Ice Station ss-1

by Matthew Reilly

  Gant looked at Schofield. Behind those opaque silver glasses was a seriously pissed-off individual.

  In fact, Schofield wasn't really angry at the French soldiers per se. Sure, at first he'd been annoyed at himself for not picking that the French "scientists" were actually soldiers. But then they had got to Wilkes first, and they had brought with them two genuine scientists, a particularly clever ploy that had been enough to throw Schofield and his team off the scent.

  What really made him angry, however, was that he'd lost the initiative in this battle.

  The French had caught Schofield and his team off guard, taken them by surprise, and now they were dictating the terms of this fight. That was what really made Schofield pissed.

  He tried desperately to fight his anger. He couldn't allow himself to be angry. He couldn't afford to feel that way.

  Whenever he found himself beginning to feel angry or upset, Schofield always remembered a seminar he'd attended in London in late 1996 given by the legendary British commander Brigadier General Trevor J. Barnaby.

  A burly man, with piercing dark eyes, a fully shaven head, and a severe black goatee, Trevor Barnaby was the head of the SAS?had been since 1979?and was widely regarded as the most brilliant front-line military tactician in the world. His strategic ability with regard to small incursionary forces was extraordinary. When it was executed by the finest elite military unit in the world, the SAS, it was invincible. He was the pride and joy of the British military establishment, and he had never failed on a mission yet.

  In November 1996, as part of a USA-UK "knowledge share agreement" it was decided that Barnaby would give a two-day seminar on covert incursionary warfare to the most promising American officers. In return, the United States would instruct British artillery units on the use of mobile Patriot II missile batteries. One of the officers chosen to attend Trevor Barnaby's seminar was Lieutenant Shane M. Schofield, USMC.

  Barnaby had had a cocky, hard-edged lecture style that Schofield had liked?a rapid-fire series of questions and answers that had proceeded in a simple, logical progression.

  "In any combat exchange," Barnaby had said, "be it a world war or an isolated two unit standoff, the first question you always ask yourself is this: what is your opponent's objective? What does he want? Unless you know the answer to that question, you'll never be able to ask yourself the second question: how is he going to get it?

  "And I'll tell you right now, ladies and gentlemen, the second question is of far greater importance to you than the first. Why? Because what he wants is unimportant insofar as strategy is concerned. What he wants is an object, that's all. The worldwide spread of communism. A strategic foothold on foreign territory. The ark of the covenant. Who cares? Knowing of it means nothing, in and of itself. How he plans to get it, on the other hand, means everything. Because that is action. And action can be stopped.

  "So, once you have answered this second question, then you can proceed to question number three: what are you going to do to stop him?"

  When he had been speaking about command and leadership, Barnaby had repeatedly stressed the need for cool-headed reason. An angry commander, he'd said, acting under the influence of rage or frustration, will almost certainly get his unit killed.

  "As a leader," Barnaby had said, "you simply cannot afford to get angry or upset."

  Recognizing that no commanding officer was immune from feeling angry or frustrated, Barnaby had offered his three-step tactical analysis as a diversion from such feelings. "Whenever you feel yourself succumbing to angry feelings, go through the three-step analysis. Get your mind off the anger and get it back on the job at hand. Soon, you'll forget about what pissed you off and you'll start doing what you're paid for."

  And as he stood there in the doorway on C-deck, in the freezing-cold, ice-covered world of Wilkes Ice Station, Shane Schofield could almost hear Trevor Barnaby speaking inside his head.

  OK, then.

  What is their objective?

  They want the spaceship.

  How are they going to get it?

  They're going to kill everybody here, grab the spaceship, and somehow get it off the continent before anybody even knows it existed.

  All right. But there was a problem with that analysis. What was it??

  Schofield thought for a moment. And then it hit him.

  The French had arrived quickly.

  So quickly, in fact, that they had arrived at Wilkes before the United States had been able to get a team of its own there. Which meant they'd been close to Wilkes when the original distress signal had gone out.

  Schofield paused.

  French soldiers had been at d'Urville when Abby Sinclair's signal had gone out.

  But the distress signal could never have been anticipated. It was an emergency, a sudden occurrence.

  And that was the problem with his analysis.

  A picture began to form in Schofield's mind: they had seen an opportunity, and they had decided to take it....

  The French had had their commandos at Dumont d'Urville, probably doing exercises of some sort. Arctic warfare or something like that.

  And then the distress signal from Wilkes had been picked up. And suddenly the French would have realized that they had one of their elite military units within six hundred miles of the discovery of an extraterrestrial spacecraft.

  The prospective gains were obvious: technological advances to be garnered from the propulsion system, the construction of the exterior shell. Maybe even weapons.

  It was an opportunity too good to pass up.

  But the French commandos faced two problems.

  First: the American scientists at Wilkes. They would have to be eliminated. There could be no witnesses.

  The second problem was worse: it was almost certain that the United States would dispatch a protective Reconnaissance Unit to Wilkes. So a clock was ticking. In fact, the French had realized that, in all probability, U.S. troops would arrive at Wilkes before they could get the spaceship off the continent.

  Which meant there would be a firelight.

  But the French were here by chance. They'd had neither the time nor the resources to prepare a full-strength assault on Wilkes. They were a small force facing the probability that the U.S. would arrive on the scene, with a force of greater strength than theirs, before they could make good their escape with the spacecraft.

  They needed a plan.

  And so they'd posed as scientists, concerned neighbors. Presumably with the intention that they would earn the Marines' trust and then kill them while their backs were turned. It was as good a strategy as any for an impromptu force of inferior strength.

  Which left one further question: how were they going to get the spaceship out of Antarctica?

  Schofield decided that that question could wait. Better to tackle the battle at hand. So we ask again:

  What is their objective?

  To eliminate us and the scientists here at Wilkes.

  How are they going to achieve that?

  I don't know.

  How would you achieve that?

  Schofield thought about that. I'd probably try to flush us all into the one place. That'd be much more efficient than attempting to search the whole station for us and pick us off one by?

  "Grenade!" Gant yelled.

  Schofield was jolted back to the present as he saw a small black grenade sail out over the A-deck railing and arc down toward him. Six similar grenades went flying down from A-deck and into the three ice tunnels that branched off into B-deck.

  "Move!" Schofield said quickly to Gant as he ducked back inside the doorway and slammed the door shut.

  He and Gant moved to the far side of the room just in time to hear the grenade bounce up against the outside of the thick wooden door.

  Clunk, clunk

  And then the grenade exploded. White splinters shot out from the inside of the door as the pointed tips of a hundred jagged metal shards instantly appeared in their place.

  Schof
ield looked at the door, stunned.

  The whole door, from floor to ceiling, was littered with tiny protrusions. What had once been a smooth wooden surface now looked like some kind of sinister medieval torture device. The whole thing was covered with sharp, spiked pieces of metal that had almost managed to rip right through the thick wooden door.

  Other, similar, explosions rang out from the level above Schofield and Gant. They both looked up.

  B-deck, Schofield thought."

  I'd probably try to flush us all into the one place.

  "Oh, no," Schofield said aloud.

  "What?" Gant asked.

  But Schofield didn't answer. Instead, he quickly yanked open the destroyed door and looked out into the central shaft of the ice station.

  A bullet immediately rammed into the frost-covered door frame next to his head. But it didn't stop him seeing them.

  Up on A-deck, five of the French commandos were on their feet, laying down a suppressing fire over the whole of the station.

  It was cover fire.

  Cover fire for the other five commandos who were at that moment abseiling down from A-deck to B-deck. It was a short, controlled ride, and in a second the five commandos were on the B-deck catwalk, guns up and heading for the tunnels.

  As he saw them, Schofield had a sickening realization. Most of his Marines were on B-deck, having retreated there after the second French team had charged in through the main entrance of the station.

  And there was another thing.

  B-deck was the main living area of Wilkes Ice Station. And Schofield himself had sent the American scientists back to their quarters while he and his team had gone to meet the newly arrived French hovercraft.

  Schofield stared up at B-deck in horror.

  The French had flushed them all into one place.

  On B-deck, the world suddenly went crazy.

  No sooner had Riley and Hollywood rounded the bend in the ice tunnel than they were confronted by the frightened faces of the residents of Wilkes Ice Station.

  The instant he saw them, Riley suddenly remembered what B-deck was.

  The living area.

  Suddenly a stream of submachine-gun fire raked the ice wall behind him.

  At the same time, Schofield's voice came over Riley's helmet intercom: "All units, this is Scarecrow. I have a visual on five hostile objects landing right now on the B-deck catwalk. I repeat, five hostile objects. Marines, if you're on B-deck, look sharp."

  Riley's mind went into overdrive. He quickly tried to remember the floor plan of B-deck.

  The first thing he recalled was that the layout of B-deck differed slightly from that of the other floors of Wilkes. All of the other floors were made up of four straight tunnels that branched out from the central well of the ice station to meet the circular outer tunnel. But because of an anomalous rock formation buried in the ice around it, B-deck didn't have a south tunnel.

  It only had three straight tunnels, meaning that the outer, circular tunnel didn't form a complete circle as it did on every other floor. The result was a dead end at the southernmost point of the outer circle. Riley remembered seeing the dead end before: it housed the room in which James Renshaw was being held.

  Right now, though, Riley and Hollywood found themselves in the outer tunnel, caught on the bend between the east tunnel and the north tunnel. With them were the scientists from Wilkes, who had obviously heard something going on outside but had dared not venture beyond the immediate vicinity of their rooms. Among the frightened faces in front of him, Riley saw a little girl.

  Jesus.

  "Take the rear," Riley said to Hollywood, meaning that part of the outer tunnel that led back to the north tunnel.

  Riley himself began to move past the group of scientists, so that he could take up a position in view of the east tunnel.

  "Ladies and gentlemen! Could you please move back into your rooms!"

  "What's going on?" one of the men asked angrily.

  "Your friends upstairs weren't really your friends," Riley said. "There's now a team of French paratroopers inside your station and they will kill you if they see you. Now could you please get back in your room."

  "Book! Grenade!" Hollywood's voice echoed down the corridor.

  Riley spun to see Hollywood come charging around the bend toward him. He also caught a glimpse of a fragmentation grenade bouncing into the tunnel twenty feet behind him.

  "Oh, fuck." Riley turned instantly, looking for cover in the opposite direction?in the east tunnel, ten yards away.

  It was then that he saw two more grenades tumble out of the east tunnel and come to rest against the wall of the outer tunnel.

  "Oh, really fuck." Riley's eyes went wide. There were now fragmentation grenades at both ends of the tunnel.

  "Get inside! Now!" Riley screamed at the scientists as he began to throw open the nearest door. "Get back in your rooms now."

  It took the scientists a second to grasp what Riley meant, but when they did get it they immediately dived for their doorways.

  Riley hurled himself inside the nearest doorway and peered back out to see what Hollywood was doing. The young corporal was running for all he was worth down the curved tunnel toward Riley.

  And then suddenly he slipped. And fell.

  Hollywood went sprawling?clumsily, head first?onto the frost-covered floor of the tunnel.

  Riley watched helplessly as Hollywood frantically began to pick himself up off the floor, looking anxiously back at the fragmentation grenade in the tunnel behind him as he did so.

  Maybe two seconds left.

  And in an instant Riley felt his stomach knot.

  Hollywood wasn't going to make it.

  Right in front of Hollywood?in the only doorway he could possibly get to in time?two of the scientists were desperately trying to get into the same room. One was pushing the other in the back, trying to get him to move inside.

  Buck Riley watched in horror as Hollywood looked up at the two scientists and saw that he had no chance of getting into that room. Hollywood then swung back round to look at the fragmentation grenade thirty feet down the curved corridor behind him.

  A final, desperate turn, and Hollywood's eyes met Riley's. Eyes white with fear. The eyes of a man who knows he is about to die.

  He had nowhere to go. Nowhere at all.

  And then, with thunderous intensity, the three grenades? one from the north tunnel, two from the east?unleashed their anger and Riley ducked back behind his doorway and saw a thousand glistening metal shards whip past him in both

  Another explosion rocked the outside of the thick wooden door, and a new Wave of metal shards slammed into it.

  Schofield and Gant were at the back of the room on C-deck, taking cover behind an upturned aluminium table.

  "Marines, call in," Schofield said.

  Voices came in over his intercom; gunfire rang out in the background.

  "This is Rebound! I'm with Legs and Mother! We are under heavy fire in the northwest quadrant of B-deck!"

  A burst of static suddenly cut across Schofield's earpiece. "?is Book... wood is down. I'm in... quadrant?" Book's voice cut off abruptly, the signal gone.

  "This is Montana, Santa Cruz is with me. We're still on A-deck, but we're pinned down."

  "Lieutenant, this is Snake. I'm outside, approaching the main entrance right now."

  There was no word from Hollywood. And Mitch Healy and Samurai Lau were already dead. Schofield did the math. If all three of them were dead, then the Marines were down to nine now.

  Schofield thought about the French. They had started with twelve men, plus the two civilian scientists. Snake had said earlier that he'd killed one outside, and Schofield himself had capped another one upstairs. That meant the French were down to ten men?plus the two civilians, wherever the hell they were.

  Schofield's thoughts returned to the present. He looked at the big wooden door in front of him, covered with dozens of protruding silver spikes.

  He turn
ed to Gant. "We can't stay here."

  "I kind of already got that idea," Gant replied deadpan.

  Schofield spun to look at her, confused by her reply. Gant didn't say anything. She just pointed over his shoulder.

  Schofield turned around and for the first time really looked at the room around him.

  It looked like a boiler room of some sort. Anodized black pipes covered the ceiling. Two enormous white cylinders?lying on their sides, one on top of the other?took up the entire right-hand wall of the room. Each cylinder was about twelve feet long and six feet high.

  And in the middle of each cylinder was a large diamond-shaped red sticker. On the sticker was a picture of a single flame and, in large bold letters, the words:

  DANGER

  FLAMMABLE PROPELLANT

  L-5

  HIGHLY FLAMMABLE

  Schofield stared at the massive white cylinders. They appeared to be connected to a computer that sat on a table in the rear corner of the room. The computer was switched on, but at the moment the screen was filled with a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit screen saver: a buxom blonde in an impossibly small bikini lying provocatively on a tropical beach somewhere.

  Schofield crossed the room quickly and stood in front of the computer. The sexy woman on the screen pouted at him.

  "Maybe later," he said to the screen as he hit a key on the keyboard. The screen saver vanished instantly.

  It was replaced by a colored schematic diagram of the five floors of Wilkes Ice Station. Five circles filled the screen? three on the left, two on the right?each one comprised of the central well of the station surrounded by a larger outer circle. The outer circle was connected to the central well by four straight tunnels.

  Rooms were arrayed both between the outer tunnel and the central well and outside the outer tunnel. Different rooms were painted different colors. A color chart on the side of the screen explained that each color indicated a different temperature. The temperatures ranged from ?5.4° to ?1.2° Celsius.

  "It's the air-conditioning system," Gant said, taking up a position by the door. "L-5 means it uses chlorofluorocarbons as propellant. Must be pretty old."