Matthew Reilly - Ice Station

"This is a live feed," Renshaw said. "It comes from a camera mounted on the underside of the bridge that spans C-deck. It looks straight down on the pool."

Schofield squinted as he looked at the black-and-white image on the screen.

Renshaw said, "The scientists who work at this station come down on six-monthly rotations, so we just inherit each other's rooms. The guy who had this room before me was a crazy old marine biologist from New Zealand. Strange guy. He just loved killer whales, couldn't get enough of them. God, he'd watch them for hours, liked to watch them when they came up for air inside the station. Gave them names and everything. God, what was his name ... Carmine something.

"Well, anyway, old Carmine attached a camera to the underside of the bridge?so he could keep an eye on the pool from his room. When he'd see them on his monitor, he'd hustle on down to E-deck and watch them up close. Hell, sometimes the old bastard would watch 'em from inside the diving bell, so he could get right up close."

Renshaw looked at Schofield and laughed. "I guess you're the last person in the world I should be talking to about having a close look at killer whales."

Schofield turned, remembering the terrifying battle with the killer whales earlier. "You saw all that?"

"Did I?" Renshaw asked. "Are you kidding? You bet I saw it. Hell, I got it all on tape . I mean, yikes , did you see those big bastards? Did you see the way they hunted? Did you see the complexity of their hunting behavior? Like the way they would always make a pass by their intended victim before they came in for the kill?"

"I must have missed that," Schofield said flatly.

"I tell you, they did it. Every time. Every single time. I've read about it before. You know what I think it is? It's the whale staking his claim. It's the whale telling all the other whales that this person is his kill. Hey, I could show it to you if you?"

"You said there was something else I should see," Schofield said. "Something about the man who shot me."

"Oh, yeah, right. Right . Sorry." Schofield just stared at Renshaw as the little man grabbed a videocassette and thrust it into the second video recorder. He was a strange man. Manic, nervous, and yet obviously very intelligent. And he talked a lot. It seemed that when he spoke, it all just came gushing out. Schofield found it difficult to determine exactly how old he was. He could have been anything from twenty-nine to forty.

" That's it!" Renshaw exclaimed suddenly.

"What? What's it?" Schofield said.

"Yaeger. Carmine Yaeger. That was his name."

"Play the video, would you," Schofield said, exasperated.

"Oh, yeah, right." Renshaw hurriedly hit the PLAY button on the VCR.

An image came up on the second monitor. It was almost identical to the one that was on the first monitor, from the same high-mounted camera looking down on the pool and its surrounding deck.

There was only one difference.

On the second monitor's screen, someone was standing on the deck.

Schofield stared at the screen intently.

The person on the screen was a man, one of the Marines. He was alone.

Schofield couldn't tell who it was because the camera was positioned directly above him. All he could see was the top of the man's helmet and his armored shoulder plates.

And then suddenly the man looked up, slowly scanning the shaft of the station, and Schofield saw his face.

He frowned.

He was looking at his own face.

Schofield turned immediately to Renshaw. "When did you record this?"

"Just keep watching."

Schofield turned back to the screen.

He saw himself stop next to the pool and speak into his helmet mike. There was no sound; he could just see his own mouth moving. He stopped talking and took a step across the deck.

And then he stopped.

He had stepped on something.

Schofield saw himself bend down and examine some broken glass on the deck. He seemed to look about him. And then suddenly his head cocked to the side. He was listening to something. Listening to someone speaking over his helmet intercom.

The Shane Schofield on the screen then stood up and was starting to turn when suddenly his whole body jolted violently and a small spray of blood exploded out from his neck. He stopped instantly and swayed slightly, and then he raised his hand to his neck and held it out in front of his face. It had blood all over it.

And then his knees buckled and he fell in a heap to the deck. He just lay there on the deck, motionless.

Schofield stared at his own image on the screen.

He had just seen himself get shot ....

He turned to Renshaw.

Renshaw just nodded back at the screen. "There's more," he said quietly. "A lot more."

Schofield swung back to face the screen.

He saw his own body lying on the pool deck, unmoving. It lay there for a while.

Nothing happened.

And then suddenly someone stepped into the frame.

Schofield felt his adrenaline rush as he watched the screen. He was about to see the person who had shot him.

The first thing he saw was the helmet.

It was another Marine.

A man. Schofield could tell by the way he walked. But he couldn't see his face.

The Marine walked slowly over to Schofield's unmoving body. He was in no hurry. He pulled his automatic pistol from his holster as he approached Schofield's body, pulled back the slide, cocking the gun.

Schofield stared at the screen intently.

The Marine, his face still obscured by his helmet, bent down over Schofield's body and placed two fingers on Schofield's blood-covered throat.

"He's checking your pulse," Renshaw whispered.

That was exactly what he was doing, Schofield saw. The Marine on the screen waited several seconds with his fingers on Schofield's neck.

Schofield didn't take his eyes off the screen.

The Marine on the screen stood up, satisfied that Schofield had no pulse. He uncocked his pistol, put it back in its holster.

"And... look at that," Renshaw said. "There's nothing there." Renshaw turned to face Schofield. "Lieutenant, I do believe your heart just stopped beating."

Schofield didn't even look at Renshaw as he spoke. His eyes were glued to the screen.

"Now look at what he does here," Renshaw said. 'This is his fatal mistake...."

Schofield watched as on the screen the Marine?his face still masked by his helmet?shoved Schofield's dead body across the deck with his foot.

He was shoving the body toward the pool.

After two strong kicks, Schofield's body was lying on the edge of the deck, right next to the water. The Marine then pushed Schofield's body one last time with his foot and the body fell limply into the water.

"He doesn't know it," Renshaw said, "but that guy just kick-started your heart."

"How?"

"The way I figure it, that water's so cold, it acted like a defibrillator?you know, those electric-shock paddles they use on TV to restart peoples' hearts. The shock your body received when it hit that water?and let me tell you, that would have been one hell of a shock to a body that wasn't prepared for it?was enough to jolt your heart back into action."

Schofield watched the screen.

The Marine stood at the edge of the deck for a while, watching the circle of ripples that indicated the spot where Schofield's body had entered the inky water. After about thirty seconds, the Marine turned and looked around him.

And at that moment, as the Marine turned, Schofield saw something that made his blood run cold.

Oh, no ..., he thought.

The Marine then turned on his heel and quickly walked out of the frame.

Schofield turned to Renshaw, his mouth agape.

"It's not over yet," Renshaw said, interrupting him before he spoke. "Keep watching."