Matthew Reilly - Scarecrow Returns

The chopper dropped into the water, a broken shell of an aircraft. Even the Osprey peeled away when the Frenchman turned his monstrous gun on it.

Schofield spun to see the big-bearded French frogman release his trigger with a satisfied grunt of “Hmph.” He nodded to Schofield: “ Allez ! Go!”

Mother just stared at the Frenchman, stunned. She looked down at her G36 as if it were a peashooter.

As for Schofield, he didn’t need to be told twice.

He flicked more switches. “Mario! You ready? Let’s do this before that Osprey comes back!”

“ Ready for dive, sir ,” came Mario’s voice in his earpiece.

Schofield turned to the passengers on his boat. “Mother, open the regulator panel. Everybody, grab a mouthpiece, loop your wrists through a wrist cord and slot your feet in the stirrups on the deck so you don’t float away. Zack, make sure Bertie doesn’t float or sink or whatever.”

Mother opened a small panel under the boat’s central saddle, revealing eight scuba regulators attached by hoses to a single compressed-air tank. Some extendable rubber cords with loops on their ends also popped out.

Schofield said, “Okay, Mario, follow me.”

As everyone scrambled for the regulators and wrist cords, Schofield deflated the AFDV’s outer rubber skirt, transforming the sleek black assault boat into a sleek black submersible. He threw his glasses into a pouch on his belt and reached for a scuba mask under the saddle and slipped it over his eyes. He then jammed a regulator into his mouth.

A moment later, their “boat” slid under the surface and disappeared beneath the pack ice. Beside it, Mario’s AFDV—with Chad and the other two Frenchmen on it—did the same.

Ten seconds later, the Osprey came back for another pass, all guns blazing, but it hit nothing, for by then the two Marine Corps assault boats were gone.

THE TWO submersibles glided through the eerie underwater world of the Arctic.

It was a ghostly world of pale blue water and the white undersides of the pack ice. Everyone clung to the AFDVs by virtue of the wrist cords and foot stirrups.

As the two submersibles moved further through the haze, the ocean floor gradually rose up to meet them.

They’d reached the first islet.

Wearing a scuba mask and breathing through a regulator, Ivanov pointed to the right. Schofield skirted the edge of the islet, following its shoreline while still staying under the sea ice. A few minutes later, the two submersibles crossed another short channel, after which they saw the ocean floor rise up again to meet the pack ice: they’d come to the second islet.

Ivanov directed Schofield around the base of this islet until they arrived at a square concrete-walled entrance about the width of a train tunnel boring into the rocky landmass.

It was the loading dock Ivanov had mentioned.

Large chunks of broken concrete formed an ungainly roof above the entrance; bent and broken iron rebars protruded from it. At some time in the past, presumably during the “accident” Ivanov had mentioned, the dock’s roof had caved in, blocking access to boats, but there was still room for a submersible to gain entry.

Beyond the tangle of concrete, there was only darkness. Schofield hit the lights and two sharp beams lanced out into the murky tunnel.

Followed by Mario’s submersible, he carefully guided his Assault Force Delivery Vehicle into it.

About thirty yards in, he saw the surface. The water was so calm, it looked like a rectangular pane of glass.

Schofield signaled to Mother and the big French frogman to ready their weapons. They did so. Then Schofield brought their AFDV upward and broke the surface.

The AFDV breached inside a small concrete dock, its harsh white lights illuminating the space.

Schofield removed his mask. Shocking images greeted him.

Bloody smears on the concrete walls.

Cracked glass also stained with blood.

The half-eaten skeleton of what appeared to have once been a polar bear.

And the smell. Jesus. It smelled like an abattoir: a nauseating mix of blood and flesh.

A thick reinforced-glass door with an illuminated keypad lock led further into the islet’s structure. Mercifully, the door was intact, but its other, inner, side looked like someone had thrown a bucketload of blood onto it. Its wire-framed glass was etched with many deep animal scratch-marks.

“What the hell is this place?” Schofield stepped cautiously off the AFDV onto the concrete dock. Before anyone could answer him, something rushed at him from the shadows.

It was huge and white and it moved with shocking speed, launching itself at Schofield with an animal roar.

Scarecrow had no time at all to react. He spun to see a blur of bared jaws, shaggy white fur and outstretched claws—

A burst of gunfire echoed in the close confines of the dock and the thing’s head snapped backward, hit by a volley of tightly clustered rounds.

A second burst followed and the polar bear’s chest—for indeed it was a polar bear but unlike any polar bear Schofield had seen—was ripped open, hit in the heart and it toppled to the floor, dead.

Holy fucking shit . . .

Schofield turned to see who had saved him, expecting to see Mother or the big French frogman holding a gun.

But it hadn’t been either of them.

It had been one of the other two French frogmen. Indeed, this time it had been the smallest of the three French troops. He held a smoking Steyr TMP machine pistol—an Austrian-made weapon that looked like a techedup Uzi—in a perfect firing position.

Then the frogman turned and aimed the TMP at Schofield. As he did so, Schofield glimpsed the assassin’s right wrist. Tattooed onto it were a series of tally marks: thirteen of them.

This was Renard.

The assassin from France’s external intelligence agency, the DGSE, who had requested to kill Shane Schofield.

Gun extended, the frogman yanked back his scuba hood . . . to reveal that he wasn’t a man at all.

A dark-haired woman stared at Schofield with deadly eyes.

“’ Allo , Captain Schofield,” she said evenly, her French accent strong. “My name is Veronique Champion of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. Call sign: “Renard.” As you are probably aware, I am here to kill you, but before I do, would you be so kind as to tell me what on Earth is going on here?”

SCHOFIELD STARED down the barrel of Veronique Champion’s Steyr.

His team stood behind him—Mother, the Kid and Mario, plus the three civilians, Zack, Emma and Chad.

Champion’s two French companions stood behind her, their weapons raised. The big one’s Kord looked like a Howitzer in the tight, confined space.

And off to the side stood the Russian, Vasily Ivanov.

An uneasy standoff.

Champion—Renard—stared intently at Schofield, evaluating him. She was tall, as tall as he was, and in other circumstances, she would have been striking: she had an athletic figure, slender and lithe, a short bob of black hair pulled back off her angular face, flawless pale skin and eyes that were as black as pitch and which did not waver.

As far as weapons were concerned, in addition to the state-of-the-art Steyr, she wore a weapons belt with various smoke and stun grenades on it, a couple of five-minute scuba breathing bottles the size of energy-drink cans, two knives, a silver SIG-Sauer P226 pistol and in a small holster across her chest, a Ruger LCP, a pocket pistol of last resort.

Schofield cocked his head to one side.

“Veronique Champion ?” he said.