Ice Station ss-1

by Matthew Reilly

  "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, ARMN 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, "OK, 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 three hundred 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 somewhere 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, realizing. 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 realized there was nothing to be gained from this station. And even if Scho-field 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, he 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 hovercrqfts. 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 semicircle on the landward side of the station and they were all pointed inward?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 computerized 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 Eurofighter 2000. A twin-engine, highly maneuverable 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. They 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 realized 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 far 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 shortcut."

  "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 wet suit. 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.

  "Here, swallow these," Schofield said as he handed a blue capsule to each of them. They were N-67D anti-nitrogen capsules. The same pills that Schofield had given to Gant and the others when they had gone down to the cavern earlier. They all quickly swallowed the pills.

  Schofield discarded his fatigues and put his body armor and gunbelt back on over his wet suit. As he went through the pockets of his fatigues he found, among other things, a nitrogen charge and Sarah Hensleigh's silver locket. He transferred both items to pockets in his wet suit. Then he quickly began to put on one of the scuba tanks.

  There were three tanks in all, all of them filled with four hours' worth of a saturated helium-oxygen mix: 98% helium, 2% oxygen. They got Gant to prepare before she had gone down to the cave earlier.

  As he put his own LABA gear on, Renshaw helped Kirsty get into hers.

  Schofield got his tanks on first. When he was ready, he immediately began searching the deck around him for something heavy?something very heavy?since they would need a good weight to take them down fast

  He found what he was looking for.

  A length of the B-deck catwalk that had fallen down to E-deck back when the whole of B-deck had gone up in flames earlier. The length of metal catwalk was about ten feet long and made of solid steel. It even had a section of its handrail still attached to it.

  When Renshaw was also ready, Schofield got him to help drag it to the edge of the pool. The big length of metal catwalk screeched loudly as they dragged it across the deck.

  As they worked, Wendy hopped up and down beside them, like a dog begging to go for a walk.

  "Is Wendy coming with us?" Kirsty asked.

  Schofield said, "I hope so. I was hoping she would show us the way."

  At that, Kirsty leaped to her feet and hurried over to the wall by the side of the pool. She grabbed a harness from a hook and brought it back to the edge of the pool. Then she began to strap the harness around Wendy's midsection.

  "What's that?" Schofield asked.

  "Don't worry. It'll help."

  "Fine, whatever. Just stay close," Schofield said as he and Renshaw positioned the length of catwalk on the edge of the deck, so that it was all-but-ready to fall off.

  "All right," Schofield said. "Everybody in the water."

  The three of them jumped into the water and swam back underneath the length of catwalk. Wendy happily leaped into the water after them.

  "All right, get a grip on the catwalk," Schofield's voice said over their underwater headsets.

  They all grabbed hold of the length of catwalk. They looked like a set of Olympic swimmers preparing to swim a backstroke race.

  Schofield placed his hand over Kirsty's to make sure she didn't lose her hold on the catwalk as it sank through the water.

  "OK, Mr. Renshaw," Schofield said. "Pull!"

  At that moment, Schofield and Renshaw heaved on the catwalk, and suddenly the length of heavy metal tipped off the edge of the deck and fell into the water with a massive splash.

  The metal catwalk sank through the water fast.

  The three small figures of Schofield, Renshaw, and Kirsty clung grimly to it as it fell. They were all pointing downward, their feet flailing above them. Wendy swam quickly down through the water behind them.

  Schofield looked at the depth gauge on his wrist.

  Ten feet.

  Twenty feet.

  Thirty feet.

  Down they went, falling fast, through the magnificent white underwater world.

  As they fell, Schofield tried to keep one eye on the white ice wall to his left. He searched for a hole in it, searched for the entrance to the shortcut tunnel that led to the underwater ice tunnel.

  They hit a hundred feet. Without the pills, the nitrogen in their blood would have killed them by now.

  Two hundred feet.

  Three hundred.

  They flew downward through the water. It became darker, harder to see.

  Four hundred, five hundred.

  They were falling so quickly.

  Six hundred. Seven hundred.

  Eight?

  And then suddenly Schofield saw it.

  "All right, let go!" he yelled.

  The others immediately let go of the falling metal catwalk.

  They hovered in the water as the catwalk disappeared into the gloom beneath them.

  Schofield swam over to the ice wall.

  A large, round hole had been burrowed into it. It looked like a tunnel of some sort, a tunnel that descended into aiky darkness.

  Wendy swam up alongside Schofield and disappeared inside the dark tunnel. She popped out again several seconds later.

  Schofield hesitated.

  Renshaw must have seen the doubt in his eyes. "What choice do we have?" he said.

  "Right," Schofield said, pulling out his flashlight. He clicked it on. Then he kicked with his feet and swam into the tunnel.

  The tunnel was narrow, and it meandered steeply downward. Schofield swam in the lead, with Kirsty behind him and Renshaw bringing up the rear. Since they were swimming downward, they made swift progress. They just allowed the lead weights on their weight belts to pull them down.

  Schofield swam cautiously. It was quiet here, like a tomb....

  And then suddenly Wendy whipped past him from behind and darted off down the tunnel in front of him.

  Schofield looked at his depth gauge.

  They had reached a thousand feet.

  Dive time was twelve minutes.

  "Bigbird, this is Blue Leader. Target is now in missile range. I repeat. Target is now in missile range. Preparing to launch AMRAAM missiles."

  "You may fire when ready, Blue Leader."

  "Thank you, Bigbird. All right, people. I have missile lock. Missile bay is open. Target appears to be unaware of our presence. OK. This is Blue Leader, Fox One.. .fire!"

  The squadron leader jammed down on bis trigger.

  At that moment, a long, sleek AIM-120 AMRAAM missile slid out from the missile bay of the F-22 and shot forward after its prey.

  The British fighter saw the missile on its scopes straightaway.

  The greatest problem for stealth aircraft is that although an aircraft itself may be invisible to radar, any missiles hanging from its wings will not be invisible. Hence, all stealth aircraft like the F-22, the F-117A stealth fighter, and the B-2A stealth bomber carry their missiles internally.

  Unfortunately, however, as soon as a missile is fired, it will be seen instantly on radar. Which meant that the moment the F-22 launched its AMRAAM missile at the E-2000 over the horizon, the British plane saw the missile on its scopes.

  The British pilot gave himself one minute at the most.

  "General Barnaby! General Barnaby! Report!"

  There was no reply.

  Which was strange, because Brigadier Gener
al Barnaby knew that this time?2200 hours to 2225 hours?was a designated contact time, one of only two times a break in the solar flare would permit radio contact. Barnaby had reported in at 1930, another designated contact time, right on schedule.

  The British pilot tried the secondary frequency. Still no luck. He tried to hail Nero, Barnaby's second in command.

  Still no luck.

  "General Barnaby! This is Backstop. I am under attack! I repeat, I am under attack! If you do not answer me in the next thirty seconds, I will have to assume that you are dead and pursuant to your orders I will have no choice but to fire upon the station."

  The British pilot looked at his missile light?it was blinking. He had already preset the coordinates of Wilkes Ice Station into the guidance computer of his AGM-88/HLN cruise missile.

  The designator letters on the missile said it all.

  AGM stood for air-to-ground missile, H for high-speed, and L for long-range. N however, had a special meaning.

  It stood for nuclear.

  Thirty seconds expired. Still no word from Barnaby.

  "General Barnaby! This is Backstop! I am launching the eraser... now/" The British pilot hit his trigger, and a split second later the nuclear-tipped cruise missile attached to the end of his wing streaked away from his plane.

  The missile only just got away, for a bare two seconds later?just as the British pilot was reaching for his ejection lever?the American AMRAAM missile slammed into the back of the E-2000 and blew it and its pilot out of the sky.

  The American pilots saw the bright orange explosion on the night horizon, saw the blip on their scopes disappear.

  A couple of them cheered.

  The squadron leader smiled as he looked at the orange fireball on the horizon. "SEAL team, this is Blue Leader. The bogey has been eliminated. I repeat, the bogey has been eliminated. You are free to enter the station. You are free to enter the station."

  Inside the SEAL hovercraft, the squadron leader's voice echoed through the speaker: "You are free to enter the station. You are free to enter the station."