Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [127]
The little man’s hands reached up and clasped the ice ledge and he awkwardly hauled himself up onto it. Then he lay flat on the edge of the ledge and reached back down for Schofield.
Schofield reached up and Renshaw began to haul him up out of the water. Schofield was almost on the ledge when suddenly, Renshaw’s wet hands slipped off his wrist and Schofield fell clumsily back down into the water.
Schofield plunged underwater.
Silence. Total silence. Like the womb.
The blasting explosions of the waves crashing against the ice cliffs no longer assaulted his ears.
The massive white underbelly of the iceberg filled his vision. It stretched down and down until it disappeared into the cloudy depths of the ocean.
And then suddenly Schofield heard a sound and he snapped upright in the water. The sound travelled well in the water and he heard it clearly.
Vmmmmmm.
It was a low, droning, humming sound.
Vmmmmmm.
Schofield frowned. It sounded almost . . . mechanical. Like a motorised door opening somewhere. Somewhere close.
Somewhere . . . behind him.
Schofield spun around instantly.
And then he saw it.
It was so huge – so monstrously huge – that the mere sight of it sent Schofield’s heart into overdrive.
It was just hovering there in the water.
Silent. Huge.
Looming over Schofield as he hovered in the water alongside the iceberg.
It must have been at least a hundred metres long, its hull black and round. Schofield saw the two horizontal stabilising fins jutting out from either side of the conning tower, saw the cylindrical snub nose of the bow and suddenly his heart was pumping very loudly inside his head.
Schofield couldn’t believe his eyes.
He was looking at a submarine.
Schofield burst up out of the water.
‘Are you all right?’ Renshaw asked from up on the ledge.
‘Not anymore,’ Schofield said before he quickly took another breath and submerged again.
The world was silent again.
Schofield swam a little deeper and stared at the massive submarine in awe. It was about thirty yards away from him but he could see it clearly. The enormous submarine just sat there – completely submerged – hovering in the underwater silence like an enormous, patient leviathan.
Schofield looked it over, looked for the signature features.
He saw the narrow conning tower; saw the four torpedo ports on the bow. One of the torpedo ports, he saw, was in the process of opening. Vmmmmm.
And then Schofield saw the colours painted on the forward left-hand side of the bow – saw the three vertical shafts of colour – blue–white–red.
He was looking at the French flag.
Renshaw watched as Schofield burst up out of the water again.
‘What are you doing down there?’ he asked.
Schofield ignored him. Instead, he thrust his left arm out of the water and examined his watch.
The stopwatch read:
2:57:59
2:58:00
2:58:01
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Schofield said. ‘Oh, Jesus.’
In the bedlam of the hovercraft chase, he had completely forgotten about the French warship hovering off the coast of Antarctica, waiting to fire its missiles at Wilkes Ice Station. Its codename, he recalled, was ‘Shark’.
It was only now, though, that Schofield realised he had made a mistake. He had jumped to the wrong conclusion. ‘Shark’ wasn’t a warship at all.
It was a submarine.
It was this submarine.
‘Quickly,’ Schofield said to Renshaw. ‘Get me out.’
Renshaw thrust his hand down and Schofield clasped it firmly. Renshaw hauled Schofield up as quickly as he could. When he was high enough, Schofield grabbed hold of the ice ledge and hauled himself up onto it.
Renshaw had half-expected Schofield to drop down onto the ice and catch his breath as he himself had done, but Schofield was up on his feet in an instant.
In fact, no sooner was he up on the ledge than he was running – no sprinting – out across the flat expanse of the iceberg.
Renshaw gave chase. He saw Schofield hurdle an ice-mound as he bounded for the edge of the iceberg about thirty metres away. There was a slight incline which Schofield ran up,