"The Ice Limit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Preston Douglas)

"What's that?"
"Let's just pretend you're not my assistant"
"What, you firing me already?"
McFarlane sighed, suppressing his first, impulsive reaction. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together. So let's work together as equals, okay? Glinn doesn't need to know. And I think we'd both be happier."
Amira examined the lengthening ash, then tossed the cigar over the rail into the sea. When she spoke, her voice sounded a little more friendly. "That thing you did with the sandwich cracked me up. Rochefort's a control freak. It really pissed him off, getting covered with jelly. I liked that."
"I made my point."
Amira giggled and McFarlane glanced in her direction, at the eyes glinting in the half-light, at the dark hair disappearing into the velvet behind her. There was a complex person in there, hiding behind the tomboy, one-of-the-guys facade. He looked back out to sea. "Well, I'm sure I'm not going to be Rochefort's good buddy."
"Nobody is. He's only half human."
"Like Glinn. I don't think Glinn would even take a leak without first analyzing all possible trajectories."
There was a pause. He could tell his joke had displeased her.
"Let me tell you a little about Glinn," Amira said. "He's only had two jobs in his life. Effective Engineering Solutions. And the military."
There was something in her voice that made McFarlane glance back at her.
"Before starting EES, Glinn was an intelligence specialist in the Special Forces. Prisoner interrogation, photo recon, underwater demolition, that kind of stuff. Head of his A-Team. Came up through Airborne, then the Rangers. Earned his bones in the Phoenix program during Vietnam. "
"Interesting."
"Damn right." Amira spoke almost fiercely. "They excelled in hot-war situations. From what Garza tells me, the team's kill-loss ratio was excellent."
"Garza?"
"He was engineer specialist on Glinn's team. Second in command. Back then, instead of building things, he blew stuff up."
"Garza told you all this?"
Amira hesitated. "Eli told me some of it himself."
"So what happened?"
"His team got their asses kicked trying to secure a bridge on the Cambodian border. Bad intel on enemy placements. Eli lost his whole team, everyone except Garza." Amira dug into her pocket, pulled out a peanut, shelled it. "And now Glinn runs EES. And does all the intel himself. So you see, Sam, I think you've misread him."
"You seem to know a lot about him."
Amira's eyes suddenly grew veiled. She shrugged, then smiled. The ardent look faded as quickly as it had appeared. "It's a beautiful sight," she said, nodding out across the water toward the Cape May light. It wavered in the velvety night: their last contact with North America.
"That it is," McFarlane replied.
"Care to bet how many miles away it is?"
McFarlane frowned. "Excuse me?"
"A small wager. On the distance to that lighthouse."
"I'm not a betting man. Besides, you probably have some arcane mathematical formula at your fingertips."
"You'd be right about that." Amira shelled some more peanuts, tossed the nuts into her mouth, then flung the shells into the sea. "So?"
"So what?"
"Here we are, bound for the ends of the earth, out to snag the biggest rock anybody's ever seen. So, Mr. Meteorite Hunter, what do you really think?"
I think — " McFarlane began. Then he stopped. He realized he wasn't allowing himself to hope that this second chance — which after all had come out of nowhere — might actually work out.
"I think," he said aloud, "that we'd better get down to dinner. If we're late, that captain of ours will probably keelhaul us. And that's no joke on a tanker."



Rolvaag,
June 26, 12:55 A.M.


THEY STEPPED out of the elevator. Here, five decks closer to the engines, McFarlane could feel a deep, regular vibration: still faint, yet always present in his ears and his bones.
"This way," Amira said, motioning him down the blue-and-white corridor.
McFarlane followed, glancing around as they went. In dry dock, he'd spent his days and even most nights in the container labs on deck, and today marked his first time inside the superstructure. In his experience, ships were cramped, claustrophobic spaces. But everything about the Rolvaag seemed built to a different scale: the passages were wide, the cabins and public areas spacious and carpeted. Glancing into doorways, he noticed a large-screen theater with seats for at least fifty people, and a wood-paneled library. Then they rounded a corner, Amira pushed open a door, and they stepped into the officer's mess.
McFarlane stopped. He had been expecting the indifferent dining area of a working ship. But once again the Rolvaag surprised him. The mess was a vast room, extending across the entire aft forecastle deck. Huge windows looked out onto the ship's wake, boiling back into the darkness. A dozen round tables, each set for eight and covered with crisp linen and fresh flowers, were arranged around the center of the room. Dining stewards in starched uniforms stood at their stations. McFarlane felt underdressed.
Already, people were beginning to gravitate toward the tables. McFarlane had been warned that seating arrangements on board ship were regimented, at least at first, and that he was expected to sit at the captain's table. Glancing around, he spotted Glinn standing at the table closest to the windows. He made his way across the dark carpeting.
Glinn had his nose in a small volume, which he quickly slipped into his pocket as they approached. Just before it vanished, McFarlane caught the title: Selected Poetry of W.H. Auden. Glinn had never struck him as a reader of poetry. Perhaps he had misjudged the man after all.
"Luxurious," McFarlane said as he looked around. "Especially for an oil tanker."
"Actually, this is fairly standard," Glinn replied. "On such a large vessel, space is no longer at a premium. These ships are so expensive to operate, they spend practically no time in port. That means the crews are stuck on board for many, many months. It pays to keep them happy."
More people were taking their places beside the tables, and the noise level in the room had increased. McFarlane looked around at the cluster of technicians, ship's officers, and EES specialists. Things had happened so quickly that he only recognized perhaps a dozen of the seventy-odd people now in the room.
Then quiet fell across the mess. As McFarlane glanced toward the door, Britton, the captain of the Rolvaag, stepped in. He had known she was a woman, but he wasn't expecting either her youth — she couldn't be more than thirty-five — or her stately bearing. She carried herself with a natural dignity. She was dressed in an impeccable uniform: naval blazer, gold buttons, crisp officer's skirt. Small gold