Ice Station Read online

  And indeed, as Schofield himself had discovered in the pool before, at close range, underwater, a Maghook had the capacity to stun a seven-ton killer whale. When fired at a one-hundred-and-eighty pound man at similar range, above water, the Maghook would probably crack his skull.

  Thus armed, the Marines were confident that they could handle the French commandos’ crossbows.

  So the plan would go ahead.

  Montana, Snake and Santa Cruz would work their way down through the station from A-deck, forcing the Frenchmen down, while Schofield, Gant and Rebound worked their way up from E-deck. They would hopefully meet halfway and the rest would write itself.

  Schofield and Gant had departed right away.

  Rebound was to join them as soon as he had stemmed the flow of blood from Mother’s leg and started her up on an intravenous line of methadone.

  The three Marines on A-deck began their attack.

  They moved quickly, using a textbook three-man flushing formation known as ‘leap-frogging’. One Marine would move forward, ahead of his partners and fire his Maghook. Then, while he reeled his hook in to reload, a second Marine would move in front of him – ‘leap-frogging’ him – and fire his Maghook at the enemy. By the time the third man stepped forward and fired, the first man was ready to fire again and the cycle continued.

  The two French soldiers on A-deck responded as they were supposed to – they retreated, hastened away from the rolling wave of powerful Maghook fire. They hurried for the ladders, climbed down the shaft.

  However, as he fielded reports from Montana about the French soldiers’ movement, Schofield noticed something odd about their evasive manoeuvres.

  They were moving too fast.

  In their retreat down the shaft, the four French soldiers had completely avoided the destroyed B-deck catwalk and continued straight down to C.

  They moved fluidly, in a swift two-by-two cover formation – the lead two men covering the forward flank, the rear two covering their pursuers behind, with a space of about ten yards between the two pairs.

  Earlier, Montana had reported that all four of the French commandos were wearing night-vision goggles. They had come prepared.

  They continued to move down the shaft fast.

  Schofield had expected them to waste time in the tunnels as they tried to adopt a defensive position. But the French soldiers seemed to have other ideas. They darted into the C-deck tunnels only for so long as it took the Marines pursuing them from the levels above to join them. Then suddenly, they appeared on the catwalk again and made for the rung-ladder leading down to D-deck.

  At that moment, Schofield recalled something Trevor Barnaby had once said about strategy.

  Good strategy is like magic, Barnaby had said. Make your enemy look at one hand, while you’re doing something with the other.

  ‘They’re moving for the south-west ladder,’ Montana’s voice said in Schofield’s earpiece. ‘Scarecrow, you down there?’

  Schofield moved forward along the D-deck catwalk, the world green before his eyes. ‘We’re on it.’

  He and Gant approached the south-west corner of D-deck, saw the rung-ladder that led up to C-deck.

  Schofield spoke into his mike, ‘Rebound, where are you?’

  ‘Finishing up now, sir,’ Rebound’s voice replied from the storeroom down on E-deck.

  ‘Flanking west, Sarge,’ the voice of José ‘Santa’ Cruz said over the intercom.

  Montana’s voice: ‘Keep ’em coming, ‘Cruz. Then send ’em down to the Scarecrow.’

  On D-deck, Schofield and Gant arrived at the rung-ladder. They crouched, levelled their weapons at the empty ladder. They heard boots stomping fast on the metal catwalk above them, heard the distinctive snap-phew! of a crossbow being fired.

  ‘They’re coming to the ladder,’ Santa Cruz’s voice said.

  More footsteps clanged on the metal grating.

  Any second now . . .

  Any second . . .

  And then suddenly, clunk, clunk.

  What the hell –

  ‘Marines! Eyes shut! Flasher on the ground!’ Santa Cruz’s voice yelled suddenly.

  Schofield immediately squeezed his eyes shut just as he heard the stun grenade bounce on the metal deck above him.

  The stun grenade went off – like a flash-bulb on a camera – and for a brief instant the whole of Wilkes Ice Station flared white.

  Schofield was about to open his eyes when suddenly, there came a new noise from his right. It sounded like someone doing up a zipper really, really fast.

  Schofield spun right and opened his eyes and his green world streaked laterally. His eyes searched the empty shaft, but he saw nothing.

  ‘Ah, shit!’ Cruz said. ‘Sir! One of them just went over the railing!’

  The zipping sound that Schofield had just heard suddenly made sense. It had been the sound of someone rappelling down the central shaft on a rope.

  Schofield froze for a split second.

  Such a move wasn’t a defensive move at all.

  It was a co-ordinated move, a planned move, an attacking move.

  The French weren’t actually on the run.

  They were carrying out a plan of their own.

  Make your enemy look at one hand while you’re doing something with the other . . .

  Like a chess player caught in check a second before he intends to play his own killing move, Schofield felt his mind start to spin.

  What were they up to?

  What was their plan?

  In the end he didn’t have time to think about it, because no sooner had he heard Santa Cruz’s message than a volley of arrows thudded into the ice wall all around him. Schofield ducked and spun and saw Gant dive to the floor behind him and then he spun back round and before he knew what was happening, a figure slid down the rung-ladder in front of him and Schofield found himself standing face-to-face with the Frenchman he knew as Jacques Latissier.

  Rebound was crouched over Mother in the storeroom on E-deck.

  Mother had tough veins, and, to make it even more difficult, Rebound was wearing his night-vision goggles as he tried to get the needle into her arm. He’d missed the vein on his first four attempts, and he had only now just managed to get the IV line flowing into Mother’s arm.

  The IV done, Rebound stood up and was about to leave Mother when, strangely, he heard the sound of soft footsteps hurrying down the tunnel outside the darkened storeroom.

  Rebound froze.

  Listened.

  The sound of the footsteps faded as they hurried off down the southern tunnel outside.

  Rebound stepped forward and grabbed the doorknob, and slowly, quietly, turned it. The door opened and Rebound peered out into the tunnel through his night-vision goggles.

  He looked left and saw the pool. Small waves lapped against the sides of the deck.

  He looked right, and saw a long, straight tunnel stretching away from him into darkness. He recognised it immediately as the elongated southern tunnel of E-deck that led to the station’s drilling room.

  Since it was the lowest level in the ice station, E-deck housed the station’s drilling room – the room from which the scientists drilled down into the ice to obtain their ice cores. So as to maximise the depths to which the scientists could drill, the drilling room had been constructed as far into the ice shelf as possible – to the south of the station, where the ice was deepest. The room was connected to the main station complex by a long, narrow tunnel that stretched for at least forty metres.

  Rebound heard the soft footsteps disappear down the long tunnel to his right.

  After a short moment of pause, he raised his Maghook and ventured out into the tunnel after them.

  Schofield fired his Maghook at Latissier.

  The Frenchman ducked fast and the grappling hook thundered over the top of him and flew through the rung-ladder behind him. The hook looped itself over one of the rungs and knotted itself tight against the ladder.

  Schofield threw
his Maghook down and raised his crossbow at the same time as Latissier levelled his own at Schofield.

  The two men fired at the same time.

  The arrows whistled through the air, crossing each other in mid-flight.

  Latissier’s arrow slammed into Schofield’s armoured shoulderplate. Schofield’s arrow lodged in Latissier’s hand as the big Frenchman covered his face with his forearm. He roared with pain as he frantically began to reload his crossbow with his good hand.

  Schofield quickly looked down at his own crossbow.

  The French crossbows had five circular rubber slots on their sides in which spare arrows were kept for quick reloading. Schofield’s crossbow had five empty slots.

  The commando he had taken it from must have used all but the last of his arrows earlier. Now there were none left.

  Schofield didn’t hesitate.

  He took five quick steps forward and hurled himself at Latissier. He slammed into the Frenchman and the two soldiers went sprawling onto the catwalk behind the rung-ladder.

  Gant was still lying face-down on the catwalk about five yards away when she saw Schofield tackle Latissier. She leapt to her feet and was about to go over and help Schofield when suddenly another French commando slid down the rung-ladder in front of her and, through a pair of black night-vision goggles, stared right into her eyes.

  Rebound slowly made his way down the long, narrow tunnel.

  There was a door at the very end of the tunnel. The door to the drilling room. It was ajar.

  Rebound listened carefully as he approached the half-open door. He heard soft, shuffling sounds from inside the drilling room. Whoever had run past the storeroom earlier was now inside the drilling room, doing something.

  He heard the man speak softly into a microphone of some sort. He said, ‘Le piège est tendu.’

  Rebound froze.

  It was one of the French commandos.

  Rebound pressed himself flat against the wall next to the door and – still wearing his night-vision goggles – slowly peered around the doorframe.

  It was like looking through a video camera. First, Rebound saw the doorframe, saw it slide out to the right of his green viewscreen. Then he saw the room open up beyond it.

  And then he saw the man – also wearing night-vision goggles – standing right there in front of him, with a crossbow pointed directly at Rebound’s face.

  Even though the French commando standing in front of her was wearing night-vision goggles, Gant could tell that it was the one named Cuvier.

  Jean-Pierre Cuvier. The one who had shot her in the head with his crossbow right at the start of all this. Even now, she could see the tip of that same arrow sticking out from the front of her helmet. The bastard seemed to smile when he realised that he was facing off against the American woman he had shot earlier.

  In a blur of green, he brought his crossbow up and fired.

  Gant was about twenty feet away and she actually saw the arrow dip in the air as it covered the distance between them. She sidestepped quickly, her gun hand flailing behind her, and then suddenly – smack! – she felt that hand jolt sharply as the arrow thudded into her Maghook and sent it flying from her hand.

  And then before she knew it, Cuvier was right in front of her with his Bowie knife drawn. He came in fast, his long-bladed hunting knife arcing down towards Gant’s throat –

  There came a sudden metallic zing as Cuvier’s blade came to a jarring halt.

  Gant had caught his blow with her own knife.

  The two soldiers separated and began to circle each other warily. Cuvier held his knife underhanded. Gant held hers backhanded, SEAL-style. Both still wore their night-vision goggles.

  Suddenly, Cuvier lunged and Gant swatted his blade away. But the Frenchman had a longer reach and as they separated again he swiped at Gant’s goggles and dislodged them from her head.

  For a single terrifying moment, Gant saw nothing.

  Just blackness.

  Total blackness.

  In this darkness, without her goggles she was blind.

  Gant felt the catwalk beneath her vibrate. Cuvier was lunging at her again.

  Still blind, she ducked instinctively, not knowing whether it was the right move or not.

  It was the right move.

  She heard the swish of Cuvier’s knife as it sliced through the darkness above her helmet.

  Gant somersaulted in the darkness, across the catwalk, away from Cuvier. She quickly leapt to her feet and hit a button on the side of her helmet and, immediately, her helmet’s infrared visor snapped down into place in front of her eyes.

  It wasn’t night vision but it was almost as good.

  Now Gant saw the catwalk around her as an electronic, blue-on-black image.

  Both the catwalk and the rung-ladder were depicted as blue outlines – cold, lifeless bodies. Beyond the blue rung-ladder, Gant saw two multi-coloured figures rolling around on the catwalk – Schofield and Latissier, still struggling desperately.

  Gant turned, and on the catwalk in front of her, saw a vibrant, man-shaped, red-green-and-yellow blob moving quickly toward her.

  It was Cuvier.

  Or at least a graphic representation of the heat patterns inside Cuvier’s body.

  He swung his knife. Gant parried the blow with her own knife and then let loose with a powerful side-kick to the Frenchman’s solar plexus. The kick connected and Cuvier fell, but as he did so, he lashed out with his hand and managed to grab Gant’s knife arm and pull her to the catwalk with him.

  They hit the deck together.

  Gant fell on top of Cuvier, rolled clear, slammed her back against the icy wall surrounding the catwalk. She reached out to steady herself and her hand hit something on the ground next to her.

  The Mag –

  And then suddenly, the coloured blob that was Cuvier leapt up into her field of vision.

  Cuvier had thrown himself at her, had his knife at her throat. Gant threw up her hands to defend herself, dropping her knife so that she could grab Cuvier’s knife hand with both of her hands.

  With all her strength Gant held Cuvier’s knife hand at bay, inches away from her throat.

  But he was too strong.

  The knife came closer to her throat.

  Cuvier’s face was right in front of Gant’s and through her infra-red visor, Gant saw past his facial features – saw the macabre image of his skull and his teeth, surrounded by pulsating colours. It was as if she were being attacked by a demented skeleton.

  And he was close, so close that Gant felt his night-vision goggles brush against her helmet.

  The goggles.

  Without even thinking, Gant suddenly let go of Cuvier’s knife hand with one of her hands, reached up and ripped his night-vision goggles roughly off his head.

  Cuvier yelled. Gant threw the goggles over the edge of the catwalk.

  Now it was Cuvier who was blind.

  But he continued to fight.

  The French commando desperately tried to push his knife down into Gant’s throat, but Gant suddenly shifted her weight and allowed herself to slide under him, so that her helmet was now level with his eyes.

  ‘You remember giving this to me,’ Gant said, seeing the blue outline of the arrow sticking out from the front of her helmet. ‘Well, now you can have it back.’

  And with that Gant rammed her head forward.

  The arrow jutting out from the front of her helmet penetrated Cuvier’s right eye and he let out a hideous, inhuman scream and Gant felt a sudden splash of warm blood explode all over her face.

  She kicked Cuvier away from her and saw – through her infra-red visor – a computer-generated fountain of yellow-red liquid spraying out from his right eye socket.

  Cuvier screamed as he fell backwards, clutching his bloody eye socket.

  Gant had poked his eye out, but he wasn’t dead yet. He began to thrash about wildly, trying to hit her despite his total blindness.

  Gant grabbed the Maghook from the cat
walk beside her and levelled it at the Frenchman’s bleeding head. He was moving erratically, but Gant had all the time she needed now.

  She aimed carefully, at the head of this wailing, multi-coloured blob that represented a man.

  And then she fired.

  The Maghook struck the screaming Frenchman square in the face and a split second before he dropped to the catwalk, Gant heard Cuvier’s skull crack in two.

  While Gant fought with Cuvier, Schofield and Latissier rolled around on the catwalk.

  As they fought, Schofield heard noises everywhere. Voices spoke frantically over his helmet intercom:

  ‘– They’re going round the other side!’

  ‘– going for the other ladder!’

  Footsteps clanged on the catwalk above him.

  A crossbow fired somewhere nearby.

  Schofield heard a sudden snap as Latissier managed to lock another arrow into the bolt of his crossbow. Schofield quickly elbowed the big Frenchman hard in the face, up under his night-vision goggles, broke his nose. Blood splattered everywhere, all over Schofield’s arm, all over the lenses of Latissier’s goggles.

  The Frenchman grunted with pain as he flung Schofield away from him, toward the edge of the catwalk. The two men separated and Latissier – still lying on the catwalk, half-blinded by the splotches of blood on his night-vision goggles – angrily brought his crossbow around toward Schofield’s head.

  Schofield was right at the edge of the catwalk, up against the railing. He thought fast.

  He caught Latissier’s weapon hand as it came round toward him and then, in a very sudden movement, rolled himself off the edge of the catwalk!

  Latissier had never expected it.

  Schofield kept his grip on Latissier’s weapon hand as he fell and, hanging from it, he swung down onto the empty deck below. Like a cat, Schofield landed on his feet and immediately raised Latissier’s crossbow up at the underside of the D-deck catwalk and pulled the trigger.