‘Yes, sir.’
The speedometer on Schofield’s hovercraft edged over eighty miles per hour. Snow pounded against the windshield.
‘Sir, they’re coming!’ Rebound’s voice shouted over Schofield’s helmet intercom.
Schofield’s head snapped right and he saw them.
Several British hovercrafts had broken away from the main group and were heading toward the three escaping American hovercrafts.
‘The others are going for the station,’ Book’s voice said.
‘I know,’ Schofield said. ‘I know.’
Schofield whirled around in the driver’s seat. He saw Renshaw standing in the back section of the cabin, looking slightly ridiculous in Mitch Healy’s oversized Marine helmet.
‘Mr Renshaw,’ Schofield said.
‘Yes.’
‘Time to make yourself useful. See if you can open that trunk on the floor there.’
Renshaw immediately dropped to his knees and flipped the latches on the black Samsonite trunk that lay on the floor in front of him.
Schofield drove, turning around every few seconds to see how Renshaw was faring with the trunk.
‘Oh, shit,’ Renshaw said as he opened the trunk and saw what lay inside it.
At that moment, there came a sudden, booming sound from outside and Schofield snapped around again.
He knew that sound . . .
And then he saw it.
‘Oh, no . . .’ Schofield groaned.
The first missile slammed into the snow-covered ground right in front of Schofield’s speeding hovercraft.
It left a crater ten feet in diameter and a split second later, Schofield’s hovercraft screamed over the edge of the crater, exploding through the dustcloud above it.
‘Incoming!’ Rebound’s voice yelled.
‘Get inland!’ Schofield called back, as he caught sight of the cliff edge about a hundred yards to his left. ‘Get away from the edge!’
Schofield’s head snapped around again as he spoke. He saw the cluster of British hovercrafts behind him.
He also saw the second missile.
It was white and round, cylindrical, and it cut through the driving snow in front of the lead British hovercraft, its spiralling smoke trail looping through the air behind it. A Milan anti-tank missile.
Renshaw saw it, too. ‘Yikes!’
Schofield floored it.
But the missile was closing in too quickly. It angled in toward Schofield’s speeding hovercraft, fast.
Too fast.
And then suddenly at the last moment, Schofield yanked hard on the steering yoke of his hovercraft and the whole craft swerved dramatically to the left, toward the cliff edge.
The missile shot across the bow of the speeding hovercraft and Schofield instinctively swerved back right and the missile slammed into the snow off to his left, exploding in a spectacular shower of white.
Schofield immediately swung back left, just as a second missile slammed into the snow-covered earth right next to him.
‘Keep swerving!’ Schofield yelled into his helmet mike. ‘Don’t let them get a lock on you!’
The three American hovercrafts all began to swerve as one as they rocketed across the flat Antarctic landscape, the hailstorm of unguided British missiles slamming down into the snow all around them. Deafening explosions filled the air. Massive gouts of snow and earth erupted from the ground.
Schofield fought desperately with the steering yoke of his hovercraft. The hovercraft screamed across the ice plain, a juggernaut out of control, ducking and swerving as it avoided the missiles that rained down all around it.
‘The trunk!’ Schofield yelled to Renshaw. ‘The trunk!’
‘Right!’ Renshaw said. He lifted a compact black tube out of the Samsonite trunk. It was about five feet long.
‘All right,’ Schofield said as he yanked hard on the steering yoke to avoid another screaming British missile. The hovercraft rocked sharply as it swung hard to the right. Renshaw lost his balance and fell against the wall of the cabin.
‘Lock the tube onto the gripstock!’ Schofield yelled.
Renshaw found the gripstock in the trunk. It looked like a gun without a barrel – just the grip and the trigger and a stock that you rested on your shoulder. The compact cylindrical tube clicked firmly into place on the top of the gripstock.
‘All right, Mr Renshaw. You just made yourself a Stinger missile launcher! Now use it!’
‘How?’
‘Open the door! Put it on your shoulder! Point it at the bad guys, and when you hear the tone, pull the trigger! It’ll do the rest!’
‘Okay . . .’ Renshaw said doubtfully.
Renshaw yanked open the right-hand sliding door of the hovercraft. Screaming Antarctic wind instantly invaded the interior of the craft. Renshaw struggled against it, forced his way toward the open door.
He rested the Stinger on his shoulder, shuffled it so that his eyes settled into its sights. Through the night-sights, he saw the lead British hovercraft from head-on, caught between a pair of cross-hairs. The British hovercraft glowed green –
And then suddenly Renshaw heard a dull buzzing sound.
‘I hear the tone!’ he yelled excitedly.
‘Then pull the trigger!’ Schofield called back.
Renshaw pulled the trigger.
The recoil of the Stinger sent Renshaw flying back onto the floor of the cabin.
The missile shot forward from its launcher. The back-blast – the sudden, explosive burst of fire that shoots out the back of a rocket launcher when it is fired – shattered the windows behind Renshaw.
Schofield watched as the Stinger spiralled through the air towards the lead British hovercraft. Its smoke trail looped gracefully through the air behind it, revealing its flight-path.
‘Goodnight,’ Schofield said.
The Stinger slammed into the lead British hovercraft and the hovercraft exploded instantly, shattered into a thousand pieces.
The other British hovercrafts continued relentlessly forward, ignoring their fallen comrade. One of the rear ones just shot straight through the burning remains of the exploded lead hovercraft.
‘Good shot, Mr Renshaw!’ Schofield said, knowing full well that Renshaw really had nothing to do with the success of the shot.
Schofield had guessed – correctly – that the British were firing Milan anti-tank missiles at him. But as Schofield well knew, Milans are made to hit tanks and armoured vehicles. They are not made to hit vehicles travelling faster than forty miles per hour. That was why they were performing so badly against Schofield’s speeding hovercrafts.
The Hughes MIM-92 Surface-to-Air ‘Stinger’ Missile, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. It was made to hit fighter jets. It was made to hit vehicles that travelled at supersonic speeds. As such, it was more than capable of hitting a hovercraft travelling at a mere eighty miles per hour.
What Schofield also knew was that the Stinger was potentially the most user-friendly shoulder-launched assault weapon ever made. You simply pointed the weapon, heard the tone and pulled the trigger. The missile did the rest.
In the cabin behind Schofield, Renshaw awkwardly got to his feet again. Once he had regained his balance, he looked out through the side door of the hovercraft and saw the fiery remains of the British hovercraft he had destroyed.
‘Yikes,’ he said softly.
The seven remaining British hovercrafts closed in.
‘Book!’ Rebound’s voice yelled. ‘I need help over here!’
‘Hang on! I’m coming over!’ Book yelled as he yanked on the steering yoke of his LCAC.
The hovercraft swung right – around and behind Rebound’s transport, cutting in between it and the approaching British hovercrafts.
Book looked out to his right just as a volley of bullets peppered his side windows. Scratch-marks appeared, but the glass didn’t crack. It was bullet-resistant Lexan glass.
The British hovercrafts were close now. Maybe twen
ty yards away. Whipping across the icy landscape.
They closed in on the three American hovercrafts like a pack of hungry sharks.
‘Book! Help me!’
Book was travelling behind Rebound now.
Swarming in from their right, however, were four of the British hovercrafts.
Book pushed open one of his side windows with the barrel of his MP-5 and pulled the trigger. A line of bulletholes strafed the ice alongside the nearest, speeding British hovercraft.
And then all of a sudden the British hovercraft swung in hard, and rammed the side of Book’s hovercraft and Book was thrown out of his chair by the impact.
‘Scarecrow! Where are you!’ Book yelled.
Book climbed back into his chair and looked out through his side window at the British hovercraft next to him. It was so close that Book could see the driver – a man, dressed completely in black, wearing the trademark black balaclava of the SAS. There were two other men in the back of the British hovercraft, also wearing black. Book saw one of them yank open the side door of their hovercraft.
They were going to board him –
And then suddenly the British hovercraft filled with light and its reinforced glass windows shattered as one and blew out of their frames.
Book watched in amazement as the hovercraft alongside him exploded into flames and fell away behind him. Then he looked over his shoulder and saw Schofield’s orange hovercraft sweep around behind him. The smoke trail of a Stinger still lingered in the air in front of it.
‘Thanks, Scare –’
‘Book! Watch your left!’ Schofield’s voice shouted.
The impact knocked Book sideways through the air and the world tilted crazily as his hovercraft was lifted off the ground by the stunning impact, and then suddenly – whump – the big hovercraft thudded back down to earth without any loss of speed.
Book was totally disoriented. He was trying to climb back into the driver’s seat when another smashing impact rocked his hovercraft again, this time from the right.
‘Scarecrow!’ Book yelled.
‘– I’m in a lot of trouble here!’
‘I see you, Book! I see you! I’m coming!’ Schofield peered out through the snow-streaked windshield of his own speeding hovercraft.
He saw Book’s hovercraft, racing forward across the ice plain in front of him. On either side of it were two of the black British hovercrafts, taking turns in ramming it hard.
‘Renshaw! How’s that new Stinger coming?’
‘Almost there . . .’ Renshaw said from behind Schofield. He was furiously trying to jam a new tube into the gripstock.
‘Hold on, Book!’ Schofield said.
Schofield gunned the engine of his LCAC and the hovercraft responded by increasing its speed. Gradually, it began to haul in the three hovercrafts in front of it – Book’s and the two British ones.
Slowly, gradually, Schofield’s orange hovercraft overtook the three hovercrafts on the left-hand side and then suddenly, swiftly, it swept across in front of them.
Schofield looked back through his rear windshield, through the blur of his rear turbofan and saw the three hovercrafts behind him. Schofield then snapped to look forward and he saw Rebound’s transport hovercraft racing across the ice plain about twenty yards to his left.
‘Rebound!’ Schofield said.
‘Yeah!’
‘Get ready to go in and grab Book!’
‘What?’
‘Just get ready!’
‘What are you gonna do?’
‘A slingshot,’ Schofield said as he drew his MP-5. He turned to Renshaw. ‘Mr Renshaw . . .’
‘What?’
‘Hold on.’
And with that, Schofield slipped the hovercraft into neutral and yanked the steering yoke hard to the right.
Like a bizarre two-ton ballet dancer, Schofield’s hovercraft did a complete, lateral, one-hundred-and-eighty degree spin right in front of Book’s hovercraft and the two British hovercrafts.
In the cabin, Schofield quickly jammed the big vehicle into reverse and engaged the turbofan again.
Now he was travelling backwards!
At eighty miles per hour.
In front of Book and the two British hovercrafts!
Schofield thrust his MP-5 out through the driver’s side window and let rip with an extended burst of gunfire.
The front windshield of the left-hand British hovercraft exploded with bulletholes. Schofield could see the men behind the windshield convulse as they were hit by the barrage of gunfire.
The shot British hovercraft immediately peeled away from Book’s hovercraft and faded back into the distance.
Book was still in hell.
The British hovercraft to his left was gone now, but the one on his right was ramming him with renewed intensity.
The two hovercrafts careered across the flat expanse of ice, side-by-side, their engines roaring.
And then suddenly Book saw the side door of the British hovercraft open. A thick black gun barrel protruded from it.
‘Oh, shit,’ Book said.
A puff of smoke appeared from the end of the gun barrel – it was an M-60 grenade launcher – and a second later the whole side door of Book’s hovercraft suddenly exploded inwards.
Wind rushed into the cabin.
They’d blown open the side of his hovercraft!
At that moment, a small black object flew in through the hole in the side of the hovercraft and clattered across the floor of the cabin.
Book saw it immediately.
It was a small black cylindrical object with blue numbers written along its side. As it rolled across the floor of the cabin, it looked like an ordinary grenade, but as Book knew it was a whole lot more than that.
It was a nitrogen charge.
The signature weapon of the SAS.
The most advanced grenade in the world. It even had a tamper mechanism so that you couldn’t pick it up and throw it back at the person who threw it at you. Standard time delay: five seconds.
Get out of the hovercraft! Book’s mind screamed.
Book dived for the left-hand side of the cabin – the side furthest away from the British hovercraft – and reached for the door. He slid it open fast.
Five. . .
Freezing Antarctic wind rushed at his face. Slicing horizontal snow lashed his eyes. Book didn’t care. Snow wouldn’t kill him; and a fall from the hovercraft might. But the nitrogen charge definitely would.
Four . . . Three . . .
Book dived out into the freezing wind and immediately jammed the sliding door shut behind him. He lay flat against the top of the black rubber skirt that ran around the base of the speeding hovercraft. His face was pressed awkwardly up against the outside of the windows of the cabin. The screaming, speeding wind assaulted his ears.
Two . . . One . . .
Book prayed to God that the reinforced Lexan glass windows of the hovercraft could withstand the –
The nitrogen charge went off inside the hovercraft.
Smack!
A wave of ice-blue liquid nitrogen slapped hard against the glass right in front of Book’s face. Book instinctively jerked his head back.
He stared in amazement at the interior of the hovercraft’s cabin. Supercooled liquid nitrogen had splattered itself against every exposed surface inside the cabin.
Every exposed surface.
The whole of the inside of the window in front of him was dripping with gooey blue poxy. Book sighed with relief. The reinforced glass had held, just.
And then suddenly . . . craaaaack-!
Book pulled his head back just as the window – snap-frozen by the liquid nitrogen and contracting rapidly – broke out into a thousand spiderwebs.
‘Book!’
Book spun and saw Rebound’s hovercraft pull up alongside his own. He could see Rebound through the windscreen, sitting in the driver’s seat.
‘Get on!’
Rebound’s hovercraft nudged closer to
Book’s. The side door of Rebound’s hovercraft slid open. The rubber skirts of the two hovercrafts touched briefly, then parted again.
‘Jump!’ Rebound said, his voice loud in Book’s earpiece.
Book tried to get to his feet.
‘Come on!’ Rebound said urgently.
Book tried to keep his eyes focused on the black rubber skirt of Rebound’s hovercraft. Tried not to look at the white streaks of snow racing by at eighty miles an hour beneath the two speeding hovercrafts.
And then out of the corner of his eye, Book saw it.
Saw the black hovercraft materialise in the background behind Rebound’s hovercraft.
Suddenly Book heard Rebound yell, ‘Get there, Scarecrow!’ and then he saw the side door of the British hovercraft open. Saw the Milan anti-tank missile launcher appear inside it.
And then Book saw the familiar puff of smoke and he saw the missile shoot out of its launcher and fly through the air toward him, its looping white smoke trail spiralling crazily behind it, and in that instant, in that moment, Book knew it was too –
‘Book! For God’s sake, jump! Jump now! Shit!’
Book jumped.
Book flew through the air.
As he flew, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the British hovercraft explode as it was hit by an American Stinger. But it had got its own missile off before it had been hit. Book saw the white-tipped missile roll through the air toward him.
And then suddenly Book’s hands came down hard on the black rubber skirt of Rebound’s hovercraft and Book forgot about the British missile as he scratched desperately for a handhold.
Just as his feet were about to hit the speeding ground, Book got a grip on a tie-down stud on the skirt of Rebound’s hovercraft and he looked up just in time to see the British missile slam into the rear of his recently abandoned hovercraft and blow it to smithereens.
‘Have you got him?’ Schofield said into his helmet mike.
Schofield was still racing along in front of Rebound’s hovercraft – still travelling backwards. He could see Rebound’s transport speeding across the ice plain behind him.