Ice Station, page 40
Gant unslung her MP-5 as she raced through the bulkhead doorway that led back to the fissure and the main cavern. She fired wildly behind her. Then she dived into the horizontal fissure and rolled through it just as Montana appeared in the bulkhead doorway behind her and let off another burst of gunfire.
Another line of bulletholes raked across the ice wall around Gant, only this time, the line of bulletholes cut across the middle of her body.
Two bullets lodged in her breastplate. One opened up a jagged red hole in her side.
Gant stifled a scream as she rolled through the fissure, clutching her side. She clenched her teeth, saw the trickle of blood seep between her fingers. The pain was excruciating.
As she rolled out of the fissure and into the main cavern, Gant saw the elephant seals over by the spaceship, and indeed, no sooner was she out of the fissure than she saw one of the seals lift its head and look over in her direction.
It was the male. The big bull male, with its fearsome lower fangs. He must have returned sometime in the last half hour, Gant thought.
The male barked at her. Then it began to move its massive body toward her, its bulging layers of fat rip-pling with every lumbering stride.
The bullet wound in Gant’s side burned.
She crawled on her backside away from the fissure, keeping one eye on the approaching elephant seal and the other on the fissure itself. A snail-trail of her blood stained the frosty floor behind her, betraying her path.
Montana emerged from the horizontal fissure, gun first.
Gant was nowhere to be seen.
Montana saw the trail of blood on the floor, leading off to the right, around and behind a large boulder of ice.
Montana followed the trail of blood. He quickly came round the ice boulder and let rip with a burst of gunfire. He hit nothing. Gant wasn’t there. Her MP-5 just lay there on the floor behind the ice boulder.
Montana spun.
Where the hell was she?
Gant saw Montana come back round the ice boulder and catch sight of her.
She was now sitting on the floor in front of the horizontal fissure, clutching at her side with both hands. It had taken all of her strength – and both of her hands – to get to her feet and run back to the left-hand side of the fissure without spilling any more blood before Montana had emerged from the hole. She had actually intended to go back in through the fissure, but she had only managed to get this far.
Montana smiled, walked slowly over to her. He stood in front of her, with his back to the main part of the cavern.
‘You’re a complete son of a bitch, you know that,’ Gant said.
Montana shrugged.
‘It’s not even an alien fucking spaceship, and you’re still killing us,’ Gant said, looking out into the cavern behind Montana.
‘It’s not just the ship anymore, Gant. It’s what you know about the ICG. That’s why you can’t be allowed to go back.’
Gant looked Montana right in the eye. ‘Do your fucking worst.’
Montana raised his gun to fire, but at that moment, a blood-curdling roar echoed across the cavern.
Montana spun just in time to see the big bull elephant seal come charging across the cavern toward him, roaring loudly. The floor shook with every booming stride.
Gant took the opportunity and rolled quickly back through the horizontal fissure behind her. She fell in a clumsy heap to the floor of the tunnel behind the fissure.
The big seal loped across the cavern at incredible speed, covering the distance between the ship and the fissure in seconds.
Montana raised his gun, fired.
But the animal was too big, too close.
From inside the tunnel, Gant looked up and saw Montana’s outline on the other side of the translucent ice wall above her.
And then suddenly – whump! – she saw Montana’s body get slammed up against the other side of the translucent ice wall. A grotesque, star-shaped explosion of blood flared out from Montana’s body as the big seal slammed him against the ice wall with thunderous force.
Slowly, painfully, Gant got to her feet and peered out through the horizontal fissure into the main cavern.
She saw the elephant seal extract its fangs from Montana’s belly. The long, blood-slicked teeth came clear of his wetsuit and Montana just dropped to the floor. The elephant seal stood over his prone body in triumph.
And then suddenly Gant heard Montana groan.
He was still alive.
Just barely, but – yes – definitely alive.
Gant then watched as the big seal bent down over Montana and ripped a large chunk of flesh from his ribcage.
Schofield strode into the radio room on A-deck on the tick of ten o’clock. Renshaw and Kirsty came in behind him. Schofield sat down in front of the radio console, keyed the microphone.
‘Attention, McMurdo. Attention, McMurdo. This is the Scarecrow. Do you copy?’
There was no reply.
Schofield repeated his message.
No reply.
And then suddenly: ‘Scarecrow, this is Romeo, I read you. Give me a Sit-Rep.’
Romeo, Schofield thought. ‘Romeo’ was the call-sign of Captain Harley Roach, the commanding officer of Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit Five. Schofield had met Romeo Roach on a couple of occasions before. He was six years older than Schofield, a good soldier, and a legend with the ladies – hence his call-sign, Romeo.
What was more, he was a Marine. Schofield smiled. He had a Marine on the line.
‘Romeo,’ Schofield said, relief sweeping over him. ‘Situation is as follows: we are in control of the target objective. I repeat, we are in control of the target objective. Heavy losses have been sustained, but the target objective is ours.’ The target objective, of course, was Wilkes Ice Station. Schofield sighed. ‘What about you, Romeo, where are you?’
‘Scarecrow, we are currently in hovercrafts, in a holding pattern approximately one mile from the target objective –’
Schofield’s head jerked up.
One mile . . .
But that was right outside the front door . . .
‘– and we are under orders to hold here until further instructed. We have strict instructions not to enter the station.’
Schofield couldn’t believe it.
There were Marines outside Wilkes Ice Station, right outside Wilkes Ice Station. Only one mile out. The first thing Schofield wanted to know was –
‘Romeo, how long have you been out there?’
‘Ah, about thirty-eight minutes now, Scarecrow,’ Romeo’s voice said.
Thirty-eight minutes, Schofield thought with disbelief. A squad of Recon Marines had been sitting on their asses outside Wilkes for the last half hour.
Suddenly, a voice came over Schofield’s helmet intercom – not over the radio room’s speakers. It was Romeo.
‘Scarecrow, I gotta talk to you privately.’
Schofield clicked off the station’s radio and spoke into his helmet mike. Romeo was using the closed-circuit Marine channel.
‘Romeo, what the fuck are you doing?’ Schofield said. He couldn’t believe it. While he had been inside the station doing battle with Trevor Barnaby, a whole unit of Marines had been arriving at Wilkes Ice Station, and waiting outside.
‘Scarecrow, it’s a fucking circus out here. Marines. Green Berets. Hell, there’s a whole goddam platoon of Army Rangers out here patrolling the one mile perimeter. National Command and the Joint Chiefs sent every unit they could find to cover this station. But the thing is, once we got here, they ordered us to wait until a Navy SEAL team arrived. Scarecrow, my orders are very clear: if any one of my men moves toward that station before that SEAL team arrives, they are to be fired upon.’
Schofield was stunned. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.
Suddenly, the situation became clear to him.
He was in exactly the same position that Andrew Trent had been in in Peru. He had got to the station first. He had found something inside it. And now they were sending a SEAL team – the most ruthless, most deadly special forces unit the United States possesses – into the station.
A line from Andrew Trent’s e-mail suddenly popped into Schofield’s head:
USMC Personnel Department has you listed as dead.
Schofield swallowed deeply as the horror of the realisation hit him.
They were sending in the SEALs.
They were sending in the SEALs to kill him.
SEVENTH INCURSION
16 June 2200 hours
‘Romeo, listen to me,’ Schofield said quickly. ‘The ICG planted men in my unit. One of my own men began killing my wounded. That SEAL team they’re sending in is going to come in here and kill me. You have to do something.’
Schofield felt a chill run down his spine when he realised that he was saying to Romeo exactly the same thing that Andrew Trent had said to him from that temple in Peru.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Romeo said.
‘Tell them that there’s nothing in here,’ Schofield said. ‘Tell them there’s no spaceship buried in the ice. Tell them it’s just an old Air Force black project that got left down here for some reason.’
‘Uh, Scarecrow, I have no information on what’s inside that station. I don’t know anything about spaceships buried in the ice or Air Force black projects.’
‘Well, that’s what this is all about, Romeo. Listen to me. I have fought French paratroopers for this station. I have fought Trevor Barnaby and a platoon of SAS commandos for this station. I do not want to be killed by a bunch of my own psycho countrymen after all I’ve been through, you hear me!’
‘Just hold on a second, Scarecrow.’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
After a minute, Romeo said, ‘Scarecrow, I just consulted with the Army Ranger captain out here – guy named Brookes, Arlin Brookes – and he said that he will shoot any of my men who attempt to enter the station before the SEAL team arrives.’
Schofield pulled out his printed copy of Andrew Trent’s e-mail, the list of ICG informers.
His eyes fell on one entry:
BROOKES, ARLIN F. A. RNGRS CPTN
Son of a bitch, Schofield thought. It was the same guy he had run into outside the temple in Peru. Arlin F. Brookes. ICG cocksucker.
Romeo said, ‘Okay, Scarecrow. Listen up. I may not be able to come in, but I’ll tell you something I heard about thirty minutes ago. The Wasp is sailing about 300 nautical miles off the coast, out in the open sea. After we got here, I got a call from Jack Walsh on the Wasp. About thirty minutes ago, a patrol of four Marine Harriers shot down a British VC-10 tanker plane about 250 nautical miles off the coast after the tanker tried to make a run for it.’
Schofield was silent.
He knew what Romeo was getting at.
Tanker airplanes exist for one reason and one reason only: to top up the fuel on attack planes on long-distance missions.
If a British tanker airplane had been shot down 250 miles off the coast, then it was a good bet that some-where out there, there was another British plane, an attack plane – a bomber or a fighter – that had been getting its fuel from the tanker. And it probably had orders to –
Oh, no, Schofield thought, realising. It was Barnaby’s eraser.
Like the French team’s eraser, that British fighter probably had orders to fire upon Wilkes Ice Station if Trevor Barnaby didn’t call in within a certain time.
Romeo said, ‘The Air Force has been called in. They’re sweeping the air over the ocean with AWACS birds and F-22 fighters. They’re looking for a rogue British fighter and they have orders to shoot on sight.’
Schofield fell back into his chair.
He frowned, rubbed his forehead. The world was closing in around him.
He was trapped. Totally and utterly trapped. The SEALs would be coming in soon – whether or not they realised there was nothing to be gained from this station. And even if Schofield managed to evade them after they stormed the station, there remained the possibility that Wilkes would be destroyed by an air-to-ground missile from a rogue British fighter off the coast.
There was one option, though, Schofield thought.
Go outside and surrender to Romeo before the SEALs arrived. At least that way, they would stay alive. And if Schofield had learned nothing from this whole day, it was that if you stayed alive, you still had a chance.
Schofield keyed his helmet mike, ‘Romeo, listen –’
‘Oh, shit, Scarecrow. They’re here.’
‘What?’
‘The SEALs. They’re here. They just let them through the outer perimeter. Four hovercrafts. They’re coming toward the station complex now.’
One mile out from Wilkes Ice Station an armada of hovercrafts formed a long, unbroken line. They were arrayed in a semi-circle on the landward side of the station and they were all pointed inwards – pointing in toward the station.
At that moment, however, four navy-blue hovercrafts broke through the line and glided across the ice plain toward the station. They wended their way through the outer buildings of the station complex, in no apparent hurry.
They were the SEAL hovercrafts.
Inside the lead hovercraft, the SEAL commander keyed his radio. ‘Air Control, this is SEAL team, report,’ he said. ‘I confirm previous instructions. We will not enter the station until we are sure you have the bogey.’
‘SEAL team, this is Air Control. Stand by,’ a voice on the radio said. ‘We are standing by for a report from our birds right now.’
At that very same moment, at a point 242 nautical miles out from Wilkes Ice Station, six F-22 USAF fighters rocketed over the Southern Ocean.
The F-22 is the most advanced air superiority fighter in the world, the heir to the throne of the old F-15 Eagle. But while the F-22 looks a little like the old F-15 Eagle, the F-22 has one thing the F-15 never had – stealth.
In the lead F-22, the squadron leader was listening to his helmet radio. When the voice at the other end finished speaking, the squadron leader said, ‘Thanks, Bigbird, I see him.’
On his computerised display screen, the squadron leader saw a small blip heading west. A readout on the screen read:
TARGET ACQUIRED: 103 NM WNW
AIRCRAFT DESIGNATED: E-2000.
An E-2000, the squadron leader noted. The Euro-fighter 2000. A twin-engined, highly-manoeuvrable pocket fighter, the E-2000 was a joint project of the British, German, Spanish and Italian Air Forces.
On the squadron leader’s screen, the blip appeared to be flying casually, completely unaware of the stealthy American fighters a hundred miles behind it.
‘All right, people, target has been acquired,’ the F-22 pilot said. ‘I repeat, target has been acquired. It’s time to rock and roll.’
Inside Wilkes Ice Station, Shane Schofield didn’t know what the hell to do.
He knew he couldn’t surrender to the SEALs. The SEALs were almost certainly ICG. If they got him, they would kill him.
He considered going down to the cave and hiding down there – and if necessary holding the spaceship for ransom – but then he realised that it was no longer possible to get down to the cave since the diving bell had been destroyed.
Schofield led Kirsty and Renshaw out of the radio room on A-deck and down the rung-ladder to the lower decks.
‘What’s going on?’ Renshaw said.
‘We just got screwed,’ Schofield said. His mind was racing. Their only option now, he figured, was to hide somewhere inside the station and hold out until the SEALs and everyone else were gone . . .
And then what are you gonna do, Schofield asked himself. Walk home?
If you stay alive, you still have a chance.
Schofield slid down the rung-ladder, looked down at the pool on E-deck.
And then he saw something.
He saw Wendy, lying on the deck, happily dozing off to sleep.
Wendy, he thought.
Something about Wendy . . .
The F-22 squadron leader spoke into his helmet mike, ‘Bigbird, this is Blue Leader. Maintaining stealth mode. Estimate target will be in missile range in . . . twenty minutes.’
Suddenly it hit Schofield.
He spun to face Kirsty. ‘Kirsty, how long can Wendy hold her breath for?’
Kirsty shrugged. ‘Most male fur seals can hold their breath for about an hour. But Wendy’s a girl, and a lot smaller, so she can only hold her breath for about forty minutes.’
‘Forty minutes . . .’ Schofield said, doing the calculations in his head.
‘What are you thinking?’ Renshaw asked.
Schofield said, ‘It takes us roughly two hours to get from the station to the cave, right. One hour to go down three thousand feet in the diving bell and then another hour or so to go up through the ice tunnel.’
‘Yeah, so . . .’ Renshaw said.
Schofield turned to face Renshaw. ‘When Gant and the others were approaching the ice cavern, Gant said the strangest thing. She said that they had a visitor. Wendy. Gant said that Wendy was swimming with them as they made their way up the ice tunnel.’
‘Uh-huh.’
Schofield said, ‘So, even if Wendy could swim twice as fast as we can, if she swam all the way down and then all the way back up the ice tunnel, she’d run out of breath before she got to the cavern.’
Renshaw was silent.
Schofield said, ‘I mean, it’d be suicide for her not to turn back after she’d swum for twenty minutes because she’d have to know she could get back to an air source –’
Schofield looked from Renshaw to Kirsty.
‘There’s another way into that ice tunnel,’ he said. ‘A short cut.’
‘SEAL team, this is Blue Leader. We are closing in on the target. Estimate target will be in missile range in fifteen minutes,’ the voice of the squadron leader said over the radio of the SEAL team’s hovercraft.
The SEALs sat rigidly in their places in the cabin of their hovercraft. Not a trace of emotion crossed any of their faces.
Down on E-deck now, Schofield tossed the low-audibility breathing tanks onto the deck. Kirsty was already putting on a thermal-electric wetsuit. It was so hopelessly big for her that she had to roll up the sleeves and ankles to make it fit. Renshaw – already dressed in his neoprene bodysuit – just went straight for the LABA gear.
