and the two terrifying rows of teeth and
suddenly the picture was complete.
It was then that Gant saw the two juveniles, swimming behind the
enormous lead male. They were the two killers she had seen earlier,
before the battle with the French had erupted, the two killers who had
been searching for Wendy.
Now they were back... and they had brought the rest of the pack
with them.
The full pod of killer whales began to circle the pool at the base of
Wilkes Ice Station, and as she huddled behind the headrest of the
ejection seat Gant felt a new sense of dread begin to crawl up the
back of her spine.
Hollywood had never stood a chance.
The shards from the three fragmentation grenades had rained down on
him with terrifying intensity—from in front and behind.
Book could only watch helplessly as his young partner— on the
floor, on his knees—put a feeble hand over his face and then
fell under the weight of the hailstorm of metal fragments.
The scientist who had been trying to push his colleague into the
nearby doorway hadn't been fast enough, either. Like Hollywood, he
was now unrecognizable. The wave of metal shards had cut him down
where he stood. And while Hollywood's body armor had been
effective in protecting his chest and shoulders from the
blast, the scientist hadn't been so lucky. His whole
body—unprotected by any kind of armor— was a hideous
bloodstained mess.
No exposed tissue could have survived such a bombardment. None had.
The storm of shards had ripped every inch of exposed skin from the two
men's bodies.
And for a moment, a brief moment, Buck Riley could do nothing but
stare at the broken body of his fallen friend.
On the other side of B-deck, Rebound was charging around the curved
outer tunnel, gun up.
Legs Lane and Mother Newman ran behind him, firing desperately back at
the three shadows coming down the tunnel after them.
Legs Lane was a thirty-one-year-old Corporal, olive-skinned,
square-jawed, Italian in both looks and manner. For her part, Mother
Newman was the second of the two women in Schofield's
unit—and she couldn't have been more different from Libby
Gant.
Whereas Gant was twenty-six, compact and had a short crop of straight
blond hair, Mother was thirty-four, six-foot-two, and had a fully
shaven head. She weighed in at nearly two hundred pounds. Her call
sign, Mother, wasn't supposed to mean “maternal figure.”
It was short for motherfucker.
Mother spoke into her helmet mike: “Scarecrow. This is your
Mother speaking. We are experiencing heavy fire on B-deck. I repeat.
We are experiencing heavy fire on B-deck. We have enemy troops behind
us and frag grenades bouncing all over the fucking place. We are
approaching the west tunnel and are going to head for the central
shaft. If you or anyone out there has a visual on the shaft, we'd
really love to hear about it.”
Schofield's voice came over their helmet intercoms:
"Mother. This is Scarecrow. I have a visual on the central
shaft. There are no hostile objects out on the catwalk. We spotted
five on your level before, but they're all in the tunnels
now.
“I can also confirm five more hostiles up on A-deck, and at
least one of those has a forty-mil grenade launcher. If you have to
break out onto the catwalks, we'll cover you from below. Montana,
Santa Cruz? You out there?”
“We're here,” came Montana's voice.
“You still on A-deck?”
“Affirmative that.”
“You still pinned down?”
“We're working on it.”
“Just keep doing what you're doing. Draw their fire. We
're gonna have three of our people stepping out into the open on
B-deck in about ten seconds.”
“No problem, Scarecrow.”
Mother said, “Thanks, Scarecrow. We're moving into the
western tunnel now. Coming to the central shaft.”
In the alcove on C-deck, Schofield keyed his helmet mike again.
“Book! Book! Come in!”
There was no reply.
“Jesus,
suddenly the picture was complete.
It was then that Gant saw the two juveniles, swimming behind the
enormous lead male. They were the two killers she had seen earlier,
before the battle with the French had erupted, the two killers who had
been searching for Wendy.
Now they were back... and they had brought the rest of the pack
with them.
The full pod of killer whales began to circle the pool at the base of
Wilkes Ice Station, and as she huddled behind the headrest of the
ejection seat Gant felt a new sense of dread begin to crawl up the
back of her spine.
Hollywood had never stood a chance.
The shards from the three fragmentation grenades had rained down on
him with terrifying intensity—from in front and behind.
Book could only watch helplessly as his young partner— on the
floor, on his knees—put a feeble hand over his face and then
fell under the weight of the hailstorm of metal fragments.
The scientist who had been trying to push his colleague into the
nearby doorway hadn't been fast enough, either. Like Hollywood, he
was now unrecognizable. The wave of metal shards had cut him down
where he stood. And while Hollywood's body armor had been
effective in protecting his chest and shoulders from the
blast, the scientist hadn't been so lucky. His whole
body—unprotected by any kind of armor— was a hideous
bloodstained mess.
No exposed tissue could have survived such a bombardment. None had.
The storm of shards had ripped every inch of exposed skin from the two
men's bodies.
And for a moment, a brief moment, Buck Riley could do nothing but
stare at the broken body of his fallen friend.
On the other side of B-deck, Rebound was charging around the curved
outer tunnel, gun up.
Legs Lane and Mother Newman ran behind him, firing desperately back at
the three shadows coming down the tunnel after them.
Legs Lane was a thirty-one-year-old Corporal, olive-skinned,
square-jawed, Italian in both looks and manner. For her part, Mother
Newman was the second of the two women in Schofield's
unit—and she couldn't have been more different from Libby
Gant.
Whereas Gant was twenty-six, compact and had a short crop of straight
blond hair, Mother was thirty-four, six-foot-two, and had a fully
shaven head. She weighed in at nearly two hundred pounds. Her call
sign, Mother, wasn't supposed to mean “maternal figure.”
It was short for motherfucker.
Mother spoke into her helmet mike: “Scarecrow. This is your
Mother speaking. We are experiencing heavy fire on B-deck. I repeat.
We are experiencing heavy fire on B-deck. We have enemy troops behind
us and frag grenades bouncing all over the fucking place. We are
approaching the west tunnel and are going to head for the central
shaft. If you or anyone out there has a visual on the shaft, we'd
really love to hear about it.”
Schofield's voice came over their helmet intercoms:
"Mother. This is Scarecrow. I have a visual on the central
shaft. There are no hostile objects out on the catwalk. We spotted
five on your level before, but they're all in the tunnels
now.
“I can also confirm five more hostiles up on A-deck, and at
least one of those has a forty-mil grenade launcher. If you have to
break out onto the catwalks, we'll cover you from below. Montana,
Santa Cruz? You out there?”
“We're here,” came Montana's voice.
“You still on A-deck?”
“Affirmative that.”
“You still pinned down?”
“We're working on it.”
“Just keep doing what you're doing. Draw their fire. We
're gonna have three of our people stepping out into the open on
B-deck in about ten seconds.”
“No problem, Scarecrow.”
Mother said, “Thanks, Scarecrow. We're moving into the
western tunnel now. Coming to the central shaft.”
In the alcove on C-deck, Schofield keyed his helmet mike again.
“Book! Book! Come in!”
There was no reply.
“Jesus,
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