Ice Station (21 page)

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 genius 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 were 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.”

“I'm sure my men will be safe from sudden upthrusts of rock,
Dr. Hensleigh.”

“All right then. I can tell you what's down there,”
Sarah said.

That got Schofield's attention. He turned to the three divers
standing by the edge of the pool. “Montana, Gant, Cruz. Just hold
on a minute, will you?” Schofield turned back to face Sarah
Hensleigh, his eyes serious. “All right, Dr. Hensleigh, tell me
what's down there?”

“All right,” Sarah said as she collected her thoughts.
She'd obviously thought about this a lot, but now Schofield had
put her on the spot.

“Theory One,” she said. “It's alien. It's a
spacecraft from another planet, from another civilization. Now,
that's not really my field—it's not really anyone's
field. But if that thing is alien then I'd give my right arm to
see it.”

“Mother already gave her left leg. What else?”

“Theory Two,” Sarah said, “it's not alien.”

“It's not alien?” Schofield raised an eyebrow.
That's right,“ Sarah said. ”It's not alien. Now this
theory, this theory really is my field. This is pure
paleontology. It's not a new theory by any means, but until now,
no one's been able to find any evidence to prove it."

“Prove what?”

Sarah took a deep breath. “The theory goes that once, a long time
ago, there was civilized life on Earth.”

She paused, not for effect, but rather to wait for Schofield's
reaction.

At first, Schofield didn't say anything, he just thought about it
for a moment. Then he looked at her hard. “Go on.”

“I'm talking about a long time ago,” Sarah
said, gaining momentum. "I'm talking before the
dinosaurs. I'm talking four hundred million years ago.
Now, when you think about it... when you think about it in terms of
human evolution, it's really very possible.

“Human life as we know it has been on Earth for less than a
million years, right? Historically speaking, that's not a long
time. If the history of the Earth were the twenty-four hours in a day,
then the period of modern human presence would amount to about three
seconds. What we would call civilized human life—human
life in its Homo sapiens form—has been here for an even
shorter period of time, not even twenty thousand years. That's
less than a second on the world's time clock.”