Matthew Reilly - Ice Station

Then, when he was done, he hit his thumb trigger.

At that moment, the sixth and final missile inside his missile bay rotated on its rack and dropped down into the sky. Its thrusters kicked in and the missile shot off into the distance, climbing high into the deep black sky.

The USS Wasp lay at rest in the middle of the Southern Ocean.

It was a big ship. With a length of 844 feet, it was as long as two and a half football fields. The enormous five-story superstructure in the middle of the ship?the operations center of the ship known as "the island"?looked down on the flight deck. On a normal day, the flight deck would have been dotted with choppers, Harriers, gunships, and people, but not today.

Today the flight deck was deserted. There was no movement on it at all, no aircraft, no people.

It looked like a ghost town.

The Silhouette slowed perfectly in the air above the non-skid deck of the Wasp , its retros firing thin streams of gas down onto the deck beneath it. The ominous black fighter plane landed softly on the flight deck, near the stern of the ship.

Schofield peered out through the canopy of the Silhouette .

The flight deck in front of him was eerily empty. Schofield sighed. He had expected that.

"All right, everyone, let's get out of here," he said.

Renshaw and Kirsty left the cockpit. Wendy went with them. Schofield said he would take care of Gant.

Before he left the cockpit, however, Schofield pulled a long, thin silver canister from the satchel that he had stretched over his shoulder.

He set the timer on the Tritonal charge for ten minutes and then left it on the pilot's chair. Then he picked up Gant and carried her out of the cockpit and into the missile bay. Then he carried her down the steps and out of the Silhouette .

The flight deck was deserted.

In the orange twilight, Schofield and his motley collection of survivors stood in front of the ominous black plane. The big black Silhouette , with its sharply pointed down-turned nose and its sleek, low-swept wings, looked like a gigantic bird of prey as it sat there on the deserted flight deck of the Wasp in the cold Antarctic twilight.

Schofield led the others across the empty flight deck, toward the five-story superstructure in the middle of the ship. It was a strange sight?Schofield with Gant in his arms, Renshaw and Kirsty, and last of all, loping across the flight deck behind them, staring in awe at the massive metal vessel all around her, Wendy.

As they approached the island, a door opened at the base of the massive structure and a white light glowed from inside it.

Suddenly a man's shadow appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him. Schofield came closer and recognized the owner of the shadow, recognized the weathered features of a man he knew well.

It was Jack Walsh.

The Captain of the Wasp . The man who, four years ago, had defied the White House and sent a team of his Marines into Bosnia to get Shane Schofield out.

Walsh smiled at Schofield, his blue eyes shining.

"You've been getting a lot of noses out of joint today, Scarecrow," he said evenly. "Lot of people talking about you."

Schofield frowned. He had kind of expected a warmer reception from Jack Walsh.

"Why have you cleared the deck, sir?" Schofield said.

"I didn't?" Walsh began, cutting himself off as suddenly another man brushed rudely past him and stepped out onto the flight deck and just stood there in front of Schofield.

Schofield had never seen this man before. He had carefully groomed white hair, a white mustache, and a barrel-like torso.

And he wore a blue uniform. Navy. The number of medals on his breast pocket was staggering. Schofield guessed he must have been about sixty.

"So this is the Scarecrow," the man said, looking Schofield up and down. Schofield just stood there on the flight deck, holding Gant in his arms.

"Scarecrow," Jack Walsh said tightly, "this is Admiral Thomas Clayton, the Navy's representative to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He assumed command of the Wasp about four hours ago."

Schofield sighed inwardly.

An Admiral from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Jesus .

If what he had heard about the ICG was correct, the Joint Chiefs were its head, its brain. Schofield was looking at one of the heads of the ICG.

" All right !" Admiral Clayton yelled loudly to someone standing in the doorway behind Walsh. " Get out there !"

At that moment, a stream of men?all of them dressed in blue coveralls?poured out of the doorway in front of Schofield and headed across the deck toward the Silhouette .

Admiral Clayton turned to Schofield. "Seems this mission is not going to be a complete waste of time after all. We heard the commentary of your dogfight with the F-22s. A cloaking device, huh? Who would have thought it."

Schofield looked back out at the deck, saw the men in blue coveralls reach the stern end of the flight deck, saw them begin to swarm all over the Silhouette . A couple of them went up the steps and inside the big black plane.

"Captain Walsh," Schofield said, indicating Gant. "This Marine needs medical attention."

Walsh nodded. "Let's get her to the infirmary. Deckhand!"

A deckhand appeared, took Gant from Schofield, carried her inside.

Schofield turned to Kirsty and Renshaw. "Go with her. Take Wendy, too." Kirsty and Renshaw obeyed, went inside the island. Wendy hopped in through the doorway after them. Schofield made to follow them, but as he did, there came a shout from over by the Silhouette .

" Admiral !" one of the men in blue coveralls called out from underneath the pointed nose of the Silhouette .

"What is it?" Admiral Clayton said, walking over to the plane.

The man held up the Tritonal 80/20 charge that Schofield had left inside the cockpit. Clayton saw it. He didn't seem at all perturbed by its presence.

Admiral Clayton turned to Schofield from fifty yards away. "Attempting to destroy the evidence, Lieutenant?"

The Admiral took the charge from the man, turned the pressurized lid, and calmly flicked the disarm switch.

Clayton smiled at Schofield. "Really, Scarecrow," he called. "You'll have to do better than that to beat me."

Schofield just stared at Clayton, standing over by the Silhouette . "I'm sorry about the deck, sir," Schofield said quietly.

Behind him, Jack Walsh said, "What?"

"I said, I'm sorry about the deck, sir," Schofield repeated.

At that moment, there came a sudden high-pitched whining sound. And then before anyone knew what was happening, the whine became a scream and then, like a thunderbolt sent from God himself, the sixth and final missile from the Silhouette came shooting down out of the sky and slammed into the Silhouette at nearly three hundred miles per hour.

The big black fighter plane shattered in an instant, exploded into a thousand pieces. Every man inside or near it was killed instantly. The fuel tanks of the big black plane exploded next, causing a red-hot fireball of liquid fire to flare out from the destroyed plane. The fireball billowed out across the deck and engulfed Admiral Clayton. It was so hot, it wiped the skin from his face.

Admiral Thomas Clayton was dead before he hit the ground.

Shane Schofield stood on the bridge of the Wasp as it sailed east across the Southern Ocean, into the morning sun. He took a sip from a coffee mug with the words CAPTAINS MUG written on it. The coffee was hot.

Jack Walsh came out onto the bridge and offered him a new pair of silver antiflash glasses. Schofield took them, put them on.

It had been three hours now since the Silhouette had been destroyed by one of its own missiles.