Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [111]
As his hovercraft sped across the ice plain, Schofield looked behind him. He saw the British hovercrafts approaching Wilkes Ice Station from the west and the south.
‘They must have landed at one of the Australian stations,’ he said over his helmet intercom. Casey Station, most likely, he thought. It was the nearest one, about 700 miles due west of Wilkes.
‘Fucking Australians,’ Rebound’s voice said.
Five miles away, in the silent interior of an American-made Bell Textron SR.N7-S hovercraft, Brigadier-General Trevor J. Barnaby stared impassively out through the reinforced glass windshield of his hovercraft.
Trevor Barnaby was a tall, solid man, fifty-six years old, with a fully-shaven head and a pointed, black goatee. He stared out through the windshield of his hovercraft with cold, hard eyes.
‘You’re running, Scarecrow,’ he said aloud. ‘My, my, you are a clever one.’
‘They’re heading east, sir,’ a young SAS corporal manning the radio console next to Barnaby said. ‘Out along the coast.’
‘Send eight crafts after them,’ Barnaby commanded. ‘Kill them. Everyone else is to proceed to the station as planned.’
‘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