With this body armor in place, the hunters collected their weapons—long collapsible spears with serrated tips and curved double-edged blades with ivory grips. Clamps on their gleaming body shields held folded shuriken that, when thrown, would deploy wicked, retractable blades. Strangely, they left the plasma cannons on their racks, selecting only the less-advanced, almost primitive weaponry instead.
Only one creature chose a high-tech weapon—a wrist-mounted net gun—though he counterbalanced that choice with a more basic, long, curved blade fashioned from a diamond-hard, bony substance.
After they had all completed their preparations for the hunt, the Predators filed into a small ritual chamber and knelt in supplication before a mammoth, intricately carved stone effigy of a fierce warrior god, a deity who hurled thunderbolts as weapons like some mighty, extraterrestrial Odin.
As the Predators prostrated themselves before their savage god, a static-streaked image appeared on the bridge’s main computer screen. It was the real-time image of a parade of vehicles lumbering across a vast, frozen expanse.
CHAPTER 10
Five tracked Hagglunds, followed by the two large mobile drilling platforms, plodded in a long procession across the rugged ice pack. Lex rode in the lead vehicle, a gaudy orange Hagglund branded with the ubiquitous Weyland logo. Little more than a cabin mounted on tank tracks, the Norwegian-built all-weather people mover was the most effective mode of transportation at the South Pole, and its huge windows afforded passengers an excellent view.
Gazing at the pristine beauty of the harsh, moonlit landscape, Lex pressed her cheek against the cold Plexiglas and allowed the polar chill to seep into her. This was Lex’s way of acclimating her mind and body to the harsh climatic conditions she was about to face.
“A wasteland,” Sven declared. At his side, Verheiden nodded in agreement.
Lex shook her head, disappointed by their powers of observation. All you had to do was open your eyes to see that Antarctica possessed as rich an ecology as any other continent on Earth. This harsh, seemingly hostile environment actually teemed with a variety of flora and fauna—much of it easy to see if one only took the time to look.
Less than five miles from this spot, humpback, minke, and fin whales cavorted in the ocean. A dozen different species of penguin thrived along the coastline, mingling with fur and elephant seals. Albatross, petrel, gulls and skuas wheeled across the sky and snatched krill and fish from the breakers.
The mercenaries—along with men like Charles Weyland, or even that bandit Quinn—all thought of the natural world as something to be explored, tamed or exploited, not cherished or preserved.
“We’re about seven miles from the station,” Max Stafford announced from behind the wheel, interrupting Lex’s thoughts. Next to him, Charles Weyland huddled in his coat.
Sebastian directed Lex’s attention to the full moon, which hung so low in the sky that you could practically bump your head against it.
“When I was a kid, growing up in Sicily, you know what they’d call a moon that big?”
Lex shook her head.
“Hunter’s Moon.”
Twenty minutes later the lead Hagglunds rolled to the pinnacle of a snow rise and halted on the edge of the whaling station. One by one, the other vehicles pulled around it, engines idling. Weyland opened the door, filling the cab with a blast of frigid air. Max shut down the engine and followed. As the rest disembarked, a steady snow began to fall.
“There she is,” Weyland declared.
To Sebastian De Rosa, the abandoned nineteenth-century whaling station looked like one of the Wild West ghost towns he’d visited while digging in the Southwest. The spare, functional wooden buildings were made out of the same tarred, rough-hewn timber. There were hitching posts, a main street fronted by several large buildings, and smaller shacks in various states of disrepair.
The difference was that here ice and snow replaced sand and tumbleweeds. Wood-shingled roofs sagged under decades of accumulated snow, and drifts as high as ten feet collected between the buildings and almost completely buried some of the smaller, heavily damaged structures.
Most eerie was the dark pall that hung over the place. Bouvetoya Whaling Station was built at the foot of the mountain, and at this time of year a permanent shadow fell over the desolate ghost town. Sebastian and Miller were tempted to use their flashlights to illuminate the main street as they moved through town.
“This place looks like a theme park,” said Miller.
“Yes,” Thomas replied. “Moby-Dick World.”
As the others looked around, Thomas spied Adele Rousseau. The woman lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
“Hi,” said Thomas.
The mercenary took another puff and said nothing.
“Be honest,” Thomas teased. “You’re a little disappointed that you didn’t get the yellow jacket, aren’t you?”
Adele turned and faced him. She was not smiling.
“They give the newbies the yellow jackets so that when you fall down a crevice and die, it’s easier for us to spot your corpse.”
Thomas swallowed, nodded, and moved on.
“Spread out,” Max cried over the howl of the wind. “Locate the structures that are most intact. We’ll use this place as a base camp—our tents won’t last long if this wind keeps up.”
Then Stafford faced the roughnecks. “Mr. Quinn. You’ll begin drilling operations as soon as possible.”
“I’m on it.”
Lex walked past Quinn and continued along the shadowy main street. Miller and Sebastian caught up with her at the deserted harbor. There was a ramshackle wharf and a long dock that stretched far out into the bay, but the bay itself was frozen solid.
A giant black cauldron dominated the harbor from a high cliff. Forged of iron fifteen feet high and thirty feet across, it stood tilted at a crazy angle. The wooden legs under the vat had long since collapsed. Only ice and snow and a single wooden leg prevented the heavy iron pot from rolling over the cliff and tumbling into the harbor below.
Sebastian wondered about the vat. “Witch’s cauldron?”
“The Separator,” Lex replied. “Throw whale blubber into it, heat it, separate out the fat. Whale oil was big business back then. Almost as big as petroleum is now.”
While Miller pushed open a door and wandered inside one of the buildings, Sebastian walked carefully to the edge of the partially shattered wharf, checked the thickness of the ice, and asked, “How did they get ships in here?”
“The station only operated in the summer, when the pack ice melted. It was abandoned in 1904,” Lex replied.
“Why?”
She frowned. “Nothing left to hunt, I guess.”
She found a harpoon leaning against a dock post and tried to lift it, but the object wouldn’t budge. It remained frozen to the ground.
Meanwhile, inside one of the largest buildings, Miller discovered a frozen mess hall. Long wooden tables and rough-hewn benches were sheathed with thick, blue-gray ice. Metal cups and plates, whalebone forks and spoons, even a coffeepot were frozen to the spot where they had been abandoned one hundred years ago.
Miller tried hard to lift one of the cups. With a metallic clink the handle came away in his hand, the cup still
