Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [186]
Behind him, Jack Walsh said, ‘What?’
‘I said, I’m sorry about the deck, sir,’ Schofield repeated.
At that moment, there came a sudden, high-pitched whining sound. And then before anyone knew what was happening, the whine became a scream and then, like a thunderbolt sent from God himself, the sixth and final missile from the Silhouette came shooting down out of the sky and slammed into the Silhouette at nearly three hundred miles per hour.
The big black fighter plane shattered in an instant, exploded into a thousand pieces. Every man inside or near it was killed instantly. The fuel tanks of the big black plane exploded next, causing a red-hot fireball of liquid fire to flare out from the destroyed plane. The fireball billowed out across the deck and engulfed Admiral Clayton. It was so hot, it wiped the skin from his face.
Admiral Thomas Clayton was dead before he hit the ground.
Shane Schofield stood on the bridge of the Wasp as it sailed east across the Southern Ocean, into the morning sun. He took a sip from a coffee mug with the words ‘CAPTAIN’S MUG’ written on it. The coffee was hot.
Jack Walsh came out onto the bridge and offered him a new pair of silver anti-flash glasses. Schofield took them, put them on.
It had been three hours now since the Silhouette had been destroyed by one of its own missiles.
Gant had been taken to the infirmary, where her condition had worsened. Her blood loss had been severe. She had lapsed into a coma about half an hour ago.
Renshaw and Kirsty were in Walsh’s stateroom, sleeping soundly. Wendy was playing in a dive preparation pool belowdecks.
Schofield himself had had a hot shower and changed into a tracksuit. A corpsman had attended to his wounds, reset his broken rib. He had said that Schofield would need further treatment when he got back home, but with a few painkillers, he would be okay for now. When the corpsman had finished, Schofield had returned to Gant’s bedside. He had only come up to the bridge when Walsh had called for him.
When he’d got there, Walsh had told him that the Wasp had just received a call from McMurdo Station. Apparently, a battered Marine hovercraft had just arrived at McMurdo. In it were five people – one Marine and four scientists – claiming that they had come from Wilkes Ice Station.
Schofield shook his head and smiled. Rebound had made it to McMurdo.
It was then that Walsh demanded a rundown of the events of the preceding twenty-four hours. Schofield told him everything – about the French and the British, the ICG and the Silhouette. He even told Walsh about the help he had received from a dead Marine named Andrew Trent.
When Schofield had finished recounting his story, Walsh just stood there for a moment in stunned silence. Schofield took another sip from his mug and looked aft, through the slanted panoramic windows of the bridge. He saw the gaping hole at the stern end of the flight deck where the missile had hit the Silhouette. Jagged lengths of metal stuck out into the hole, wires and cables hung loosely from it.
Of course, Walsh had accepted Schofield’s apology for the damage to the deck. He hadn’t much liked Admiral Clayton anyway, the asshole had assumed command of Walsh’s ship and no skipper appreciated that. And then when Walsh heard about Schofield’s experiences with the ICG down at Wilkes Ice Station, he had no pity for Clayton and his ICG men at all.
As he stood there gazing down at the hole in the flight deck, Schofield began to think about the mission again, in particular, about the Marines he had lost, the friends he had lost on this foolish crusade.
‘Uh, Captain,’ a young ensign said. Walsh and Schofield turned together. The young ensign was sitting at an illuminated table inside the communications room which adjoined the bridge. ‘I’m picking up something very peculiar here . . .’
‘What is it?’ Walsh said. He and Schofield came over.
The ensign said, ‘It appears to be some kind of GPS transponder signal, coming from just