"They're looking for Wendy?" she asked, glancing at the little black fur seal on the catwalk beside her. Wendy backed nervously away from the edge of the catwalk, trying, it seemed, to avoid being seen by the two whales circling in the pool forty feet below.
"They don't like her very much," Kirsty said.
"Why not?"
"They're juveniles," Kirsty said. "Male juveniles. They don't like anybody. It's like they have something to prove? prove that they're bigger and stronger than the other animals. Typical boys. The killer whales around these parts mostly eat baby crabeaters, but these two saw Wendy swimming in the pool a few days ago and they've been coming by ever since."
"What's a crabeater?" Hollywood Todd asked from over by the winch controls.
"It's another kind of seal," Kirsty said. "A big, fat seal. Killers eat them in about three bites."
"They eat seals?' Hollywood said, genuinely surprised.
"Uh-huh," Kirsty said.
"Whoa." Having barely graduated high school, Hollywood couldn't exactly claim to possess a love for books or academia. School had been a hard time. He'd joined the Marines two weeks after graduating and thought it was the best decision he'd ever made.
He looked down at Kirsty, assessing her size and age. "How come you know all this stuff?"
Kirsty shrugged self-consciously. "I read a lot."
"Oh."
Beside Hollywood, Gant began to laugh softly.
"What're you laughing at?" Hollywood asked.
"You," Libby Gant said, smiling. "I was just thinking about how much you read."
Hollywood cocked his head. "I read."
"Sure you do."
"I do."
"Comic books don't count, Hollywood."
"I don't just read comic books."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot about your prized subscription to Playboy magazine."
Kirsty began to chuckle.
Hollywood noticed and frowned. "Ha-ha. Yeah, well, least I know I ain't gonna be no college professor, so I don't try to be somethin' I'm not." He raised his eyebrows at Gant. "What about you, Dorothy, you ever try to be somethin' you're not?"
Libby Gant lowered her glasses slightly, revealing sky blue eyes. She gave Hollywood a sad look. "Sticks and stones, Hollywood. Sticks and stones."
Gant replaced her glasses and turned back to look at the whales down in the pool.
Kirsty was confused. When she'd been introduced to Gant earlier, she'd been told that her real name was Libby and that her nickname was Fox. After a few moments, Kirsty asked innocently, "Why did he call you Dorothy?"
Gant didn't answer. She just kept looking down at the pool and shook her head.
Kirsty spun to face Hollywood. He gave her a cryptic smile and a shrug. "Everybody knows Dorothy liked the scarecrow better than the others."
He smiled as if that explained everything and went back about his work. Kirsty didn't get it.
Gant just leaned on the rail, watching the killer whales, determinedly ignoring Hollywood. The two killers were still scanning the station, looking for Wendy. For an instant one of them seemed to see Gant and stopped. It cocked its head to one side and just looked at her.
"It can see me from all the way down there?" Gant said, glancing at Kirsty. "I thought whales were supposed to have poor eyesight out of the water."
"For their size, killer whales have bigger eyes than most other whales," Kirsty said, "so their eyesight out of the water is better." She looked at Gant. "You know about them?"
"I read a lot," Gant said, casting a sideways glance at Hollywood, before turning back to face the killers.
The two killer whales continued to prowl slowly around the pool. Gliding through the still water, they seemed patient, calm. Content to bide their time until their prey appeared. Down on the pool deck Gant saw Schofield and the two Marine divers watching the killer whales as they ominously circled the pool.
"How do they get in here?" Gant said to Kirsty. "What do they do?swim in under the ice shelf?"
Kirsty nodded. "That's right. This station is only about a hundred yards away from the ocean, and the ice shelf out that way isn't very deep, maybe five hundred feet. The killers just swim in under the ice shelf and surface here inside the station."
Gant looked down at the two killer whales on the far side of the pool. They seemed so calm, so cold, like a pair of hungry crocodiles searching for their next meal.
Then, their survey complete, the two killer whales slowly began to submerge. In a moment they were gone, replaced by two sets of ripples. Their eyes had remained open the whole way down.
"Well, that was sudden," Gant said.
Her eyes moved from the now-empty pool to the diving platform beside it. She saw Montana emerge from the south tunnel with some scuba tanks slung over his shoulders. Sarah Hensleigh had told them that there was a small goods elevator in the south tunnel?a "dumbwaiter"?that they could use to bring their diving gear down to E-deck. Montana had been using it just now.
Gant's gaze moved to the other side of the platform, where she saw Schofield standing with his head bowed, holding a hand to his ear, as though he were listening to something on his helmet intercom. And then suddenly he was heading toward the nearest rung-ladder, speaking into his helmet mike as he walked.
Gant watched as Schofield stopped at the base of the rung-ladder on the far side of the station and turned to look directly at her. His voice crackled over her helmet intercom. "Fox. Hollywood. A-deck. Now."
As she hastened toward the rung-ladder nearest her, Gant spoke into her helmet mike. "What is it, sir?"
Schofield's voice was serious. "Something just set off the trip wire outside. Snake's up there. He says it's a French hovercraft."
Snake Kaplan drew a bead on the hovercraft.
The lettering on the side of the vehicle glowed bright gfeen in his night-vision gunsights. It read: DUMONT D'URVILLE? 02.
Kaplan was lying in the snow on the outskirts of the station complex, bracing himself against the driving wind and snow, following the newly arrived hovercraft through the sights of his Barrett M82A1A sniper rifle.
Gunnery Sergeant Scott "Snake" Kaplan was forty-five years old, a tall man with dark, serious eyes. Like most of the other Marines in Schofield's unit, Kaplan had customized his uniform. A weathered tattoo of a fearsome-looking cobra with its jaws bared wide had been painted onto his right shoulder plate. Underneath the picture of the snake were the words: KISS THIS.
A career soldier, Kaplan had been with the Marine Corps for twenty-seven years, during which time he had risen to the magic rank of Gunnery Sergeant, the highest rank an enlisted Marine can reach while still getting his hands dirty. Indeed, although further promotion was possible, Snake had decided to stay at Gunnery Sergeant rank, so that he could remain a senior member of a Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit.
Members of Recon Units don't care much for discussions about rank. Membership in a Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit alone gives one privileges to which even some officers cannot lay claim. It is not unknown, for instance, for a four-star General to consult a senior Recon member on matters of combat technique and weaponry. Indeed, Snake himself had been approached on several such occasions. And besides, since most of those who were selected for the Recons were Sergeants and Corporals anyway, rank wasn't really an issue. They were with the Recons, the elite of the United States Marine Corps. That was rank in itself.
Upon the unit's arrival at Wilkes Ice Station, Snake had been put in charge of setting up the laser trip wire on the landward side of the station, about two hundred meters out. The trip wire was not really that much different from the range finder units on the hovercrafts. It was merely a series of boxlike units through which a tiny invisible laser beam was directed. When something crossed the beam, it triggered a flashing red light on Kaplan's forearm guard.
Moments ago, something had crossed the beam.
From his post on A-deck, Kaplan had immediately radioed Schofield, who, sensibly, had ordered a
visual check. After all, it might have just been Buck Riley and his team, returning from their check of that disappearing signal. Schofield had set follow-up time at two hours, and it had been nearly that long since Schofield's team had arrived at the station. Buck Riley and his crew were due here any minute now.
Only this wasn't Buck Riley.
"Where is it, Snake?" Schofield's voice said over Snake's helmet intercom.
"Southeast corner. Coming through the outer circle of buildings now." Snake watched as the hovercraft slowly made its way through the station complex, carefully negotiating its way between the small snow-covered structures.
"Where are you?" Snake asked as he stood, picked up his rifle, and started jogging back through the snow toward the main dome.
"I'm at the main entrance," Schofield's voice said. "Just inside the front door. I need you to take up a covering position from the rear."
"Already on it."
With the driving snow, visibility was limited, so the hovercraft proceeded slowly through the complex. Kaplan hurried along parallel to it, a hundred yards away. The vehicle came to a halt outside the main dome of the ice station. It was slowly beginning to lower itself from its cushion of air when Shake dropped into the snow forty meters away and began to set up his sniper rifle.
He had just put his eye to his telescopic sight when the side door of the hovercraft slid open and four figures stepped out of it into the snowstorm.
"Good evening," Schofield said with a crooked smile.
The four French scientists just stood there in the doorway to the ice station, dumbstruck. They stood in two pairs, with each pair carrying a large white container between them.
In front of them stood Schofield, with his MP-5 held casually by his side. Behind Schofield stood Hollywood and Montana, with their MP-5s raised to shoulder height and their eyes looking straight down the barrels of their guns. Guns that were pointed right at their new visitors.
Schofield said, "Why don't you come inside."
"The others are safely back at d'Urville," the leader of this new group said as he sat down at the table in the dining room alongside his French colleagues. Like the others, he had just passed a thorough pat-down search.
He had a lean face, hollow, with sunken eyes and high cheekbones. He had said his name was Jean Petard, and Schofield recognized the name from his list. He also remembered the short bio that had appeared under the name. It had said that Petard was a geologist, studying natural gas deposits in the continental shelf. The names of the other three Frenchmen were also on the list.
The four original French scientists were also there in the dining room?Champion, Latissier, Cuvier, and Rae. The remaining residents of Wilkes were now back in their quarters. Schofield had ordered that they remain there until he and his squad had checked out the occupants of this newly arrived hovercraft. Montana and Lance Corporal Augustine "Samurai" Lau, the sixth and last member of Schofield's team, stood guard by the door.
"We hurried back as fast as we could," Jean Petard added. "We brought fresh food and some battery-powered blankets for the return trip."
Schofield looked over at Libby Gant. She was over by the far wall of the dining room, examining the two white containers the Frenchmen had brought with them.
"Thank you," Schofield said, turning back to face Petard. 'Thank you for all you have done. We arrived here only several hours after you did and the people here have told us how good you have been to them. We thank you for your efforts."
"But of course," Petard said, his English fluent. "One must look after one's neighbors." He offered a wry smile. "You never know when you yourself might be in need of assistance."
"No, you don't."
At that moment Snake's voice crackled over Schofield's earpiece: "Lieutenant, we have another contact crossing the trip wire."
Schofield frowned. Now things were starting to happen a little too fast. Four French scientists he could handle. Another four and the French were starting to show a little too much interest in Wilkes Ice Station. But now, if there were more of them?
"Wait, Lieutenant; it's all right. It's one of ours. It's Riley's hovercraft."
Schofield let out a sigh of relief that he hoped nobody saw and headed out of the room.
Over by the wall of the dining room, Libby Gant was sifting through the two large containers that the French scientists had brought with them. She pushed aside a couple of blankets and some fresh bread. There was also some canned meat down at the bottom of the container. Corned beef, ham, that sort of thing. All were packed in sealed cans, the kind that has a key attached to the side that you use to peel back the lid.
Gant pushed a couple of the cans aside and was looking for more beneath them when suddenly one of the cans caught her eye.
There was something wrong about it.
It was a little larger than the other, medium-sized cans? about fourteen inches in length?and it was roughly triangular in shape. At first Gant couldn't tell what it was that struck her about this particular can. It was just that something about it didn't look right...
And then she realized.
The seal on this can had been broken.
The peel-back lid, it seemed, had been opened and then set back into place. It was barely visible. Just a thin black line around the edge of the lid. If you were only giving the cans a cursory glance, you would almost certainly miss it.
Gant turned to look back at Schofield, but he had left the room. She looked up quickly at the French scientists, and as she did so, she saw Petard exchange a quick glance with the one named Latissier.
Schofield met Buck Riley at the main entrance. The two men stood out on the A-deck catwalk, about thirty feet away from the dining room.
"How was it?" Schofield asked.
"Not good," Riley said.
"What do you mean?"
"That signal we lost, it was a hovercraft. French markings. From d'Urville. It had crashed into a crevasse."
Schofield looked up sharply at Riley. "Crashed into a crevasse?" He looked back quickly at the Frenchmen in the dining room. Only moments earlier, Jean Petard had said that the other hovercraft had arrived safely back at d'Urville.
"What happened?" Schofield said. "Thin ice?"
"No. That's what we thought at first. But then Rebound got a closer look."
Schofield turned back around. "And?"
Riley gave him a serious look. "There were five dead bodies in that hovercraft, sir. And all of them had been shot through the back of the head."
Gant's voice exploded across Schofield's helmet intercom.
"Sir, this is Fox. There's something wrong here. Their food containers have been compromised."
Schofield spun around and saw Libby Gant coming out of the dining room. She was walking quickly toward him, carrying a food can of some sort, peeling the lid back.
Behind her Schofield saw Petard, in the dining room, rising to his feet, watching Gant, and then watching Schofield himself.
It was then that their eyes met.
It was only for an instant, but that was all either man needed. In that moment, there was a flash of understanding.
Gant cut across Schofield's line of sight with Petard. She had opened the can now and was pulling something out of it. The object she extracted from the can was small and black, and it looked a little like a small crucifix, the only difference being that the shorter, horizontal beam of the object was bent in a semicircle.
Schofield's eyes widened when he saw it and he opened his mouth to shout, but it was too late.
In the dining room, Petard dived for the two white containers, just as Latissier?who hadn't been patted down since he had been at the station when the Marines had arrived? threw open his parka, revealing a short-barreled French-made FA-MAS assault rifle. At the same time, the one named Cuvier pulled both of his hands free of his pockets, revealing two models of the same weapon that Gant now had in her hand. Cuvier immediately fired one of them at Gant just as she turned to face him and Sc
hofield saw her head snap backwards with the impact as she fell to the floor.
Deafening gunfire exploded through the silence as Latissier jammed his finger down on the trigger of his assault rifle and sprayed the dining room with a blanket of suppressing fire. His arc of gunfire cut through the air like a scythe, and it practically ripped Augustine Lau in two.
Latissier didn't let go for a full ten seconds and the sustained burst of machine-gun fire caused everybody else to hit the deck.
Wilkes Ice Station had become a battlefield.
And everything went to hell.
SECOND INCURSION
16 June 0930 hours
"This is Scarecrow! This is Scarecrow!" Schofield yelled into his helmet mike as he ducked into a doorway amid the cacophony of gunfire. "I count eight hostiles! I repeat, eight hostile objects! I call it as six military, two civilians. Civilians are probably concealing weapons for use by the commandos. Marines, do not show prejudice!"
Chunks of ice rained down all around him as Latissier's stream of bullets impacted against the ice wall above him.
It was the sight of the crossbow that did it.
Each of the elite military units of the world has its own characteristic weapon. For the United States Navy SEALs, experts in close-quarter combat, it is the Ruger pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun. For the British Special Air Service? the famous SAS?nitrogen charges are the signature weapon. For U.S. Marine Force Reconnaissance Units it is the Armalite MH-12 Maghook, a grappling hook that also contains a high-powered magnet for adhesion to sheer metallic surfaces.
Only one elite force, however, is known for carrying crossbows.
The Premier Régiment Parachutiste d'Infanterie de Marine, the crack French commando unit?known in English as the First Marine Parachute Regiment. It is the French equivalent of the SAS or the SEALs.
Which is to say that it is not a regular force like, for example, the Marines. It is one step higher. It is an offensive unit, an attack team, an elite covert force that exists for one reason and one reason only: to go in first, and to go in fast, and to kill everything in sight.
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