Ice Station

these two, like Luc, seemed alert, clean, and fresh. One of them was holding a tray of steaming drinks. He froze in midstep as soon as he saw Schofield walk into the room.

French scientists from d'Urville, Schofield thought. Here in response to the distress signal.

Probably.

 At first, no one said anything.

Everyone in the room just looked at Schofield, taking in his helmet and his silver antiflash glasses; his body armor and his snow fatigues; the MP-5 machine pistol slung over his shoulder; the .44 automatic in his hand.

Snake came in behind Schofield, and all eyes switched to him: similarly garbed, similarly armed. A clone.

'It's OK,' Luc said gently to the others. 'They are Marines. They are here to rescue you.'

One of the women let out a gasp of air. 'Oh, Jesus,' she said. Then she started to cry. 'Oh, thank God.'

American accent, Schofield noted. The woman pushed back her chair and came toward him, tears pouring down her cheeks. 'I knew you'd come,' she said. 'I knew you'd come.'

She clutched Schofield's shoulder plate and began sobbing into his chest. Schofield showed no emotion. He held his pistol clear of her, as he'd been trained to do.

'It's OK, ma'am,' was all he said as he guided her gently to a nearby seat. 'It's OK. You're all right now.'

Once she was seated, he turned to face the others. 'Ladies and gentleman. We are Reconnaissance Unit Sixteen of the United States Marine Corps. My name is Lieutenant Shane Schofield, and this is Sergeant Scott Kaplan. We are here in response to your distress signal. We have instructions to secure this station and ensure that each of you is unharmed.'

One of the men at the table let out a sigh of relief.

Schofield went on. 'So that you're under no illusions, I will tell you now that we are a Reconnaissance Unit. We will not be extracting you. We are a front-line unit. We travel fast, and we travel light. Our task is to get here quickly and make sure that you are all OK. If there's an emergency situation, we will extract you; if not, our orders are to secure this station and wait for a fully equipped extraction team to arrive.'

Schofield turned to face Luc and the other two men standing behind the table. 'Now, I presume you gentlemen are from d'Urville. Is that correct?'

The man with the tray in his hands swallowed loudly, his eyes wide.

'Yes,' Luc said. 'That is correct. We heard the message on the radio, and we came as soon as we could. To help.'

As Luc spoke, a woman's voice crackled over Schofield's earpiece. 'Unit Two, sweep is clear.'

'Unit Three. We have found three?no, actually, make that four? contacts in the drilling room. We're on our way up now.'

Schofield nodded at Luc. 'Your names?'

'I am Professor Luc Champion,' Luc said. 'This is Professor Jean-Pierre Cuvier, and holding the tray there is Dr. Henri Rae.'

Schofield nodded slowly, taking the names in, comparing them to a list he'd seen on the Shreveport two days previously. It had been a list of the names of every French scientist stationed at d'Urville. Champion, Cuvier, and Rae were on it.

There was a knock on the door and Schofield turned.

Sergeant Morgan 'Montana' Lee stood in the doorway to the dining room. Montana Lee was a nugget of a man, stocky and, at forty-six years of age, the oldest member of the unit. He had a pug nose and a heavyset, weathered face. Ten yards behind him stood his partner, Corporal Oliver 'Hollywood' Todd. Tall, black, and lean, Hollywood Todd was twenty-one years old.

And in between the two Marines stood the fruits of their sweep.

One woman.

One man.

One young girl.

And one seal.

'They got here about four hours ago,' Sarah Hensleigh said

Schofield and Hensleigh were standing on A-deck, out on the catwalk that looked out over the rest of the ice station.

As Hensleigh had already explained, Wilkes Ice Station was essentially a great big vertical cylinder that had been bored into the ice shelf. It dived five stories straight down, all the way to sea level.

Indented at regular intervals on the walls of the cylinder were metal catwalks that ran around the circumference of the cylinder. Each catwalk was joined to the one above it by steep, narrow rung-ladders, so that the whole structure looked kind of like a fire escape.

Branching out from each catwalk, burrowing into the icy walls of the cylinder, was a series of tunnels that formed the different levels of the station. Each level was made up of four straight tunnels that branched out from the central shaft to meet a curved outer tunnel that ran in a wide circle around the central well. The four straight tunnels roughly equated the four points on a compass, so they were simply labeled north, south, east, and west.

Each catwalk/level of Wilkes Ice Station was labeled A through E?A-deck being the highest, E-deck signifying the wide metal platform that surrounded the large pool of water at the base of the massive underground structure. On C-deck, the middle level, Sarah said, a narrow retractable bridge was able to extend across the wide central shaft of the station.

'How many?' Schofield asked.

'There were five of them at first,' Sarah said. 'Four stayed here with us, while the fifth guy took the others back to d'Urville on their hovercraft.'

'You know them?'

Sarah said, 'I know Luc and I know Henri?who I think wet himself when he saw you guys walk in?and I know of the fourth one, Jacques Latissier.'

After Montana had led Hensleigh into the dining room a few minutes earlier, it hadn't taken long for Schofield to figure out that she was the person to speak to about the previous week's events at Wilkes Ice Station.

While all the others looked either dejected or tired, Sarah had appeared collected and in control. Indeed, Montana and Hollywood had said that they'd found her while she had been showing one of the French scientists the core-drilling room down on E-deck. His name had been Jacques Latissier?a tall man with a thick black beard?and he was also on Schofield's mental list.

Sarah Hensleigh stared out over the central shaft of the station, deep in thought. Schofield looked at her. She was an attractive woman, about thirty-five, with dark brown eyes, black shoulder-length hair, and high arching cheekbones. Schofield noticed that around her neck she wore a glistening silver locket on a chain.

At that moment, the little girl came out onto the catwalk. Schofield guessed that she must have been about ten. She had short blond hair, a small button nose, and she wore thick glasses that hung down awkwardly over her cheeks. She looked almost comical in the bulky pink parka that she wore?it had a terribly oversize wool-lined hood that flopped down over her face.

And behind the little girl, loping out onto the metal catwalk, came the seal.

'And who is this?' Schofield asked.

'This is my daughter, Kirsty,' Sarah said, putting her hand on the little girl's shoulder. 'Kirsty, this is Lieutenant Schofield.'

'Hi there,' Schofield said.

Kirsty Hensleigh just stood there for a moment and stared up at Schofield, taking in his armor, his helmet, and his weapons.

'Cool glasses,' she said at last.

'Huh? Oh, yeah,' Schofield said, touching his silver anti-flash glasses. Combined with his snow fatigues and