feet on the steering pedals, and pulled the canopy closed. After tightening the stays a little, Kilkenny steered into the next tack.
When he reached the outermost of the windward way-points, Kilkenny turned toward LV Station. The wind now blew in his direction of travel and he jibed the iceboat to take the best advantage of it.
The ice that covered Lake Vostok was remarkably flat and covered with rows of ice particles lined up like wind-driven ripples on a glassy lake. Tired and lulled by the drone of blades carving the ice and by the monotonous view, Kilkenny struggled to keep his eyes open.
As he fought to remain awake, one of ripples rose up sharply out of the ice forming a jagged ridge inside of the starboard runner. The brittle ice grated loudly against the carbon-fiber plank, threatening to tear into it like a chain saw. Kilkenny hiked the iceboat onto the port side, pulling it up forty degrees from level.
‘C’mon, baby,’ Kilkenny urged.
The mast leaned toward the horizon under the load, with the lines straining to keep the sail attached to the iceboat as Kilkenny carved a shallow arc away from the ridge: Ahead, the pressure ridge abruptly turned across Kilkenny’s path and he struck it squarely. The iceboat sailed ninety feet through the air, righting itself before slamming down on the ice. Kilkenny’s helmet smacked loudly against the canopy.
He blinked to clear the stars from his vision, then checked the GPS and corrected his course.
The drowsiness he’d felt a moment ago was gone.
Kilkenny slowed the iceboat as he turned into the final leg of his journey. He sailed with the sun directly behind him, the white hull and blinding sunlight serving as camouflage. Ahead, LV Station stood out from the icy plain. Beyond what was considered the front of the station, Kilkenny saw two large planes with streams of exhaust trailing from their engines.
One hundred yards from the station, he eased back on the sail, turned into the wind, and pulled back on the brake cable. Beneath the hull, a quarter-circle wedge of stainless steel pivoted out like a pelvic fin and dug into the ice. The iceboat quickly scraped to a halt.
Kilkenny opened the canopy and eased his body out of the cockpit. The throb of engines filled the frigid air. The temperature display on Kilkenny’s helmet read-48 degrees Fahrenheit. He crouched behind the bow of the iceboat, set the brake, and took a careful look at the station.
Two men on patrol walked around to the back side of the station. Both were dressed in thick white fatigues and cradled a submachine gun. Kilkenny waited for one of the men to spot the white iceboat parked in the distance, but the glare made it almost impossible for either to pick it out from the landscape. The sentries continued their circuit and disappeared around the opposite side of the station.
He unsheathed his k-bar knife and silently crept forward, keeping the station between him and the planes. Each step was a deliberate movement designed to avoid the barking sound made by a careless footstep on dry, tightly packed snow.
Kilkenny reached the end of the windowless storage module and waited. No alarm sounded. No footsteps rushed in his direction. He had crossed the open field undetected.
He carefully rounded the end of the storage module and slipped into the next triangular quadrant of the cruciform station. The low angle of the sun cast a long shadow off the storage module, darkening the area in front of him. Staying in the shadow, he moved up to the next module, crouching beside its thick steel supports. Peering from beneath the elevated module, Kilkenny saw two LC-130s with markings identifying them as Skier-98 and Skier-99 of the New York Air National Guard’s 109th Airlift Wing.
That one sure as hell is false-flagged, Kilkenny thought, knowing all that remained of the real Skier-98 was a wide-strewn field of charred debris.
Several men busied themselves loading crates into the hold of Skier-98. The tail door of the other plane was already closed. Two men with side arms stood between the aircraft. Kilkenny studied the placement of men and equipment around LV Station, looking for anything he could use to his advantage.
The sentries walked around the far side of the aircraft and turned back toward the station. Both men held a hand in front of his eyes as they faced the low sun. Kilkenny braced himself against the station module and waited.
As they passed his hiding place, Kilkenny attacked. From behind, he grabbed the closest of the two, hooking his right arm over the sentry’s shoulder. The man expelled a lungful of air as Kilkenny’s arm clamped down and jammed the man’s submachine gun into his abdomen. Kilkenny coiled at the waist like a spring, then unwound with a swift turn and drove the k-bar through layers of protective clothing into the soldier’s back. The black stainless-steel blade severed the man’s aorta and plunged into his heart.
‘Que?’ the other sentry blurted out, his attention drawn by the sudden movements to his left.
As he drove his knife into the back of the one sentry, Kilkenny shifted his weight onto his left foot and snapped a side kick with his right into the throat of the other. The heel of Kilkenny’s boot flattened the man’s windpipe. He staggered back, his eyes bulging behind yellow-lens goggles as he vainly gasped for air. Acting more on reflex than thought, he squeezed the trigger of his Heckler-Koch MP-5. Kilkenny held the dying sentry up as a shield and several rounds struck the man’s body. One grazed across Kilkenny’s upper arm and steam slowly rose from the wound as the groove filled with warm blood.
Rushing forward, Kilkenny rammed the choking sentry with his bullet-riddled partner. The man fell onto his back and Kilkenny landed on top of him. He thrust his knife into the side of the sentry’s neck, the blade disappearing up to the hilt. The man looked up only to see his own horrified expression reflected in Kilkenny’s face shield. As Kilkenny withdrew his knife, a great rush of blood followed it out, staining the white hood of the man’s parka and the ice beneath him.
The men loading cargo and servicing the planes dove for cover when they heard the short burst of submachine gunfire. Those armed readied their weapons, scanned the area for threats, and awaited orders. Duroc crouched beside one of the planes with his pistol drawn, searching vainly for some sign of trouble.
‘Albret,’ Duroc barked out to his executive officer. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘All units report!’ Albret shouted angrily into his lip mike.
One after another, Duroc’s soldiers responded with their status.
‘Sir, only the perimeter team has failed to report in,’ Albret said. ‘The rest of the men are in position and weapons are secure.’
‘Idiots! They probably slipped on the ice. Finish loading the plane while I see what the problem is.’ Duroc motioned to a pair of soldiers. ‘You two, come with me.’
Kilkenny rolled the one sentry off the other, grabbed an MP-5, then searched the bodies for additional ammunition. His arm stung, the blood congealing into an icy scab. For the first time he felt the bone-chilling cold of Antarctica.
After finding two more clips for the MP-5, he stuffed the two bodies, one atop the other, beneath the curved aluminum belly of the elevated module. He then dropped onto his stomach, using the bodies as protective cover. Between the station and the planes, Kilkenny saw men racing about in response to hastily issued orders.
