Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [10]
The general impression is one of a truly international land mass. Such an impression, however, is misguided and simplistic.
Advocates of the ‘politically neutral Antarctica’ fail to acknowledge the continuing animosity between Argentina and Great Britain as to their respective Antarctic claims; or the staunch refusal of all of the parties to the Antarctic Treaty to vote on the 1985 UN Resolution that would have dedicated the Antarctic land mass to the benefit of the entire international community; or the mysterious conspiracy of silence among the Treaty nations that followed a little-known Greenpeace report in 1995 which accused the French government of conducting secret underground nuclear detonations off the coast of Victoria Land.
More importantly, however, such advocates also fail to recognise that a land without clearly defined borders has no means of dealing with hostile foreign incursions.
Research stations can often be a thousand miles apart. Sometimes, those research stations discover items of immense value – uranium, plutonium, gold. It is not impossible that a foreign state, desperate for resources, would, upon learning of such a discovery, send an incursionary force to appropriate that discovery before the rest of the world even knew it existed.
Such an incident – insofar as it could be known – had never happened in Antarctica before.
There’s always a first time, Schofield thought as he was led into Wilkes Ice Station by the Frenchman named Luc.
Schofield had heard a recording of Abby Sinclair’s distress signal, heard her mention the discovery of a spacecraft buried within the ice underneath Wilkes Ice Station. If the scientists at Wilkes had, in fact, discovered an extra-terrestrial spacecraft, it would definitely be something other parties would be interested in. Whether or not they had the nerve to send a strike team in to get it was another question.
In any case, it made him more than a little uneasy to be greeted at the doors of an American research station by a French national, and as he walked down the dark, ice-walled entrance tunnel behind Luc, Schofield found himself gripping his automatic pistol a little more tightly.
The two men emerged from the darkened entry tunnel into brightly lit, wide open space. Schofield found himself standing on a thin metal catwalk overlooking a wide, cylindrical chasm of empty space.
Wilkes Ice Station opened in front of him, a giant subterranean structure. Narrow, black catwalks ran around the circumference of the underground cylinder, surrounding the wide, central shaft. At the base of the enormous cylinder, Schofield saw a circular pool of water, in the middle of which sat the station’s diving bell.
‘This way,’ Luc said, guiding Schofield to the right. ‘They’re all in the dining room.’
As he entered the dining room preceded by Luc, Schofield felt like an adult entering a pre-school class-room: a stranger who by the simple fact of his size and bearing just doesn’t fit in.
The group of five survivors sat in a tight circle around the table. The men were unshaven, the women unkempt. They all looked exhausted. They looked up wearily as Schofield entered the room.
There were two other men in the room, standing behind the table. Unlike the people seated at the table, these two, like Luc, seemed alert, clean and fresh. One of them was holding a tray of steaming drinks. He froze in mid-step as soon as he saw Schofield walk into the room.
French scientists from d’Urville, Schofield thought. Here in response to the distress signal.
Probably.
At first, no one said anything.
Everyone in the room just looked at Schofield, taking in his helmet and his silver anti-flash glasses; his body armour and his snow fatigues; the MP-5 machine pistol slung over his shoulder; the .44 automatic in his hand.
Snake came in behind Schofield, and all eyes switched to him: similarly garbed, similarly armed. A clone.
‘It’s okay,’ Luc said gently to the others. ‘They are Marines. They are here to