Shane Schofield just hung there in the water as he watched the remains of the diving bell sink into the darkness.
Barnaby was dead. The SAS were all dead.
He had the station back.
And then Schofield had another thought and a wave of panic swept over him. He was still a hundred feet below the surface. He would never be able to hold his breath long enough to get back up.
Oh Jesus, no.
No . . .
At that moment, Schofield saw a hand appear in front of his face and he almost jumped out of his skin because he thought it must have been Barnaby, that Barnaby had somehow managed to escape from the diving bell a second before it had –
But it wasn’t Trevor Barnaby.
It was James Renshaw.
Hovering in the water above Schofield, breathing through his thirty-year-old scuba gear.
He was offering Schofield his mouthpiece.
It was 9:00 p.m. when Schofield stepped back up onto E-deck.
It was 9:40 by the time he had searched the station from top to bottom, searching for any SAS commandos who might still have been alive. There weren’t any. Schofield picked up various weapons as he went – an MP-5, a couple of nitrogen charges. He also got his Desert Eagle back from Renshaw.
Schofield also looked for Mother, but there was no sign of her.
No sign at all.
Schofield even looked inside the dumb waiter that ran between the different decks, but Mother wasn’t inside it either.
Mother was nowhere to be found.
Schofield sat down on the edge of the pool on E-deck, exhausted. It had now been more than twenty-four hours since he had last slept and he was beginning to feel it.
Beside him, Renshaw’s scuba gear from Little America IV lay dumped on the deck, dripping. It still had the long length of steel cable tied to it – the cable that stretched back down through the water, down under the ice shelf and out to sea, back to the abandoned station in the iceberg about a mile off the coast. Schofield shook his head as he looked at the ancient scuba gear. Behind him on the deck sat one of the British team’s sea sleds – a sleek, ultra-modern unit. The exact opposite of Little America IV’s primitive scuba gear.
Renshaw was upstairs in his room on B-deck, getting some bandages, scissors and disinfectant to use on Schofield’s wounds.
Kirsty was standing on the deck behind Schofield, watching him, concerned. Schofield took a deep breath and shut his eyes. Then he grabbed his nose and – craaaack – his broken nose went back into place.
Kirsty winced. ‘Doesn’t that hurt?’
Schofield grimaced and nodded. ‘A lot.’
Just then, there came a loud splash and Schofield spun around just in time to see Wendy burst up out of the water and land on the metal deck. She loped over to him and Schofield patted her on the head. Wendy immediately rolled over onto her back and got him to pat her on the belly. Schofield did so. Behind him, Kirsty smiled.
Schofield looked down at his watch.
9:44 p.m.
He thought about the breaks in the solar flare that Abby Sinclair had told him about earlier.
Abby had said that breaks in the flare would be passing over Wilkes Ice Station at 7:30 p.m. and 10:00 p.m.
Well, he’d missed the 7:30 break.
But there were still sixteen minutes until the last break passed over the station at 10:00 p.m. He’d try to get on a radio then and call McMurdo.
Schofield sighed, turned around. He had some things to do before then, though.
He saw a Marine helmet on the deck. Snake’s, he guessed. Schofield reached over and grabbed it, put it on his head.
He then positioned the helmet’s microphone in front of his mouth. ‘Marines, this is Scarecrow. Montana. Fox. Santa Cruz. Do you copy?’
At first there was no reply, then suddenly Schofield heard: ‘Scarecrow? Is that you?’
It was Gant. ‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘I’m up in the station.’
‘What about the SAS?’
‘Killed ’em. Got my station back. What about you? I saw that Barnaby sent a team down there.’
‘We had a little help, but we took care of them without any losses. Everyone’s accounted for. Scarecrow, we have got a lot to talk about.’
Down in the ice cavern, Libby Gant looked out from behind the horizontal fissure.
After the short-lived battle with the British dive team, she and the others had retreated to the fissure, not to get away from the SAS commandos – they were all dead – but rather to get away from the giant elephant seals that had begun to prowl around the cavern after gorging themselves on the SAS troops. Right now, Gant saw, the seals were clustered around the big black ship, like campers gathered around a campfire.
‘Like what?’ Schofield’s voice said.
‘Like a spaceship that isn’t a spaceship,’ Gant said.
‘Tell me about it,’ Schofield said wearily.
Gant quickly told Schofield about what she had found. About the ‘spaceship’ itself and the keypad on it, about the hangar and the diary and the earthquake that had buried the whole station deep within the earth. It looked like a top-secret military project of some sort – the secret construction by the US Air Force of some special kind of attack plane. Gant also mentioned the reference in the diary to a plutonium core inside the plane.
Then she told Schofield about the elephant seals and the bodies inside the cave and how the seals had cut down the SAS troops as they had emerged from the water. Their viciousness, Gant said, was shocking.
Schofield took it all in silently.
He then told Gant of the elephant seal that he had seen earlier on the monitor inside Renshaw’s room; told her about the abnormally large lower canines that protruded up from its lower jaw like a pair of inverted fangs. As he spoke, an image formed in his mind – an image of the dead killer whale they had seen surface earlier; it had had two long tearing gashes going all the way down its belly.
‘We saw a couple of seals with teeth like that, too,’ Gant said. ‘Smaller ones, though. Juvenile males. The one you saw must have been the bull. From what you’re saying, though, it seems like only the males have large lower canines.’
Schofield paused at that. ‘Yes.’
And then at that moment, something clicked inside his head. Something about why only the male elephant seals had abnormally large lower teeth.
If the spaceship really had a plutonium core inside it, then it was a good bet that that core was slowly emitting passive radiation. Not a leak. Just passive, ambient radiation, which occurred with any nuclear device. If the elephant seals had set up a nest near the ship, then over time the passive radiation from the plutonium might have had an effect on the male seals.
Schofield remembered seeing the infamous Rodriguez Report about passive radiation near an old nuclear weapons facility in the desert in New Mexico. In nearby towns, there were found to be unusually high instances of genetic abnormality. There were also found to be strikingly higher instances of such abnormalities in men than in women. Elongated fingers was a common mutation. Elongated dentures was another. Teeth. The writers of the report had linked the higher incidence of genetic abnormalities in men to testosterone, the male hormone.
Perhaps, Schofield thought, that was what had happened here.
And then suddenly, Schofield had another thought. A more disturbing thought.
‘Gant, when did the SAS team arrive in the cave?’
‘I’m not sure, somewhere around eight o’clock, I think.’
‘And when did you arrive in the cave?’
‘We left the diving bell at 1410 hours. Then it took us another hour or so to swim up the tunnel. So I’d say about three o’clock.’
Eight o’clock. Three o’clock.
Schofield wondered when the original team of divers from Wilkes Ice Station had gone down to the cave. There was something there, something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on just yet. But it might hav
e been able to explain . . .
Schofield looked at his watch.
9:50 p.m.
Shit, time to go.
‘Gant, listen, I have to go. There’s a window in the solar flare coming over the station in ten minutes and I have to use it. If you and the others are safe down there, do me a favour and look around that hangar. Find out everything you can about that plane, okay?’
‘You bet.’
Schofield clicked off. But no sooner had he done so, than he heard a voice from somewhere high up in the station.
‘Lieutenant!’
Schofield looked up. It was Renshaw. He was up on B-deck. ‘Hey! Lieutenant!’ Renshaw shouted.
‘What?’
‘I think you better see this!’
Schofield and Kirsty entered Renshaw’s room through the square-shaped hole in the door.
Renshaw was standing over by his computer.
‘It’s been on all day,’ Renshaw said to Schofield, ‘but I only looked at it just now. It said I had new mail, so I brought up my e-mail screen and had a look. It came in at 7:32 p.m. and it’s from some guy in New Mexico named Andrew Wilcox.’
‘What’s it got to do with me?’ Schofield said. He didn’t even know anyone named Andrew Wilcox.
‘Well, that’s the thing, Lieutenant. It’s addressed to you.’
Schofield frowned.
Renshaw nodded at the screen. On it was a list of some sort, with a message written above it.
Schofield read the message. After a moment, his jaw dropped. The e-mail read:
SCARECROW,
THIS IS HAWK. BE ADVISED:
AWARE OF YOUR LOCATION.
USMC PERSONNEL DEPARTMENT HAS YOU LISTED
AS DEAD.
SECONDARY TEAM IS EN ROUTE TO YOUR LOCATION.
SUSPECT THAT YOUR MISSION HAS BEEN TARGETED FOR TERMINATION BY ICG.
FEAR THAT THIS SECONDARY UNIT WILL BE HOSTILE TO YOUR INTERESTS. WOULD HATE FOR THE SAME FATE TO BEFALL YOU AS BEFELL ME IN PERU.
WITH THIS IN MIND, SCAN THE FOLLOWING LIST OFKNOWN ICG INFORMERS. MY UNIT IN PERU HADBEEN INFILTRATED LONG BEFORE I GOT THERE.YOURS MIGHT BE, TOO.
TRANSMIT NO. 767-9808-09001
REF NO. KOS-4622
SUBJECT:
THE FOLLOWING IS AN ALPHABETICAL LIST OF PERSONNEL AUTHORISED TO RECEIVE SECURE TRANSMISSIONS.
* * *
NAME LOCATION FIELD/RANK
ADAMS, WALTER K. LVRMRE LAB NCLR PHYSCS
ATKINS, SAMANTHA, E GSTETNR CMPTR SFTWRE
BAILEY, KEITH H. BRKLY AERONTL ENGNR
BARNES, SEAN M. N. SEALS LTCMMDR
BROOKES, ARLIN F. A.RNGRS CPTN
CARVER, ELIZABETH R. CLMBIA CMPTR SCI
CHRISTIE, MARGARET V. HRVRD IDSTRL CHMST
DAWSON, RICHARD K. MCROSFT CMPTR SFTWRE
DELANEY, MARK M. IBM CMPTR HRDWRE
DOUGLAS, KENNETH A. CRAY CMPTR HRDWRE
DOWD, ROGER F. USMC CPRL
EDWARDS, STEPHEN R. BOEING AERONTL ENGNR
FROST, KAREN S. USC GNTC ENGNR
FAULKNER, DAVID G. JPL AERONTL ENGNR
GIANNI, ENRICO R. LCKHEED AERONTL ENGNR
GRANGER, RAYMOND K A. RANGERS SNR SGT
HARRIS, TERENCE X. YALE NCLR PHYSCS
JOHNSON, NORMA E.U. ARIZ BIOTOXNS
KAPLAN, SCOTT M. USMC GNNY SGT
KASCYNSKI, THERESA E. 3M CORP PHSPHTES
KEMPER, PAULENE J. JHNS HPKNS DRMTLGY
KOZLOWSKI, CHARLES R. USMC SGT MJR
LAMB, MARK I. ARMALTE BLLSTCS
LAWSON, JANE R. U.TEX INSCTCIDES
LEE, MORGAN T. USMC SGT
MAKIN, DENISE E. U.CLRDO CHMCL AGNTS
McDONALD, SIMON K. LVRMRE LAB NCLR PHYSICS
NORTON, PAUL G. PRNCTN AMNO ACD CHNS
OLIVER, JENNIFER F. SLCN STRS CMPTR SFTWRE
PARKES, SARAH T. USC PLNTLGST
RIGGS, WAYLON J. N.SEALS CMMDR
REICHART, JOHN R. USMC SGT
SHORT, GREGORY J. CCA CLA LQD SCE
TURNER, JENNIFER C. UCLA GNTC ENGNR
WILLIAMS, VICTORIA D. U.WSHGTN GEOPHYS
YATES, JOHN F. USAF CPTN
P.S. SCARECROW, IF AND WHEN YOU GET BACK TO THE STATES, CALL A MAN NAMED PETER CAMERON AT THE WASHINGTON POST IN D.C. HE WILL KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.
GOOD HUNTING,
HAWK
Schofield stared at the e-mail for a moment, stunned. ‘Hawk’ was andrew trent’s call-sign.
Andrew Trent, who – Schofield had been told – had died in an ‘accident’ during that operation in Peru in 1997.
Andrew Trent was alive . . .
Renshaw printed off a copy of the e-mail and handed it to Schofield. Schofield scanned the e-mail again, thunderstruck.
Somehow, Trent had discovered that Schofield was down in Antarctica. He had also discovered that a secondary team was on its way to Wilkes. Most disturbing of all, however, he had discovered that the United States Marine Corps had already listed Schofield as officially dead.
And so Trent had sent Schofield this e-mail, complete with a list of known ICG informers, in case Schofield had any traitors in his unit.
Schofield looked at the time of the e-mail. 7:32 p.m. It must have been transmitted via satellite during the 7:30 p.m. break in the solar flare.
Schofield scanned the list. A couple of names leapt out at him.
KAPLAN, SCOTT M. USMC GNNY SGT
Snake. As if Schofield needed to know that Snake was a traitor. And then:
KOZLOWSKI, CHARLES R. USMC SGT MJR
Oh, God, Schofield thought.
Chuck Kozlowski. The Sergeant-Major of the Marine Corps, the highest-ranking enlisted soldier in the Corps, was a member of the ICG.
And then Schofield saw another name that made him freeze in horror.
LEE, MORGAN T. USMC SGT
‘Oh, no,’ Schofield said aloud.
‘What?’ Renshaw said. ‘What is it?’
Montana, Schofield thought. Montana’s real name was Morgan Lee. Morgan T. Lee.
Schofield looked up in horror.
Montana was ICG.
Down in the hangar, Gant and the others were searching for information about the black plane.
In a small workshop, Santa Cruz was looking at some schematics. Sarah Hensleigh was sitting at a desk behind him, with a pencil and paper out.
‘Nice name,’ Cruz said, breaking the silence.
‘What?’ Sarah said.
‘The name of the plane. Says here that they called it “The Silhouette”,’ Santa Cruz said. ‘Not bad.’
Sarah nodded. ‘Hmmm.’
‘Any luck with that code?’ Santa Cruz asked.
‘I think I’m getting closer,’ Hensleigh said. ‘The number that we were given, 24157817, seems to be a series of prime numbers: 2, 41, 5, 7, until you get to 817. But 817 is divisible by 19 and 43, which are also prime numbers. But then, again, 817 could be two numbers, 81 and 7, or maybe even three numbers. That’s the hard part, figuring out just how many numbers 24157817 is supposed to represent.’
Santa Cruz smiled. ‘Better you than me, ma’am.’
‘Thanks.’
At that moment, Montana came into the workshop. ‘Doctor Hensleigh?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Fox said to tell you that you might like to have a look at something she’s found over in the office. She
said it was a codebook or something.’
‘All right.’ Hensleigh got up and left the workshop.
Montana and Santa Cruz were alone.
Santa Cruz resumed his examination of the ship’s schematics.
Santa Cruz said, ‘You know, sir, this plane is something else. It’s got a standard turbofan powerplant with supercruise capability. And it’s got eight small, retro jets on its underbelly for vertical take-off and landing. But the strange thing is, both of these power-plants run on regular jet fuel.’
‘So?’ Montana said from the doorway.
‘So . . . what does the plutonium
core do?’ Santa Cruz said, turning to face Montana.
Before Montana could reply, Cruz turned back around to face his schematics. He pulled some hand-written notes out from under them.
‘But I think I figured it out,’ Santa Cruz said. ‘I was telling Fox about this before. These notes I found say that the engineers at this hangar were working on some new kind of electronically-generated stealth mechanism for the Silhouette, some kind of electromagnetic field that surrounded the plane. But to generate this electromagnetic field they needed a shitload of power, something in the neighbourhood of 2.71 gigawatts. But the only thing capable of generating that kind of power is a controlled nuclear reaction. Hence, the plutonium.’ Santa Cruz nodded to himself, pleased.
He never noticed Montana stepping up quickly behind him.
‘I tell ya,’ Santa Cruz went on, ‘this has been one seriously fucked-up mission. Spaceships, French troops, British troops, secret bases, plutonium cores, ICG traitors. Fuck. It’s just –’
Montana’s knife entered Santa Cruz’s ear. It went in hard, and penetrated Santa Cruz’s brain in an instant.
The young private’s eyes went wide, then he fell forward and slammed down face-first on the desk in front of him. Dead.
Montana extracted his bloody knife from Santa Cruz’s skull and turned around –
– and saw Libby Gant standing in the doorway to the workshop, with a bundle of papers in her hands, staring at him in apoplectic horror.
Schofield keyed his helmet mike. ‘Gant! Gant! Come in!’
There was no reply.
Schofield glanced at his watch.
9:58 p.m.
Shit. The break in the solar flare would be here in two minutes.
‘Gant, I don’t know if you can hear me, but if you can, listen up. Montana is ICG! I repeat, Montana is ICG! Don’t turn your back on him! Neutralise him if you have to. I repeat, neutralise him if you have to. I’ve gotta go.’
And with that, Schofield raced upstairs and headed for the radio room.
Gant ran across the cavernous hangar with Montana in hot pursuit. She sprinted past an ice wall just as a line of bulletholes erupted across it.