Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [185]
Schofield led the others across the empty flight deck, toward ‘the island’. It was a strange sight – Schofield with Gant in his arms, Renshaw and Kirsty, and last of all, loping across the flight deck behind them, staring in awe at the massive metal vessel all around her, Wendy.
As they approached the island, a door opened at the base of the massive structure and a white light glowed from inside it.
Suddenly, a man’s shadow appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him. Schofield came closer and recognised the owner of the shadow, recognised the weathered features of a man he knew well.
It was Jack Walsh.
The captain of the Wasp. The man who, three years ago, had defied the White House and sent a team of his Marines into Bosnia to get Shane Schofield out.
Walsh smiled at Schofield, his blue eyes shining.
‘You’ve been getting a lot of noses out of joint today, Scarecrow,’ Walsh said evenly. ‘Lot of people talking about you.’
Schofield frowned. He had kind of expected a warmer reception from Jack Walsh.
‘Why have you cleared the deck, sir?’ Schofield said.
‘I didn’t –’ Walsh began, cutting himself off as suddenly, another man brushed rudely past Walsh and stepped out onto the flight deck and just stood there in front of Schofield.
Schofield had never seen this man before. He had carefully groomed white hair, a white moustache, and a barrel-like torso. And he wore a blue uniform. Navy. The number of medals on his breast pocket was staggering. Schofield guessed he must have been about sixty.
‘So this is the Scarecrow,’ the man said, looking Schofield up and down. Schofield just stood there on the flight deck, holding Gant in his arms.
‘Scarecrow,’ Jack Walsh said tightly, ‘this is Admiral Thomas Clayton, the Navy’s representative to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He assumed command of the Wasp about four hours ago.’
Schofield sighed inwardly.
An Admiral from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Jesus.
If what he had heard about the ICG was correct, the Joint Chiefs was its head, its brain. Schofield was looking at one of the heads of the ICG.
‘All right!’ Admiral Clayton yelled loudly to someone standing in the doorway behind Walsh. ‘Get out there!’
At that moment, a stream of men – all of them dressed in blue coveralls – poured out of the doorway in front of Schofield and headed across the deck toward the Silhouette.
Admiral Clayton turned to Schofield. ‘Seems this mission is not going to be a complete waste of time after all. We heard the commentary of your dogfight with the F-22s. A cloaking device, huh? Who would have thought it.’
Schofield looked back out at the deck, saw the men in blue coveralls reach the stern end of the flight deck, saw them begin to swarm all over the Silhouette. A couple of them went up the steps and inside the big black plane.
‘Captain Walsh,’ Schofield said, indicating Gant. ‘This Marine needs medical attention.’
Walsh nodded. ‘Let’s get her to the infirmary. Deckhand!’
A deckhand appeared, took Gant from Schofield, carried her inside.
Schofield turned to Kirsty and Renshaw, ‘Go with her. Take Wendy, too.’ Kirsty and Renshaw obeyed, went inside the island. Wendy hopped in through the doorway after them. Schofield made to follow them, but as he did, there came a shout from over by the Silhouette.
‘Admiral!’ One of the men in blue coveralls called out from underneath the pointed nose of the Silhouette.
‘What is it?’ Admiral Clayton said, walking over to the plane.
The man held up the Tritonal 80/20 charge that Schofield had left inside the cockpit. Clayton saw it. He didn’t seem at all perturbed by its presence.
Admiral Clayton turned to Schofield from fifty yards away. ‘Attempting to destroy the evidence, Lieutenant?’
The Admiral took the charge from the man, turned the pressurised lid and calmly flicked the ‘DISARM’ switch.
Clayton smiled at Schofield. ‘Really, Scarecrow,’ he called. ‘You’ll have to do better than that to beat me.’
Schofield just stared at