began anew, rising in volume until it drowned out even the rage of the storm. At that moment, McFarlane realized, utterly and completely, just how wrong Glinn was. At the crest, the ship shook as if it were in an earthquake; the emergency lights flickered.

  After an agonizing moment, the ship righted itself and fell over the crest of the wave. The wind howled once about the bridge and was cut off.

  “You’re wrong this time, Glinn, you son of a bitch,” said Lloyd, terror back in full force. “Throw the switch.”

  Glinn smiled, almost to the point of sneering. “Sorry, Mr. Lloyd. I’m the only one who has the codes, and once again I will save your meteorite for you, despite yourself.”

  Suddenly Lloyd rushed at Glinn, a strangled cry rising in his throat. Glinn sidestepped him lightly, and with the briefe
st flick of the heel of one hand sent Lloyd crashing to the deck, gasping heavily.

  McFarlane took a step toward Glinn. The man turned on him lightly, poised. His eyes remained as impenetrable, as opaque, as ever. McFarlane realized that Glinn wasn’t going to change his mind. He was a man who couldn’t fail, and he would die proving it.

  Britton glanced toward the chief mate. One look at her face told McFarlane she had reached the same decision.

  “Mr. Howell,” she said. “All hands to abandon stations. We will abandon ship.”

  Glinn’s eyes narrowed slightly in surprise, but he remained silent.

  Howell turned to Glinn. “You’re giving us a death sentence, forcing us out in that storm in lifeboats, you crazy bastard.”

  “I may be the only sane one left on the bridge.”

  Lloyd pulled himself painfully from the deck as the ship struggled once again to rise. He did not look at Glinn.

  Glinn turned and, without another word, left the slanting bridge.

  “Mr. Howell,” Britton said. “Initiate a 406 MHz beacon, and get all hands to the boats. If I’m not back in five minutes, you will assume the duties of master.”

  Then she, too, turned and vanished.

  Rolvaag,

  7:35 P.M.

  ELI GLINN stood on the iron catwalk above number three center tank. He heard a clanging noise as Puppup dogged the hatch of the access corridor shut. He felt a small twinge of gratitude for the Indian. He had been loyal to the last, when everyone else—even Sally—had failed him.

  The hysteria he had witnessed on the bridge was very disturbing. He had succeeded at every turn, and they should have trusted him. A claxon horn was blowing in some faraway, echoing space: an eerie, unpleasant noise. In the coming hours, many would die in the rough seas. It was all so unnecessary. The great Rolvaag would survive; of that he was sure. It would survive, with its cargo, and those who remained with it. And at dawn, with the storm just a memory, they would be met by the towships from South Georgia. The Rolvaag would return to New York with the meteorite. It was a pity that so many others would not.

  He thought of Britton again. A magnificent woman. He felt a great sadness when he reflected on her unwillingness to trust him at the end. He would never find another like her; that he knew. He would save her ship for her, but any question of a personal relationship was now dead.

  He leaned against the longitudinal bulkhead, distantly surprised at how long it was taking to regain his breath. He clung as the ship heeled; an alarming angle, admittedly, but still beneath the critical limit of thirty-five degrees. He could hear the slippage of chains, the protests of metal, below his feet. At last, the ship began to right itself with a groan. A tragedy, that after all he had done—the quite extraordinary successes he had engineered—they were not willing to trust him this one last time. All but Puppup. He glanced toward the old man.

  “Heading down there, guv?”

  Glinn nodded. “I’ll need your help.”

  “ ’At’s what I’m here for.”

  They stepped to the edge of the catwalk. There below sat the rock, the top of its surrounding web swathed in plastic tarps. The emergency lights bathed it in a dim light. The tank was still holding nicely, staying dry. It was a superb ship. The triple hulling made all the difference. Even covered with tarps the rock looked magnificent, the epicenter of their terrors and hopes. It was resting in its cradle, just as he knew it would be.

  Then his eyes flickered down to the struts and braces. There was, it had to be admitted, a great deal of damage: bent spars, compression fractures, sheared metal. The transverse web brackets along the bottom of the tank were littered with broken rivets, snapped chains, and splintered wood. He could hear a residual creaking and groaning. But the web was still essentially intact.

  The elevator was broken, however. He began climbing down.

  The ship rose, heeling again.

  Glinn steadied himself, then continued descending. It took longer than he thought it would, and by the time he had reached the bottom he felt more horizontal than vertical—splayed upon, rather than clinging to, the ladder. Hooking an elbow to it, he braced himself, waiting it out. Now he could see, under the tarps, the red flank of the rock. The sounds in the hold were growing, like some infernal symphony of metal, but they signified nothing. Toward the top of the roll he slipped out his pocket watch and held it at arm’s length, dangling it from its chain, estimating the roll. Twenty-five degrees: well below critical value.

  He heard a sudden muttering, groaning noise, and the massive crimson curve of the meteorite seemed to stir. The ship heeled farther, the meteorite moved with it, until Glinn was not sure whether the ship was shifting the meteorite or vice versa. The meteorite now seemed poised at the edge of its cradle, ready to tip out. There was a crackling, splintering sound. Twenty-seven degrees. Twenty-eight.

  The ship shuddered, paused, then began to right itself. Glinn eased out a breath. Twenty-eight degrees. Well within tolerances. The meteorite shifted back into its cradle with a monstrous shudder. Abruptly, the screech of metal stopped. The screaming of the wind and water outside the hull abated as the ship sank down.

  His eyes scanned the tank. What was necessary here was to tighten the chains closest to the meteorite. They had been designed so that one person could do it, using a motor-assisted “come-along” anchored to each tightening point. He was surprised Garza hadn’t done this already.

  Quickly, he scrambled to the main tightening point and switched on the key motor-assist. It lit up—in perfect working order, of course.

  The ship continued to subside into the oncoming trough, giving him some peace and stability in which to work.

  Glinn pulled the forward lever on the motor-assist, and was pleased to see the big rubber-coated chains that had come loose in the rocking of the meteorite tighten again. Why hadn’t Garza done this? The reason was clear: he had panicked. Glinn felt a momentary disappointment at his trusted construction manager. This wasn’t like Garza; not like him at all. So many had failed him; but at least he had failed no one.

  The chains were tightening nicely, and he turned to Puppup. “Take this toolbox,” he said, indicating a box left in Garza’s retreat.

  The ship rose; the roll began; the chains began to strain. And then, with a sharp ratcheting noise, the chains loosened. Glinn peered closely in the dim light. He saw that, in fact, Garza had already tried it. The gears on the motor-assist had been stripped, and the four-inch steel ratchet head had sheared off. The assist was useless.

  The ship began to rise. And then he heard a voice from above. He ducked out from the web and glanced up.

  Sally Britton was stepping through the hatchway onto the catwalk. She carried herself with the same natural dignity that had struck him so forcefully the first time he had seen her, coming down those sun-drenched steps, ages and ages ago. His heart gave an unexpected lurch. She had changed her mind: she would stay with the ship.

  Britton had to pause during the long, screeching roll. They stared at each other while the meteorite rocked in its cradle and the ship screamed its pain. When it was over she called out again. “Eli! The ship’s about to break up!”

  Glinn felt sharp disappointment: there had been no change in her thinking after all. But all this was a distraction. He focused his attention on the cradle again. Now he saw it: the way to lock down the rock was to tighten the topchain bolt at the summit of the meteorite. It would mean cutting through the tarp. It was a simple matter, requiring no more than six inches of hand tightening. He began climbing up the nearest chain.

  “Eli, please! There’s an extra lifeboat in reserve for us. Leave this thing and come with me!”

  Glinn pulled himself up, Puppup following with the toolbox. He needed to focus his mind on the objective, not suffer distractions.

  Reaching the crown of the meteorite, he found to his surprise a small flap already cut in the tarp. Beneath, the topchain bolt was loose, as he expected. As the ship rose out of the t
rough and began to heel yet again, he fitted the wrench around the nut, anchored the bolt with a second wrench, and began to tighten.

  Nothing moved. He had not comprehended—could not comprehend—what tremendous, what unimaginable pressure the bolt was under.

  “Hold this wrench,” he said. Puppup obliged, grabbing it with his sinewy arms.

  The ship canted farther.

  “Come back to the bridge with me, Eli,” Britton said. “There may still be time to trigger the switch. Both of us might yet live.”

  Glinn glanced up for an instant from his struggle with the bolt. There was no pleading in her voice—that was not Sally Britton’s way. He heard patience, reason, and utter conviction. It made him sad. “Sally,” he said, “the only people who are going to die are the foolish ones in the lifeboats. If you stay here, you’ll survive.”

  “I know my ship, Eli,” was all she said.

  Kneeling, hunched over the topchain bolt, he struggled with the nut. Someone else had tried this before him: there were fresh marks on the metal. As the ship heeled, he felt the meteorite shift, and he anchored himself more firmly, both feet braced against the links. He strained to the limits of extremity, but it did not move. Gasping, he refitted the wrench.

  Still the ship heeled.

  Britton spoke out of the darkness above, her voice rising above the sound. “Eli, I would like to have that dinner with you. I don’t know much about poetry, but what I know I could share with you. I would like to share it with you.”

  The meteorite shuddered, and Glinn found himself gripping with both hands as the meteorite tipped with the ship. There were ropes up here, fastened to the frame plates of the tank, and he quickly lashed one around his waist to keep his position. He returned to the wrench. A quarter turn, that was all he needed. The yawing of the ship slowed and he once again grasped the handle of the wrench.

  “And I could love you. Eli … ”

  Glinn stopped suddenly and stared up at Britton. She tried to speak again, but her voice was drowned out by the rising shriek of tortured metal, echoing madly in the vast space. All he could see was her small figure on the catwalk above. Her golden hair had become unpinned and lay wildly across her shoulders, glowing even in the dim light.