Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [71]
For if the only entrance to the cave was by way of an underwater ice tunnel, then anybody wanting to penetrate it would have to get there by an underwater approach. Covert incursionary forces hate underwater approaches and for good reason: you never know what’s waiting for you above the surface. The way Schofield saw it, a small team already stationed inside the cave would be able to pick off an enemy force, one by one, as they broke the surface.
Schofield, Sarah and Montana came to the main entrance of the station. They trudged down the ramp-way and headed inside.
Schofield stepped onto the A-deck catwalk and immediately headed for the dining room. Rebound should have been back there by now – with Champion – and Schofield wanted to see if the French doctor had anything to say about Samurai’s condition.
Schofield came to the dining room door and stepped inside. He immediately saw Rebound and Champion standing at the table on which Samurai lay.
Both men looked up quickly as Schofield entered, their eyes wide as saucers. They looked like thieves caught with their hands in the till, caught in the middle of some illegal act.
There was a short silence.
And then Rebound said, ‘Sir. Samurai’s dead.’
Schofield frowned. He knew Samurai’s condition was critical and that death was a possibility, but the way Rebound said it was –
Rebound stepped forward and spoke seriously. ‘Sir, he was dead when we got here. And the doc here says he didn’t die from his injuries. He says . . . he says it looks like Samurai was suffocated.’
Pete Cameron was sitting in his car in the middle of the SETI parking lot. The searing desert sun beat down on him. Cameron pulled out his cellular and called Alison in D.C.
‘How was it?’ she asked.
‘Riveting,’ Cameron said, flicking through his notes of the SETI recording.
‘Anything to go on?’
‘Not really. Looks like they got a few words off a spy satellite, but it’s all Greek to me.’
‘Did you write any of it down this time?’
Cameron looked at his notes.
‘Yes, dear,’ Cameron said. ‘But I’m not so sure it’s worth anything.’
‘Tell me anyway,’ Alison said.
‘All right,’ Cameron said, looking down at his notes.
COPY 134625
CONTACT LOST – > IONOSPHERIC DISTURB.
FORWARD TEAM
SCARECROW
– 66.5
SOLAR FLARE DISRUPT. RADIO
115, 20 MINS, 12 SECS EAST
HOW GET THERE SO – SECONDARY TEAM EN ROUTE
Cameron read his notes aloud for her, word for word, substituting English for his own shorthand symbols.
‘That’s it?’ Alison said when he was finished. ‘That’s all?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Not much to go on.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Cameron said.
‘Leave it with me,’ Alison said. ‘Where are you off to now?’
Cameron plucked a small white card off his dashboard. It was almost covered over by PostIts. It was a business card.
ANDREW WILCOX
Gunsmith
14 Newbury St, Lake Arthur, NM
Cameron said, ‘I thought that since I was down here in the Tumbleweed State, I’d check out the mysterious Mr Wilcox.’
‘The mail box guy?’
‘Yeah, the mail box guy.’
Two weeks ago, someone had left this business card in Cameron’s mail box. Just the card. Nothing else. No message came with it and nothing was written on it. At first, Cameron almost threw it in the trash as errant junk mail – really errant junk mail since it had come from New Mexico.
But then Cameron had received a phone call.
It was a male voice. Husky. He asked if Cameron had got the card.
Cameron said he had.
Then the man said that he had something that Cameron might like to look into. Sure, Cameron had said, would the man like to come to Washington to talk about it?
No. That was out of the question. Cameron would have to come to him. The guy was a real cloak-and-dagger type, super-paranoid. He said he was ex-Navy, or something like that.
‘You sure he’s not just another of your fans?’ Alison said.
Pete Cameron’s reputation from his investigative days at Mother Jones still haunted him. Conspiracy theorists liked to ring him up and say that they had the next Watergate on their hands, or