When the Eriksson came back to its starting point, a crewman grappled the buoy end floating in the water and hauled it on deck. Austin directed the seamen to attach a wire towline to keep the rope low in the water. The line might slip off the slippery surface of the berg otherwise. The captain inspected the setup.

“Good job,” Dawe said. “Now comes the fun part.”

He led Austin and Zavala back up to the bridge. About half a mile of open water separated the ship and the berg; Dawe considered this the minimum distance for safe towing.

“I’ll let you take over from here,” Austin said.

He knew that this was no place for an amateur. Towed bergs have been known to turn over, and there was always the danger of the towline being tangled in the propellers.

Under the captain’s direction, the ship increased power. The towline went taut. The water behind the boat boiled in a white, foamy patch. The berg reluctantly overcame the inertia holding it in place. The huge ice mountain became unstuck from the sea, and they began to make slow headway. It might take hours to reach a speed of a single knot.

With the iceberg under tow, Austin excused himself and came back from his cabin a few minutes later. He presented a cardboard box to the captain. Dawe opened the box and his mouth widened in a grin. He lifted a broad-brimmed Stetson from the box and placed the cowboy hat on his head.

“A little large, but I can stuff newspaper inside to make it fit. Thanks, guys.”

“Consider it a small token of appreciation for having us on board,” Austin said.

Zavala was staring at the iceberg, which dwarfed the ship. “What are we going to do with that thing?”

“We’ll tow it to a current that will take it away from the oil rig. It could take a few days.”

“Captain—” The radarman called Dawe over to the radar monitor. “I’ve been tracking a target. Looks like it’s heading toward the Great Northern.”

The radar man had drawn three Xs with a grease pencil on a transparent plastic overlay and connected them to show the object’s course and time. The captain took a straightedge and lined it up with the markings.

“This isn’t good,” he murmured. “We’ve got a ship on a straight-line course for the oil rig. Moving fast, too.”

He radioed the Great Northern platform. The oil rig’s radar operator had spotted the oncoming ship and had tried to contact it. No one answered. He was about to call the Leif Eriksson when Dawe hailed him.

“We’re getting a little worried,” the radarman said. “She’s headed right down our throat.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Dawe said. “I figure she’s about ten miles out.”

“Too damn close.”