Avp 2004 12

Which was why Quinn was surprised to come upon five of Weyland's "security detail" busily unpacking
long wooden crates and suiting up for battle. Quinn noted that the big one, called Sven, had a tattoo on his bicep―the eagle and fouled anchor emblem of the Navy SEALs. "What the hell is going on here?" Quinn demanded. "Just doing our job," said Sven. "I suggest you stick to yours, Quinn." Next to him, the bull-necked man named Klaus locked eyes with Quinn as he tested the bolt action on a Heckler & Koch MP-5 machine gun. On his hip Klaus wore a Desert Eagle pistol in a Velcro holster, and he had a survival knife strapped to his boot. Two others were swapping weapons and ammunition as they drew them out of the packing crates. They spoke Russian to one another and ignored the newcomer. Quinn stepped forward. "Nobody told me we were going to war." One of the Russians-tagged Boris-looked up and said something to his friend, Mikkel. Both chuckled. Then Boris slapped a magazine into his machine gun and looked up at Quinn. He wore a cruel half-smile that didn't reach much beyond his thin lips. His eyes were watery blue and as cold as the ice outside. "Perhaps you should've asked, comrade," said Boris, with no trace of a Russian accent. Quinn took in the machine guns, the pistols, the Kevlar vests. "You fellows ought to know that it's against The Antarctic Treaty of 1961 for any nation to bring this kind of military shit up here. Nobody cares about a few handguns—even rifles—but this heat you're packing is a violation of international law."

"Well, Weyland Industries is no nation," said Sven.Chpt.17 pg.142-143

He sat down, yanked off his gloves and cranked the radiophone, which was hardwired to the team underground. But they didn't bother to answer. Quinn wasn't surprised. Charles Weyland had become obsessed with security since they'd discovered the hole in the ice. He'd ordered a complete communications blackout with the outside world, not that they were hearing much with this storm, anyway. Then that ex-Navy SEAL and his four buddies from who-knows-where had dropped their disguise as "security" and started throwing guns around like a special forces platoon arming for a mission. He concluded that this whole job was beginning to stink worse than roadkill on a hot Texas highway.-Chpt.17 pg.146