Ice Station - Matthew Reilly [97]
‘I don’t get it,’ Renshaw said. ‘You still can’t see his face.’
‘I’m not looking at his face,’ Schofield said.
And he wasn’t.
He was looking at the man’s shoulders. At the man’s right shoulderplate.
The image on the screen was grainy but Schofield could see the shoulderplate clearly.
A picture had been painted onto it.
Schofield felt a sliver of ice run down his spine as he stared at the picture that had been tattooed onto the man’s shoulderplate.
It was a picture of a cobra, with its jaws bared wide.
In the dark storeroom down on E-deck, Mother rested her head gently against the cold, icy wall.
She shut her eyes. It had been about a half hour since anyone had come to check on her and she expected Buck Riley to come by soon. Her leg was starting to ache and she was itching for another hit of methadone.
She took a deep breath, tried to shut out the pain.
After a moment, however, she had a strange sensation that someone else was in the room with her . . .
Slowly, Mother opened her eyes.
Someone was standing in the doorway.
A man. A Marine.
He just stood there, like a statue, silhouetted in the doorway. His face was cloaked in shadow. He didn’t say a word.
‘Book?’ Mother said, sitting upright. She squinted, took a closer look, tried to see who it was.
She stopped, startled.
It wasn’t Book.
Book was shorter than whoever this was, more rounded. This Marine was tall and lean.
The Marine still didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at Mother, his features covered in darkness. Mother realised who it was.
‘Snake,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you talk anymore? Cat got your tongue?’
Snake didn’t move from the doorway. He just kept staring at Mother.
When he spoke, Mother didn’t see his mouth move. His voice was low, rough. ‘I’m here instead of Book,’ he said. ‘I’m here to take care of you, Mother.’
‘Good,’ Mother said, sitting up straighter, preparing herself for another shot of methadone. ‘I could use another shot of that kickapoo joy juice.’
Snake still didn’t move from the doorway.
Mother frowned. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What are you waiting for – a gil-tedged invitation?’
‘No,’ Snake said, his voice cold.
He stepped forward into the storeroom and Mother’s eyes widened in horror as she saw the light from the corridor outside glint off the knife in his hand.
Mother pushed herself back against the icy wall of the storeroom as Snake stepped through the doorway, brandishing his long Bowie knife.
‘Snake, what the fuck are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ he said coldly, ‘you’re a good soldier. But you’re too close to this.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
Snake stepped slowly closer.
Mother’s eyes were glued to the glistening knife in his hand.
‘National security,’ Snake said.
‘National security?’ Mother scoffed. ‘What the fuck are you, Snake?’
Snake smiled a thin, evil smile. ‘Come on, Mother, you’ve been around. You’ve heard the stories. What do you think I am?’
‘A fucking whacko, that’s what I think,’ Mother said, as her eyes fell upon her helmet, lying on the floor of the storeroom halfway between her and Snake. It was lying upside down, with the microphone pointed up in the air.
Slowly, Mother began to slide her left hand down toward her belt.
‘I do what’s necessary to be done,’ Snake said.
‘Necessary for what?’ Mother said, as she flicked a button on her belt. The button that switched on her helmet mike.
In Renshaw’s room on B-deck, Schofield now had his body armour back on.
He reached for his various weapons. His pistol went into its holster, his knife went back into its sheath on his ankle guard. He slung his MP-5 over his shoulder and holstered his Maghook behind his back. Lastly, Schofield reached for his helmet and slid it over his head.
He heard voices immediately.
‘– the national interest.’
‘Snake, put that fucking –’
And then suddenly static cut across the signal and there was nothing.
But Schofield had heard enough.
Mother.
Snake was down with Mother.
‘Jesus,