Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [5]
‘What was that?’ Austin said. ‘Hanson?’
‘Ben, I don’t know what it was, but something just went past my –’
Austin watched as, without warning, Hanson was wrenched underwater.
‘Hanson!’
And then there was another scream. Harry Cox.
Austin turned, just in time to see the slicked back of a large animal rise above the surface and plough at tremendous speed into Cox’s chest, driving him underwater.
Austin began to swim frantically for the water’s edge. As he swam, his head dipped below the surface and suddenly his ears were assaulted by a cacophony of sound – loud, shrill whistles and hoarse, desperate barks.
The next time his head surfaced, he caught a glimpse of the ice walls surrounding the pool of water. He saw large holes set into the ice, just above the surface. They were exactly the same as the ones he’d seen down in the ice tunnel before.
Then Austin saw something come out of one of the holes.
‘Holy Christ,’ he breathed.
Hideous screams burst across the intercom.
In the radio room of the ice station, Hensleigh stared in stunned silence at the blinking console in front of her. Beside her, Abby had her hand across her mouth. Terrified shouts rang out from the wall-mounted speakers:
‘Raymonds!’
‘He’s gone!’
‘Oh shit, no –’
‘Jesus, the walls! They’re coming out of the fucking walls!’
And then suddenly Austin’s voice. ‘Get out of the water! Get out of the water now!’
Another scream. Then another.
Sarah Hensleigh grabbed her mike. ‘Ben! Ben! Come in!’
Austin’s voice crackled over the intercom. He was speaking quickly, in between short, shallow breaths. ‘Sarah, shit, I . . . I can’t see anybody else. I can’t . . . they’re all . . . they’re all gone . . . ’ A pause, and then, ‘Oh sweet Jesus . . . Sarah! Call for help! Call for anything you ca –’
And then a crash of breaking glass exploded across the intercom and the voice of Benjamin Austin was gone.
Abby was on the radio, yelling hysterically into the mike.
‘For God’s sake, somebody answer me! This is station 409, I repeat, this is station four-zero-niner. We have just suffered heavy losses in an underwater cavern and request immediate assistance! Can anybody hear me? Somebody, please answer me! Our divers – oh Jesus – our divers said they saw a spacecraft of some sort in this cavern, and now, now we’ve lost contact with them! The last we heard from them, they were under attack, under attack in the water . . .’
Wilkes Ice Station received no response to their distress signal.
Despite the fact that it was picked up by at least three different radio installations.
FIRST INCURSION
16 June 0630 hours
The hovercraft raced across the ice plain.
It was painted white, which was unusual. Most Antarctic vehicles are painted bright orange, for ease of visibility. And it sped across the vast expanse of snow with a surprising urgency. Nobody is ever in a hurry in Antarctica.
Inside the speeding white hovercraft, Lieutenant Shane Schofield peered out through reinforced fibre-glass windows. About a hundred yards off his starboard bow he could see a second hovercraft – also white – whipping across the flat, icy landscape.
At thirty-two, Schofield was young to be in command of a Recon Unit. But he had experience that belied his age. At five-ten, Schofield was lean and muscular, with a handsome, creased face and closely-cropped black hair. At the moment, his black hair was covered by a camouflaged kevlar helmet. A grey turtle-neck collar protruded from beneath his shoulderplates, covering his neck. Fitted inside the folds of the turtle-neck collar was a lightweight kevlar plate. Sniper protection.
It was rumoured that Shane Schofield had deep blue eyes, but this was a rumour that had never been confirmed. In fact, it was folklore at Parris Island – the legendary training camp for the United States Marine Corps – that no one below the rank of General had ever actually seen Schofield’s eyes. He always kept them hidden behind a pair of reflective,