Ice Station (34 page)

Tritonal 80/20? he thought. Why on earth would the
British bring that to Wilkes?

Tritonal 80/20 was a highly concentrated explosive poxy— a
highly combustible liquid filler that was used in air-launched drop
bombs. Tritonal wasn't nuclear, but when it blew, it blew big and
it blew hot. One kilogram of the stuff— the amount contained in
each of the canisters Schofield was now looking at—could level a
small building.

Schofield released Kirsty gently, put his glasses back on, and moved
toward the compartment near the dashboard. He pulled one of the
silver-and-green canisters from it.

He came back to Kirsty. “Are you all right, now?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“Good,” Schofield said, sliding the Tritonal charge into one
of his long thigh pockets. “Because I really have to get back
to—”

Schofield never saw it coming.

The impact threw him off his feet.

His whole hovercraft lurched suddenly to the left.

He looked out through the gaping hole in the right-hand side of his
speeding hovercraft and saw one of the two remaining British
hovercrafts racing across the ice plain right alongside him!

It rammed them again.

Hard.

So hard, in fact, that Schofield felt his hovercraft slide sideways,
to the left.

“What the—” he said aloud.

He looked left and in a sudden terrifying instant he realised what
they were doing.

“Oh, no,” he said. “Oh, no....”

They were trying to ram him off the cliff.

Schofield began to wrestle with the steering vane of his hovercraft,
but it was no use.

There was nowhere he could go.

With no room to move—no room to get a run-up—he just found
himself shunting the speeding British hovercraft ineffectually.

The British hovercraft rammed them again, and Schofield snapped to
look forward. He saw the cliff edge racing by less than ten yards off
to his left. He caught a glimpse of tiny white-crested waves beyond
it. They were a long way down.

Then he looked out to his right, out through the hole in the side of
his speeding hovercraft, and saw the black British hovercraft whipping
across the ice plain beside him. He saw it widen the gap between the
two hovercrafts and then suddenly rush back in at them.

The two hovercrafts collided again and Schofield felt his hovercraft
jolt farther toward the edge.

Five yards to go.

The two hovercrafts raced along the edge of the cliff top, three
hundred feet above the churning white waves of the Southern Ocean.

Schofield was still watching the British hovercraft alongside him.

As it widened the gap between the two hovercrafts once more—like
a boxer pulling his arm back in preparation for the next
blow—suddenly Schofield saw another hovercraft materialize in
the distance beyond the black British hovercraft.

He blinked.

It was the orange French hovercraft.

The orange hovercraft? Schofield thought.

But the only person in that hovercraft was ...

Renshaw.

Schofield saw the gaudy orange hovercraft pull alongside the speeding
British hovercraft. Now there were three hovercrafts
travelling side by side along the edge of the ice cliff!

Suddenly the British hovercraft rammed them again and ihe skirt of
Schofield's hovercraft jutted out over the edge of the cliff.
Large chunks of snow were thrown off the edge. They became tiny specks
of white as they disappeared into the churning foam of the sea three
hundred feet below.

“Come on.” Schofield suddenly grabbed Kirsty's hand.

“What are we—”

“We're leaving,” he said.

Schofield pulled Kirsty over to the gaping hole in the right-hand side
of his hovercraft.

He saw the British hovercraft pull away from them again, preparing
itself for the killing blow.

Schofield swallowed. He would have to time this just right....

He drew his Desert Eagle pistol.

The British hovercraft rushed in toward them.

The two hovercrafts collided, and in that instant Schofield leaped
across onto the skirt of the British hovercraft, pulling Kirsty with
him.

They landed on the skirt of the speeding British hovercraft just as
their own went careering off the edge of the cliff. The empty
hovercraft rolled through the air for an instant before it plummeted
three hundred feet straight down. It hit the water with a stunning
impact and smashed into a thousand pieces.

Schofield and Kirsty never stopped moving.

They skipped across the roof of the British hovercraft, and as they
did so Schofield pointed his pistol straight down and fired three
quick shots into the roof beneath him, and then suddenly they were on
the other side of the hovercraft and Schofield could see
Renshaw's hovercraft in front of them.

The orange hovercraft swung in closer just as Schofield and Kirsty
leaped off the skirt of the British hovercraft. They landed safely on
the skirt of Renshaw's craft, and it instantly peeled away from
the black British hovercraft.

Schofield looked back at the British hovercraft—saw a star of
blood on the forward windshield. Someone inside the hovercraft was
still moving, clambering forward in an attempt to grab the steering
vane.

Schofield figured that he must have hit the driver and now whoever was
still in there was desperately trying to regain control of the—

Too late.

The British hovercraft looked like a stunt car leaping off a ramp as
it shot off the edge of the cliff. It sailed through the air for a
moment—soaring high—before gravity took its course and the
hovercraft began to arc downward. Schofield caught a fleeting glimpse
of the man inside it as the hovercraft dropped below the edge of the
cliff top and disappeared forever.

Schofield turned to see the sliding side door of the orange hovercraft
open in front of him and he saw Renshaw's smiling face appear.

“Can I drive this thing or what?” Renshaw said.

Now there was only one British hovercraft
remaining. Outnumbered now by two-to-one it kept its distance.

Schofield grabbed Renshaw's Marine helmet and put it on. He keyed
the helmet mike. "Rebound, you still out there?

“Yeah.”

“Is everyone OK?”

“More or less.”

“What about the hovercraft?” Schofield asked.

“She's a bit beat up, but she's OK. We've got
full power again,” Rebound's voice said.

“Good,” Schofield said. “Good. Listen, if we take care
of this last guy, do you think you can get a head start and make it to
McMurdo?”

“We'll get there.”

“All right, then,” Schofield said as he looked down at
Kirsty. “Stand by. You're about to get another
passenger.”

Schofield got Renshaw to pull his hovercraft alongside Rebound's
transport. He wanted to put Kirsty on the transport and then send it on its way to McMurdo
while he and Renshaw took care of the last British hovercraft.

The two speeding hovercrafts came together.

Both side doors slid open.

Book appeared in the side door of Rebound's transport raft.
Schofield stood with Kirsty in the door of the orange French
hovercraft opposite him.

The last British hovercraft hovered ominously behind them, two hundred
yards astern.

“OK, let's go,” Book's voice said in
Schofield's earpiece.

Schofield said to Kirsty, “You ready?”

“Uh-huh,” she said.

They stepped out onto the skirt together.

In the cabin of the transport craft, Rebound was keeping a wary eye on
the British hovercraft.

It just seemed to sit there, watching them.

“What are you doing, you son of a bitch?” Rebound said
aloud.

Book yelled, “OK, send her over!”

Schofield and Kirsty edged forward, toward the edge of their
hovercraft's skirt The wind buffeted them relentlessly.

On the other skirt in front of them, Book reached for Kirsty's
outstretched hands. Schofield held her from behind. The transfer was
almost complete—

And then suddenly Rebound's voice burst across their helmet
intercoms: “Oh, fuck! It just launched!”

Schofield and Book both snapped around at the same time.

They saw the smoke trail first.

It spiraled through the air. A thin white vapor trail.

And in front of it... a missile.

Its source—the last British hovercraft.

It was another Milan antitank missile, and it stayed low, close to the
ground. It rocketed through the air, covering the distance between
them fast, and then suddenly, with shocking intensity, it slammed into
the back of Schofield's orange hovercraft and detonated.

The hovercraft jolted ferociously with the impact, and Schofield lost
his grip on Kirsty and fell back into his hovercraft's cabin. As
he fell backward he looked up, and the last thing he saw before he hit
the floor of the cabin was a fleeting glimpse of Book—lunging
forward, off balance— desperately trying to get hold of
Kirsty's hands as she fell down in between the two speeding
hovercrafts.

Book and Kirsty fell.

The black rubber skirt of one of the hovercrafts filled Book's
field of vision as he tumbled down between the two hovercrafts.

He held Kirsty by the hand, and as they fell he pulled her close to
his body and rolled in the air so that when they hit the ground he
would take the brunt of the fall.

And then suddenly, concussively, they hit the speeding ground.

“Book is down! Book is down!” Rebound's voice
yelled loudly in Schofield's earpiece. “The little girl
fell with him!”

Schofield's hovercraft shot across the ice plain, totally out of
control.

The missile's impact to the rear of the hovercraft had destroyed
its rear fan and half its tail rudder, causing the hovercraft to
fishtail wildly and shoot left—and head straight for the
cliff edge.

Renshaw grappled desperately with the steering yoke, but with its tail
rudder half-destroyed, the hovercraft would only turn left.
Renshaw heaved on the steering yoke, and gradually the hovercraft
began to turn in a slow, wide arc so that it was now careering across
the cliff tops back toward Wilkes Ice Station!

“Rebound!” Schofield yelled into his helmet mike, ignoring
Renshaw's efforts to keep control of the hovercraft.

“What?”

“Get out of here!”

“What!”

Schofield said fiercely, “We've been hit bad over here!
We're fucked; our game's over. Go! Get to McMurdo! Get help!
You're the only chance we've got!”

“But what about—”

“Go!”

“Yes, sir.”

At that moment, Renshaw said, “Ah, Lieutenant...”

Schofield wasn't listening. He was watching Rebound's
hovercraft as it sped away in the other direction, into the driving
snow.

Then he looked out through the side window of his destroyed hovercraft
and saw in the distance a small dark lump on the ice plain.

Book and Kirsty.

“Lieutenant...”

Schofield saw the last British hovercraft approach Book and Kirsty,
saw it slow to a halt beside Book's doubled-over body. Black-clad
men got out of the hovercraft

Schofield just stared. “Damn.”

Beside him, Renshaw was wrestling with the steering yoke.
"Lieutenant! Hold on!'

At that moment, as Renshaw pulled on it, the steering yoke snapped and
broke and suddenly the hovercraft spun laterally to the left and
performed a slingshot, and in an instant Schofield and Renshaw were
traveling backward again.

“What the hell are you doing!” Schofield yelled.

"I was trying to avoid that!' Renshaw
yelled as he pointed out through the destroyed rear end of the
hovercraft—the end that was now their leading edge.

Schofield followed Renshaw's finger and his eyes widened.

They were hurtling—in reverse—toward the edge of the
cliff.

“Why can't this fucking day just end,”
Schofield said.

“I think it's about to,” Renshaw said flatly.

Schofield shoved Renshaw out of the driver's seat and slid into
it. He began to pump the brake pedal.

No response.

The hovercraft continued to rush toward the edge.

“I tried that!” Renshaw said. “No
brakes!”

The hovercraft raced toward the cliff edge, traveling backward,
totally out of control.

Schofield grabbed the broken steering vane. No steering either.

They would have to jump—

But the thought came too late.

The cliff edge rushed toward them, too fast.

And then all of a sudden they ran out of ground and Schofield felt his
stomach lurch sickeningly as the hovercraft shot out from the cliff
top and flew out at incredible speed into the clear, open sky.

The hovercraft fell through the air, rear end
first.

Inside the cabin, Schofield snapped around in his chair to look out
through the shattered forward windshield of the hovercraft. He saw the
cliff edge high above him getting smaller and smaller as it got
farther and farther away.

In the seat beside him, Renshaw was hyperventilating. “We're
gonna die. We are really gonna die.”

The hovercraft went vertical—its tail pointing down, its nose
pointing up—and suddenly Schofield saw nothing but sky.

They were falling fast.

Through the side window of the hovercraft, Schofield saw the vertical
cliff face streaking past them at phenomenal speed.

Schofield grabbed his Maghook and put his nose in Renshaw's face,
silencing him. “Grab my waist and don't let go.”

Renshaw stopped his whimpering and stared at Schofield for a second.
Then he quickly wrapped his arms around his waist. Schofield raised
his Maghook above his head and fired it up through the destroyed
forward windshield of the falling hovercraft.

The Maghook shot through the air in a high arc—its steel
grappling hook snapping open in midflight, its rope splaying out in a
crazy, wobbling line behind it.

The hook came down hard on the edge of the cliff top and then slid
quickly backward toward the edge, its claws digging into the snow.

The hovercraft continued to fall through the air, rear end first. The
grappling hook found a purchase on the cliff top and suddenly it
snapped to a halt and held, and its rope went instantly taut—

—and Schofield and Renshaw, at the other end of the rope,
suddenly shot up out of the falling hovercraft.

The hovercraft fell away beneath them—fell and fell—
before it smashed loudly against the white-tipped waves one hundred
and fifty feet below them.

Schofield and Renshaw swung back in toward the cliff face. The
hovercraft had launched itself a good distance from the cliff, so they
had a long way to swing back, and when they hit the cliff face they
hit it hard.

The impact with the cliff jarred Renshaw's grip on Schofield's
waist and he fell for an instant, grabbing Schofield's right foot
at the very last moment.

The two men hung there for a full minute, halfway down the sheer
vertical cliff-face, neither one of them daring to move.

“You still there?” Schofield asked.

“Yeah,” Renshaw said, petrified.

“All right, I'm going to try and reel us up now,”
Schofield said, shifting his grip on his launcher slightly so that he
could press down on the black button that reeled in the rope without
collapsing the grappling hook.

Schofield looked up at the cliff edge high above them. It must have
been at least a hundred and fifty feet away. He figured they must be
hanging at the full length of his Mag-hook's rope—

It was then that Schofield saw him.

A man. Standing up on the cliff top, peering out over the edge,
looking down at them.

Schofield froze.

The man was wearing a black balaclava.

And he was holding a machine gun in his hand.

“Well?” Renshaw said from down near Schofield's feet.
“What are you waiting for?” From his position, Renshaw
wasn't able to see the SAS commando up on the cliff top.
“We're not going up any more,” Schofield said flatly,
his eyes locked on the black-clad figure at the top of the cliff.

“We're not?” Renshaw said. “What are you talking
about?”

The SAS commando was looking directly down at Schofield now.

Schofield swallowed. Then he glanced down at the smashing waves a
hundred and fifty feet below him. When he looked up again, the SAS
commando was pulling a long, glistening knife from its sheath. The
commando then bent down over the Maghook's rope at the top of the
cliff.

“Oh, no,” Schofield said.

“Oh, no, what?” Renshaw said.

“Are you ready to go for a ride?”

“No,” Renshaw said.

Schofield said, “Breathe all the way down, and then at the last
second, take a deep breath.” That was what they told you when you
jumped out of a moving helicopter into water. Schofield figured the
same principle applied here.

Schofield looked up again at the SAS commando at the top of the cliff.
He was about to cut the rope.

“All right,” Schofield said. “Let's cut the crap.
I'll be damned if I'm gonna wait for you to cut my
rope. Renshaw, are you ready? We're going.”

And at that moment, Schofield pressed down twice on the trigger of the
Maghook.

At the top of the cliff the claws of the grappling hook responded
immediately and collapsed inward, and in doing so they lost their
purchase on the snow. The hook slithered out over the edge of the
cliff, past the bewildered SAS commando, and Schofield, Renshaw, and
the Maghook fell— together—down the cliff face and into
the crashing waves of the Southern Ocean below.

In the silence of the ice cavern, Libby Gant
just stared at the semi-eaten bodies that lay draped over the rocks in
front of her.

Since they had arrived in the cavern about forty minutes ago, the
others—Montana, Santa Cruz, and Sarah Hensleigh— had
barely even looked at the bodies. They were all totally engrossed in
the big black spacecraft on the other side of the underground cavern.
They walked around it, under it, peered at its black metal wings,
tried to look in through the smoked-glass canopy of its cockpit.

After Schofield had informed Gant of the impending arrival of the
British troops and his own plan to flee, she had set up two MP-5s on
tripods, facing the pool at the end of the cavern. If the SAS tried to
enter the cavern, she would pick them off one by one as they broke the
surface.

That had been half an hour ago.

Even if the SAS had arrived at Wilkes Ice Station by now, it would
still take them another hour to lower someone down in the diving bell
and a further hour to swim up the underwater ice tunnel to the cavern.

It was a waiting game now.

After Gant had set up the tripods, Montana and Sarah Hensleigh had
gone back to examining the spacecraft. Santa Cruz had stayed with Gant
a while longer, but soon he, too, went back over to look at the
fantastic black ship.

Gant stayed with the guns.

As she sat there on the cold, icy floor of the cavern, she gazed at
the dismembered bodies on the far side of the pool.

The amount of damage that had been done to the bodies had stunned her.
Heads and limbs missing, whole sections of flesh literally
chewed to the bone, the whole scene itself soaked in blood.

What on earth could have done it? Gant thought.

As she thought about the bodies, her gaze wandered over to the pool.
She saw the round holes in the ice walls above it—the enormous
ten-foot holes. They were identical to the ones she had seen in the
underwater ice tunnel on the way here.

Gant had a strange feeling about those holes, about the bodies, about
the cave itself. It was almost as if the cave were some kind of—

“This is absolutely incredible,” Sarah Hensleigh
said as she came over and stood beside Gant. Hensleigh hurriedly
brushed a strand of long dark hair from her face. She was practically
brimming with excitement at the discovery of the spaceship.

“It has no markings on it whatsoever,” she said. “The
whole ship is completely and utterly black.”

Gant didn't care much for Sarah Hensleigh right now. In fact, she
didn't care much for the spaceship either.

In fact, the more she thought about it—about the spaceship and
the cavern and the half-eaten bodies and the SAS up in the
station—Gant couldn't help but think that there was no way
in the world that she would ever be leaving Wilkes Ice Station alive.

The SAS team's entry into Wilkes Ice Station was fast and
fluid—professional.

Black-clad men charged into the station with their guns up. They
fanned out quickly, moved in pairs. They opened every door, checked
every room.

“A-deck, clear!” one voice yelled.

“B-deck, clear!” another voice yelled.

Trevor Barnaby strode out onto the A-deck catwalk and surveyed the
abandoned station like a newly crowned king looking out over his
domain. He looked down upon the station with a cold, even gaze. A thin
smile creased his face.

The SAS troops made their way down to E-deck, where they found Snake
and the two French scientists handcuffed to tihe pole. Two SAS
commandos covered them while more black-clad troops poured down the
rung-ladders and disappeared inside the tunnels of E-deck.

Four SAS commandos raced into the south tunnel. Two took the doors to
the left. Two took the doors to the right

The two on the right came to the first door, kicked it in, looked
inside.

A storeroom. Battered wooden shelves. Some scuba-diving tanks on the
floor.

But empty.

They moved down the corridor, guns up. It was then that one of them
saw the dumbwaiter, saw the two stainless-steel doors glistening in
the cold white light of the tunnel.

With a short whistle, the lead SAS man caught the attention of the
other two commandos in the tunnel. He pointed with two fingers at the
dumbwaiter. The other two men understood instantly. They positioned
themselves on either side of the dumbwaiter while the leader and the
fourth SAS commando aimed their guns at the stainless-steel doors.

The leader nodded quickly and the two men on either side of the
dumbwaiter instantly yanked it open, and the leader let rip with a
sudden burst of gunfire.

The bare walls of the empty dumbwaiter were ripped to shreds.

Mother squeezed her eyes shut as the SAS commando's gunfire roared
loudly less than a foot above her head.

She was sitting in complete darkness, at the base of the
dumbwaiter's miniature elevator shaft, curled up in a tight ball,
in the crawl space underneath the dumbwaiter.

The dumbwaiter shuddered and shook under the weight of the SAS
commando's gunfire. Its walls blew out, and jagged, splintered
holes appeared all over it. Dust and wood shavings showered down on
Mother, but she just kept her eyes firmly shut.

And then at that moment, as the gunfire echoed loudly in her ears, a
jarring thought hit Mother.

They could fire their guns safely inside the station
again....

The amount of flammable gas in the station's atmosphere must have
dissipated—

And then abruptly the gunfire ceased and the doors of the dumbwaiter
closed and all of a sudden there was silence again, and for the first
time in three whole minutes Mother let out a breath.

Schofield and Renshaw plummeted down the face of
the cliff and plunged into the ocean.

The cold hit them like an anvil, but Schofield didn't care. His
adrenaline was pumping and his body heat was already high. Most
experts would give you about eight minutes to live in the freezing
Antarctic waters. But with his thermal wet suit on and his adrenaline
pumping, Schofield gave himself at least thirty.

He swam upward, searching for air, and then suddenly he broke the
surface and the first thing he saw was the largest wave he had ever
seen in his life bearing down upon him. The wave crashed down against
him and drove him— slammed him—back against the
base of the ice cliff.

The impact knocked the wind out of him, and his lungs clawed for air.

Suddenly the wave subsided and Schofield felt himself get sucked down
into a trough between two waves. He let himself float in the water for
a few seconds while he got his breath and his bearings.

The sea around him was absolutely mountainous. Forty-foot waves
surrounded him. A mammoth wave smashed into the cliffs twenty yards to
his right. Icebergs—some as tall and as wide as New York
skyscrapers, others as long and flat as football fields—hovered
a hundred yards off the coast, silent sentries guarding the ice
cliffs.

Abruptly Renshaw burst up out of the water right next to Schofield.
The short scientist immediately began gulping in air in hoarse,
heaving breaths. For an instant, Schofield worried about how Renshaw
would cope with the extreme cold of the water, but then he remembered
Renshaw's Neoprene bodysuit. Hell, Renshaw was probably warmer
than he was.

At that moment Schofield saw another towering wave coming toward them.

“Go under!” he yelled.

Schofield took a deep breath and dived, and suddenly the world went
eerily silent.

He swam downward, saw Renshaw swimming alongside him, hovering in the
water.

And then he saw an explosion of white foam fan out above their heads
as the wave on the surface crashed with all its might against the
cliff.

Schofield and Renshaw surfaced again.

As he bobbed and swayed in the water, Schofield saw the entire side
door of a hovercraft float past him in the water.

“We have to get farther out,” he said. “If we stay here
any longer, we're gonna get pulverized against these cliffs.”

“Where to?” Renshaw said.

“OK,” Schofield said. “See that iceberg out
there?” He pointed at a large berg that looked like a grand piano
on its side, about two hundred yards out from the cliffs.

“I see it.”

“That's where we're going,” Schofield said.

“All right.”

“OK, then. On three. One. Two. Three.”

On three, both men drew deep breaths and went under. They kicked off
the cliff and breaststroked their way through the clear Antarctic
water. Explosions of white foam flared out above their heads as they
made their way through the water.

Ten yards. Twenty.

Renshaw ran out of breath, surfaced, took a quick gulp of air, and
then went under again. Schofield did the same, clenching his teeth as
he, too, ducked beneath the waves again. His newly broken rib burned
with pain.

Fifty yards out and the two men broke the surface again. They were
beyond the breaking waves now, so they stretched out into freestyle,
powering over the vertiginous peaks of the towering forty-foot waves.