Beyond the Ice Limit

62

THANK GOD, THOUGHT Gideon, that the nuke chamber was high-security and damn near impregnable. Glinn’s QBA had proven correct: the ship had descended into chaos. They had just received word that a group of mutineers had tried to take over the bridge, killed Lennart and the officer of the watch, and were now holed up in the crew quarters. They had somehow taken over the ship’s intercom and were broadcasting their message, steadily attracting converts to the cause. A group of people had tried to steal the ship’s helicopter, and even managed to get it aloft, but the AStar had only gone a quarter of a mile before spinning out of control and crashing into the sea. There were also reports that the DSV John had been stolen and launched by persons unknown. The ship was overrun with worms. Garza had just reported the loss of his remaining team and the ship’s chief engineer to a worm attack.

The people attacked by the worms, Gideon knew, were not dead, of course; they were going about their business as if normal, but all the while unconsciously doing the bidding of that thing down at the bottom of the ocean. And doing so while remaining resolutely certain their actions were justified and logical, even while they were carrying out sabotage and murder.

Inside the nuke chamber, Glinn and McFarlane, with the aid of two technicians, had used a ceiling-track winch to lift the nuke onto an electric dolly, specially built to transport it to the hangar deck for loading onto the ROV. All the electronics had checked out. Gideon had given the device a final once-over: the bomb was going to work perfectly. All that remained to do was set the timer.

Now the nuke was in a canvas sling dangling from the ceiling-track lift. Slowly, slowly, the two technicians lowered the device onto the cradle built to receive it, steadying it in gloved hands and rotating it into position.

Done.

The technicians unhooked the winch cables. Glinn went to the door and listened. Gideon could hear periodic muffled noises in the hall outside.

Glinn went into the back of the nuke chamber, unlocked a cabinet. Gideon was startled to see that it contained a small arsenal of firearms. Glinn sorted through them and removed five Colt .45 pistols in holsters, a stack of magazines, and boxes of bullets. He placed them on a worktable. “We may need to defend ourselves,” he said. “Each one of you take a sidearm and load two magazines.”

McFarlane quickly sorted through the weapons, Gideon following. The two technicians hesitated.

“Ever fire a weapon before?” Glinn asked them.

One shook his head and the other said, “I’m not sure now’s the time to start.”

Glinn leaned in. “This is no time for scruples.” He pulled a pistol from the holster, ejected the magazine, demonstrated how to insert rounds into it, slapped it back into place, and showed them how the safety worked and how to rack the initial round into the chamber.

“Both hands on the grip when you fire. Understood?” He handed a gun to each technician. “It’s a war zone out there. We need to do what it takes to get this device up to the hangar deck.”

Gideon discarded the holster and stuck a gun into his belt.

Glinn turned to the nuke sitting in the cradle. “And now we’d better disguise that.” He opened a life-preserver container—ubiquitous throughout the ship—pulled out a few preservers, and heaped them up on the nuke.

“Cover it with the tarp.”

The technicians placed the tarp over and tied it down with straps, creating a vague, canvas-covered lump.

“What’s it supposed to be?” asked Gideon.

“Chocks and dunnage,” said Glinn.

“What’s the hell’s that?”

“No one’s going to ask. Let’s go. Two in front, two behind, guns drawn and visible. Sam, you watch our rear.”

Glinn unlocked the door while one technician climbed into the seat of the motorized dolly. The nuke chamber was deep in the ship; they had to take it half the ship’s length and up three decks in order to reach the hangar.

Glinn swung open the door. The corridor was empty. They reached the elevator without incident, not running into anyone and not seeing any worms.

The elevator doors shut and Glinn pressed the button for the hangar deck.

Even before the doors opened, Gideon could hear shouting. He drew his weapon, and so did the rest.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a group of men waiting for the elevator. They, too, all had weapons—the main armory had apparently been looted—and they looked agitated.

“Hey—look who’s here,” one of them said, stepping forward. “If it isn’t Eli Glinn himself.”

There was a moment of tense silence. There were six of them, to Glinn’s five. Gideon had the distinct impression the men were heading down to the crew deck to join the mutineers.

“You’re coming with us,” the apparent ringleader said, leveling his AR-15 at Glinn.

A shot rang out and the man’s head jerked back. Then he crumpled to the floor, his assault rifle going off harmlessly. McFarlane stepped forward, smoking .45 now aimed at the man standing behind the leader. “You’re next.”

The sound of the shot seemed to shock the group into a momentary freeze. His own gun leveled, Glinn slowly stepped out of the elevator, with Gideon and McFarlane following. Glinn waved to the technicians to bring along the dolly.

The group of mutineers continued to point their weapons, but nobody fired. The ringleader lay on the floor, a pool of blood spreading from the ugly wound in his head. Even as they watched, a worm began to emerge from the wound. The other five backed up, frightened and uncertain.

Glinn spoke in a strangely calm, even warm tone. “Be careful where you put your trust, gentlemen. And now we will be on our way.”

The group, sweating, moved aside and let them pass, McFarlane and Gideon keeping their weapons trained on them until they had turned a corner.

In a few minutes they came out onto the hangar deck. It was thankfully deserted, the hangar doors rolled open. The lights were already on and John was indeed missing. Glinn dismissed the two nuke technicians, telling them to return to mission control and join the teams sweeping for worms.

Standing at the far end, his bald pate shining in the sodium lights, was Patrick Brambell. He had pulled the canvas off the ROV and—inexplicably—was bashing at it with a sledgehammer.

“Stop!” Glinn yelled, raising his weapon.

Brambell looked up. “Dr. Glinn. Just the man I wanted to speak to.” He took another swing at the ROV, the sledgehammer clanging off the titanium sphere.

Gideon could see immediately that the ROV had been given a pretty good working over. The propulsion system was in pieces, the mech arm torn away, the basket bashed off, and everything else accessible utterly destroyed.

“Step away from the ROV or I’ll shoot!” Glinn said in an even tone.

“Do you realize just how absurd this whole scheme is?” Brambell cried. “We’ve been visited by an intelligent species—”

“I said, step away from the ROV.”

Brambell let the sledgehammer drop. “It’s wrong to kill it. The creature’s intelligent, probably more so than we—”

Glinn cut him off. “Who took John?”

“I’m glad you asked. Dr. Sax went down to open talks with the creature.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s her firm belief—and mine—that what is needed here is not violence, but communication—”

“When did she take it?”

“About half an hour ago.”

At that moment a shirtless Manuel Garza appeared in the doorway of the hangar. At his heels was Rosemarie Wong, Prothero’s lab assistant, along with a DSV handler.

Glinn continued to speak to Brambell. “Were you part of this?” he demanded, still pointing his gun at the doctor.

“I was indeed. Let me explain.”

“Enough explanation. Get away from the ROV and lie facedown on the floor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You see, the ROV—”

“He’s infected, of course,” said McFarlane loudly.

“Me, infected? Absurd! Has the whole ship gone mad? At any rate, I know what I’m doing—even if you do not.” Brambell picked up the sledgehammer and raised it again.

Glinn pulled the trigger, the report booming through the hangar space. A surprised look appeared on Brambell’s face and he looked down at his chest. Glinn fired a second time and Brambell crumpled to the deck, as if in slow motion.

Glinn stepped back and turned to Garza. “You’ve come from the engine room?”

Garza was breathing heavily, and sweat covered his bare chest. “It’s no good. We’ll never be able to stop the worms—they’re smart, and they’re breeding too quickly.” He jerked a thumb at Wong and the DSV handler. “These two wanted to help. They’re clean.”

“Indeed.” Glinn turned to the man, but before he could speak Wong uttered a loud scream. A worm was sliding out of Brambell’s nose with a long, sinuous motion. Gray, shining with body fluids, it seemed to keep coming forever.

With a grunt of disgust, McFarlane stepped over and ground it into paste with his boot.

Glinn gave this but a moment’s attention. “Assess the damage to the ROV, please,” he told the handler.

The man did a quick survey. “The hatch is still sealed.” He opened the ROV’s hatch, peered in with a flashlight. “The inside appears okay.”

“How long will it take to repair?” Glinn asked.

The handler spent a moment checking the rear propulsion system, looking over the ROV’s hull. He shuffled around and finally looked up, spreading his hands.

“Well?” Glinn asked.

“I’m afraid it’s a total loss.”

“What about the titanium sphere itself?”

“That’s intact. Not much a sledgehammer could do to harm that. But the ROV itself is useless: no propulsion, no autopilot, no communications, and no internal power. It’s just an inert titanium shell.”

“But a shell still able to withstand pressure at depth?”

“Yes.”

“How about buoyancy? With the nuke loaded?”

“Not neutrally buoyant, but it was designed to be only slightly heavy in order to help with ballasting.”

“So the nuke could be put in the titanium sphere, and it could be towed to the detonation point—and it then could be detonated.”

“Towed down?” McFarlane asked. “With what? I thought that stolen DSV was the last.”

“We’ve got a spare,” said Glinn. “Under wraps. The Pete.”

“Pete?”

“Named after Pete Best,” said Garza.

“So…” McFarlane turned to the handler. “Can it really be towed?”

“Perhaps,” said the handler, sounding a little dubious.

“It has to be detonated six hundred feet above the Rolvaag,” said McFarlane. “It’s not likely to work higher or lower.”

“That’s correct,” said Gideon. “The quick-and-dirty simulation I did showed that six hundred feet is the optimal detonation point for a liquid-liquid explosion. The numbers begin to fall off the closer you detonate it to the hulk.”

“In other words, we’re talking a suicide mission,” said Glinn.

A silence.

Glinn continued, “Someone in Pete has to tow the nuke into position six hundred feet above the Rolvaag and hold it there until it goes off.”

“Why not just lower it by cable?” asked McFarlane.

“If it goes off under the Batavia,” Gideon said, “the shock wave will sink the ship. The ship has to be at least six nautical miles away.”

“Isn’t that a sacrifice worth making? So the ship sinks. We’ve got lifeboats.”

“There are many reasons why that isn’t going to work,” said Glinn, “not the least of which is the chaos on board.”

This was followed by another long silence.

McFarlane said: “I’ll do it. I’ll take it down with the Pete.”

Glinn gazed steadily at McFarlane. “No. You’ve never driven a DSV. This will be a tricky operation, towing a dangling, inert load.”

His eyes swiveled on Gideon. “Gideon,” he said, “you’re the obvious choice. You’re now an expert in DSV handling. You’re dying of an incurable disease. You’ll be dead in nine months regardless. You can trade those nine months for saving the world—not to put too fine a point on it.”

He spoke these frank truths in a steady, dull, matter-of-fact voice, not unlike an accountant reciting numbers to a client.

He continued. “A person who is staring death in the face is a special kind of person. A person who can do exceptional things. This will be one of those things.”

Gideon couldn’t immediately find his voice to reply.

The silence was broken by a sudden, sarcastic laugh from McFarlane. Everyone’s eyes swiveled in his direction.

“Well, well,” he said in a bitter tone. “It would appear that sometimes even the most obsessive behavior can bring positive results.” He thumped Glinn on the back—none too gently. “Palmer Lloyd would be pleased.” He turned to Gideon and extended his hand. “Congratulations, pardner.”