Alison was dressed in a pair of cream pants, a white shirt, and a loosely tied black tie. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail.
After a few moments, she looked at the slip of paper on which she'd jotted down everything her husband had told her over the phone.
She read over each line carefully. Most of it was indecipherable jargon. Talk about Scarecrows, ionospheric disturbances, forward teams, and secondary teams.
Three lines, however, struck her.
-66.5
SOLAR FLARE DISRUPTING RADIO
115, 20 MINS, 12 SECS EAST
Alison frowned as she read the three lines again. Then she got an idea.
She quickly reached over to a nearby desk and grabbed a brown folio-sized book from the shelf above it. She looked at the cover: Bartholemew's Advanced Atlas of World Geography. She flipped some pages and quickly found the one she was looking for.
She ran her finger across a line on the page.
"Huh?" she said aloud. Another reporter at a desk nearby looked up from his work.
Alison didn't notice him. She just continued to stare at the page in front of her.
Her finger marked the point on the map designated latitude minus 66.5 degrees and longitude 115 degrees, 20 minutes, and 12 seconds east.
Alison frowned.
Her finger was pointing at the coastline of Antarctica.
The Marines gathered around the pool on E-deck in silence.
Montana, Gant, and Santa Cruz wordlessly shouldered into scuba tanks. All three wore black thermal-electric wet suits.
Schofleld and Snake watched them as they suited up. Rebound stood behind them. Book Riley walked off in silence toward the E-deck storeroom, to check on Mother.
A large black backpack?the French team's VLF transmitter that Santa Cruz had found during his search of the station?sat on the deck next to Schofield's feet.
The news of Samurai's death had rocked the whole team.
Luc Champion, the French doctor, had told Schofield that he had found traces of lactic acid in Samurai's trachea, or windpipe. That, Champion had said, was almost certain proof that Samurai had not died of his wounds.
Lactic acid in the trachea, Champion explained, evidenced a sudden lack of oxygen to the lungs, which the lungs then tried to compensate for by burning sugar, a process known as lactic acidosis. In other words, lactic acid in the trachea pointed to death due to a sudden lack of oxygen to the lungs, otherwise known as asphyxiation, or suffocation.
Samurai had not died from his wounds. He had died because his lungs had been deprived of oxygen. He had died because someone had cut off his air.
Someone had murdered Samurai.
In the time it had taken Schofield and Sarah to go out and meet with Montana at the perimeter of the station?the same time it took for Rebound to climb down to E-deck and collect Luc Champion?someone had gone into the dining room on A-deck and strangled Samurai.
The implications of Samurai's death hit Schofield hardest of all.
Someone among them was a killer.
But it was a fact that Schofield had not told the rest of the unit. He had only told them that Samurai had died. He hadn't told them how. He figured that if someone among them was a killer, it was better that that person not be aware that Schofield knew about him. Rebound and Champion had been sworn to silence.
As he watched the others suit up, Schofield thought about what had happened.
Whoever the killer was, he had expected that Samurai's death would probably be attributed to his wounds. It was a good assumption. Schofield figured that had he been told the Samurai hadn't made it, he would have immediately assumed that Samurai's body had simply given up the fight for life and died from its wounds. That was why the killer had suffocated Samurai. Suffocation left no blood, no telltale marks or wounds. If there were no other wounds on the body, the story that Samurai had simply lost the battle with his bullet wounds gained credence.
What the killer had not known, however, was that asphyiation did, in fact, leave a telltale sign?lactic acid in the trachea.
Schofield had no doubt that had he not had a doctor present at the station, the lactic acid would have gone unnoticed and Samurai's death would have been attributed to his bullet wounds. But there had been a doctor at the station. Luc Champion. And he had spotted the acid.
The implications were as chilling as they were endless.
Were there French soldiers still at large somewhere inside the station? Someone the Marines had missed. A lone soldier, maybe, who had decided to pick off the Marines one by one, starting with the weakest of their number, Samurai.
Schofield quickly dismissed the thought. The station, its surrounds, and even the remaining French hovercraft outside had been swept thoroughly. There were no more enemy soldiers either inside or outside Wilkes Ice Station.
That created a problem.
Because it meant that whoever had killed Samurai was someone Schofield thought he could trust.
It couldn't have been the French scientists, Champion and Rae. Since the end of the battle with the French they had been handcuffed to the pole on E-deck.
It could have been one of the scientists from Wilkes? while Schofield was outside with Montana and Hensleigh, they were all in their common room on B-deck, unguarded by any of the Marines. But why? Why on earth would one of the scientists want to kill a wounded Marine? They had nothing to gain from killing Samurai. The Marines were here to help them.
There still remained one other alternative.
One of the Marines had killed Samurai.
The mere possibility that that might have happened sent a chill down Schofield's spine. The fact that he had even considered it chilled him even more. But he considered it nonetheless, because aside from the residents of Wilkes, a Marine was the only other person in the station who'd had the opportunity to kill Samurai.
Schofield, Sarah, and Montana had been outside when it had happened, so Schofield was at least sure about them.
As for the other Marines, however, there were difficulties.
They had all been, more or less, working alone at different places in the station when the murder had occurred. Any one of them could have done it without being detected.
Schofield checked them off one by one.
Snake. He had been on C-deck, in the alcove, working on the destroyed winch controls that raised and lowered the station's diving bell. He had been alone.
Santa Cruz. He had been searching the station for French erasing devices. That search had turned up nothing but the VLF transmitter that now sat silently at Schofield's feet. He had also been alone.
Rebound. Schofield thought about the young private. Rebound was the prime suspect. Schofield knew it, Rebound himself knew it. He was the one who had said to Schofield that Samurai was stable enough for him to go down to E-deck and fetch Champion. He was also the only one who had been with Samurai since the battle had ended. For all Schofield knew Samurai had been dead for over an hour, killed by Rebound long ago.
But why? It was this question that Schofield just couldn't figure out. Rebound was young, twenty-one. He was fresh and green and eager. He followed orders immediately, and he wasn't old enough to be jaded or cynical. The kid loved being a Marine, and he was as genuine a kid as Schofield had ever met. Schofield had thought that he had a good measure of Rebound's character. Maybe he hadn't.
The thought of Rebound as the killer did, however, trigger one other unusual thought in Schofield's mind. It was a memory, a painful memory that Schofield had tried to bury.
Andrew Trent.
Lieutenant First Class Andrew X. Trent, USMC. Call sign, "Hawk."
Peru. March 1997.
Schofield had gone through Officer Candidate School with Andy Trent. They were good friends, and after OCS they had risen to the rank of First Lieutenant together. A brilliant strategic thinker, Trent was given command of a prized Atlantic-based Marine Reconnaissance Unit. Schofield?not quite the tactical g
enius that Trent was?was awarded a Pacific-based one.
In March of 1997, barely a month after he had taken command of his Recon Unit, Schofield and his team were ordered to attend a battle scene in the mountains of Peru. Apparently, something of tremendous importance had been discovered in an ancient Incan temple high in the Andes and the Peruvian President had called upon the United States for aid. Bands of murderous treasure hunters are rife in the mountains of Peru; they have been known to kill whole teams of university researchers in order to steal the priceless artifacts that the researchers find.
When Schofield's unit arrived at the mountain top site, they were met by a squad of American troops, a single platoon of U.S. Army Rangers. The Rangers had formed a two-mile perimeter around a particular rain forest-covered mountain. On top of the mountain stood the crumbling ruins of a pyramid-shaped Incan temple, half-buried in the mountainside.
A Marine Recon Unit was already inside the temple, the captain of the Rangers informed Schofield.
Andy Trent's unit.
Apparently, it had been the first unit to arrive on the scene. Trent and his team had been doing some exercises in the jungles of Brazil when the alarm had been raised, so they had been the first to arrive.
The Army Ranger Captain didn't know anything else about what was going on inside the ruined temple. All he knew was that all other units arriving at the scene had been ordered to secure a two-mile perimeter around the temple and not to enter it for any reason.
Schofield's unit went about doing what they had been ordered to do, and before long they had reinforced the two-mile perimeter around the temple.
It was then that a new unit arrived on the scene.
This unit, however, was allowed to pass through the perimeter. It was a SEAL team, someone said, a bomb squad of some kind that was going in to defuse some mines that had been laid by whoever was in there with Trent's Marines. Apparently, there had been heavy fighting inside. Trent and his team had prevailed, Schofield was pleased to hear.
The SEAL team went inside. Time passed slowly.
And then suddenly Schofield's earpiece had exploded to life. A garbled voice cut through waves of static.
It said, "This is Lieutenant Andrew Trent, Commander of United States Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit Four. I repeat, this is Andrew Trent of U.S. Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit Four. If there are any Marines out there, please respond."
Schofield responded.
Trent didn't seem to hear him. He could transmit, but he obviously couldn't receive.
Trent said, "If there are any Marines outside this temple, raid it now! I repeat, raid it now! They planted men in my unit! They planted men inside my goddamn unit! Marines, those SEALs who came in here before, they said that they were here to help me. They said they were a special unit, sent by Washington to assist me in securing this site. Then they pulled their guns and shot one of my corporals right in the fucking head! And now they're trying to kill me! Fuck! Some of my own men are helping them, for God's sake! They planted fucking men in my unit! They planted men in my own goddamned unit! I'm being attacked by my own?"
The signal cut off abruptly.
Schofield had quickly looked about him. No one else, it seemed, had heard the short, sharp message. Trent must have transmitted it over the "Officer-Only" frequency, which meant that only Schofield had heard it.
Schofield didn't care. He immediately ordered his unit to mobilize, but as soon as they were ready and starting to head for the temple, they were cut off by the Army Rangers. The Rangers were a force of fifty men. Schofield's was only twelve.
The Ranger Captain spoke firmly. "Lieutenant Schofield, my orders are clear. No one goes in there. No one. If anyone tries to enter that building, my orders are to shoot them on sight. If you try to enter that building, Lieutenant, I will be forced to open fire on you." His voice went cold. "Have no doubt that I will, Lieutenant. I won't think twice about offing a dozen faggot Marines."
Schofield had glared at the Ranger Captain.
He was a tall man, about forty, a career frontline soldier, fit but barrel-chested, with a full head of crew-cut gray hair. He had cold, lifeless eyes and a weathered, sneering face. Schofield remembered his name?would always remember it?remembered the bastard stating it in a robotic, staccato manner after Schofield had demanded it from him: Captain Arlin F. Brookes, United States Army.
And so Schofield and his team were held back at the perimeter while Andrew Trent's voice continued to shout desperately over Schofield's helmet intercom.
The more Trent shouted, the more furious and frustrated Schofield became.
The SEAL team that had gone inside had killed more of his men, Trent said. Some of his own men had then joined them and turned on him and killed others in his unit from point-blank range. Trent didn't know what was going on.
The last thing Schofield heard over his helmet intercom that day was Trent saying that he was the last one left.
Andrew Trent never came out of the temple.
About a year later, after making some inquiries, Schofield was told that Trent's unit had arrived at that temple only to find no one there. There was no battle, Schofield was told, no fighting with anyone. No "mysterious discovery" in the first place. Upon arriving at the temple and finding it empty, Trent and his team had investigated the dark, dank ruins. It was during that search that a few men?Trent included?fell down a concealed plug hole. It was estimated that the plug hole was at least a hundred feet deep, with sheer rock walls. No one had survived the fall. A search had apparently been made, and all the bodies had been recovered.
Except Trent's, Schofield had been told. Andrew Trent's body was never found.
It made Schofield furious. Officially, nothing had ever happened at that temple. Nothing but a tragic accident that had claimed the lives of twelve United States Marines.
Schofield knew he was the only one who had heard Trent's voice over the radio system, knew no one would believe him if he ever questioned what had happened. If he said anything, it would probably only win him a quiet court-martial and an even quieter dishonorable discharge.
And so Schofield had never mentioned the incident to anyone.
But now, in the cold confines of an underground ice station in the Antarctic, it was coming back to haunt him.
"They planted men in my unit!... They planted fucking men in my unit!"
Trent's words echoed inside Schofield's head as he thought about whether Rebound had killed Samurai.
Had they also planted men inside his unit?
And who were "they" anyway? The U.S. Government? The U.S. military?
It sounded like something that might have happened in the old Soviet Union. A government planting "special" men inside elite units. But then, as Schofield knew, the United States and the USSR had not really been all that different. The U.S. had always accused the Soviets of indoctrination while at the same time they played "The Star-Spangled Banner" every single morning in schools across America.
The thought of disloyal men inside his unit made Schofield's skin crawl.
He continued with his mental checklist.
Hell, even Riley and Gant?engaged in the preparation of the scuba gear down on E-deck?had occasionally separated. Every so often, Riley would go and eheck on Mother.
Schofield couldn't believe that Book Riley was a traitor. He had known him for too long.
But Gant? Schofield thought he knew, Libby Gant, thought he had her measure, too. He had chosen Gant himself for the unit. Could that have been anticipated by someone else? By someone who had wanted her in Schofield's unit. No....
The only other Marine alive at the station was Mother. And the mere prospect that she could have killed Samurai was absurd.
Schofield's head was spinning. All he knew for sure was that Samurai Lau was dead and that someone among them had killed him. The problem was, they all could have done it.
Montana, Gant, and Santa Cruz were ready to dive.
Strapped to their backs w
ere Navy-made low-audibility air tanks, or, as they are more colloquially known in the Marine Corps, "stealth tanks."
Water is a great conductor of sound, and regular scuba tanks make a lot of noise as they pump compressed air through their hoses to a diver's mouthpiece. Any commercial underwater microphone will detect a diver by the loud hisssssing noise that his breathing gear makes.
With this in mind, the U.S. Navy has spent millions of dollars developing a silent self-contained underwater breathing apparatus. The result is a scuba system known as LABA?low-audibility breathing apparatus. Scuba tanks that are all but noiseless underwater. LABA tanks are undetectable to conventional audio detection systems, hence the comparison with stealth aircraft.
Schofield watched the three Marines as they reached for their face masks and prepared to jump into the murky pool. Then he turned and scanned the pool, empty save for the diving bell that hovered out in the center. The pod of killer whales had left the area about forty minutes ago and hadn't been seen since. As he gazed at the pool, however, he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. Schofield turned.
And saw Sarah Hensleigh standing in front of him. Dressed in a figure-hugging blue-and-black thermal-electric wet suit. Schofield was momentarily taken aback. For the first time that day, he noticed just how shapely Sarah Hensleigh was?the woman had a great body.
Schoheld raised his eyebrows.
"This is what I wanted to ask you about before," Sarah said. "When we were outside. But I never got a chance. I want to go down with them."
"I can see that," Schofield said.
"This station lost nine people down in that cave. I'd likd to know why."
Schofield looked from Hensleigh to the three Marine divers on his left. He frowned, doubtful.
"I can help," Sarah said quickly. "With the cave, for example."
"How?"
"Ben Austin?one of the divers who went down there at the very start?said it was an underground cavern of some sort, right?" Sarah said. "He said it had sheer ice walls and that it stretched off for several hundred feet." Sarah stared at Schofield. "My guess is that if the walls in that cave are sheer, then it's a good bet that the cave was formed by some kind of seismic event in the past, some kind of earthquake or undersea volcanic eruption. Sheer walls are created by sudden upthrusts of rock, not slow, gradual movement."
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