Operation: Siberia

- 13 -

For a time, it seemed that McCally had been right and they had put the frighteners on the alma, for everything fell quiet, almost deathly so, with the fog deadening all sound except for the occasional trumpet of a bull mammoth. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted in from the corridor outside and along with it a soft murmur as Hynd and Wiggins chatted, almost casually. The scientists Waterston and Galloway sat at a table, they too talking, heatedly but in lowered voices. Banks guessed they were preparing their story for the brass back home—he’d have one of his own for the colonel in Lossiemouth on their return.

The first hour passed quietly like that, but the silence was not to last. The calm was broken by the crash of splintering glass from outside.

“Cally?” Banks said. The corporal shook his head.

“Not out front, Cap,” he said. “Sounds like it came from ‘round the back somewhere.”

Banks quickly crossed the room, out into the corridor, and into the room opposite. He ignored the dead scientist on the bed and went directly across to the window, which gave the view over the high domes of the complex. He was just in time to see a rock sail in a high arc out of the fog and crash through the tall dome of the aviary. The sound of the crash carried to him even through the window—as did the high hoots of the Alma. It sounded like triumph, and even more like laughter.

Two more crashes sounded, one quickly after the other, as he walked back through to the other room.

“They’re flinging stones at glass houses,” he said, “like a pair of fucking kids.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what they are,” Galloway said softly. “Maybe they don’t know any better.”

“Aye,” Banks replied, “that’s all well and good. But it’s not my job to teach them some manners; they’re hardly likely to let me skelp their arses. As long as they keep amused with the domes and leave us alone, I’ll just leave them be to enjoy themselves.”

“Cap?” McCally said at the window. “There’s something else too.”

Banks went to the window again. The fog had lifted, all across the enclosures beyond the tarmac. Only a hundred yards away, the big cave lion was feeding on the carcass of a dead deer. Four wolves circled it warily, but every time one of them came too close, the lion let out a roar of defiance, and the wolves backed off.

“They got a meal, and the lion stole it,” Galloway said at his side. “Pretty typical behavior.”

One of the wolves took a chance and tried to sneak forward. The lion roared, and stood, imposing its sheer bulk on the smaller wolves. It impressed the pack enough to back off. But something else wasn’t quailed. A rock curved from somewhere to the left, and landed right next to the lion. A second came in, flatter and faster, and smacked the huge beast in the side. It fled with a wail of pain, scattering the wolves that likewise took flight as the two Alma walked forward to the deer carcass and bent to feed.

Now that he saw them together, Banks saw that one was smaller, by about a foot, than the other, and lighter in color, more reddish brown.

“One of each,” Galloway said. “The mad bastard was hoping to mate them.”

Banks didn’t have to ask which mad bastard was being referred to. He watched as the beasts tore meat off the deer carcass and fed it into mouths that looked too full of teeth. At that moment, they looked less human, more ape, but that impression changed in an instant as the lion, crouched down low, crept forward, looking to retake the carcass. The bigger of the Alma moved in one smooth action, like a fielder retrieving a ball, bending, picking up a rock, and throwing it, hard and fast underarm. The rock flew flat and true and hit the lion on the right shoulder.

The big cat fled without a sound—but not quickly, and with a noticeable limp.

The Alma watched it go until they were sure all fight had gone from the lion, then resumed their feeding.

Over to Banks’ right, the mammoths stood, still in their defensive circle, still watchful. Way over to the left, under the distant cliffs, he could just make out a dozen darker, barrel-shaped beasts where the wooly rhino had taken themselves away from conflict. There was no sign of any other elk than the dead one the Alma stood over.

A movement caught his eye and he looked up. The six huge thunderbirds circled in a thermal, hundreds of yards above the tundra, spiraling around what they hoped would be easy pickings once the Alma were done with their feast.

“The gang’s all here. Red in tooth and claw,” he muttered.

“And beak and talon,” Galloway added, following Banks’ gaze. “The mad Russian got his spectacle after all, although he didn’t live to see it.”

“I can take the big one, right now,” McCally said. He had his weapon raised, sighting on where the beasts fed.

“Leave it,” Banks replied. “It’s too far, and if you just wounded it, you’d only make it angry. Let them feed. It might slow them down.”

He patted McCally on the arm.

“And talking of feeding, it’s time we had something. I’ll spell you here—go and rustle up what you can from the kitchen. We forgot about it in the excitement earlier. There must still be bread, cheese, and meat around here somewhere. Just no caviar—and definitely no vodka.”

Galloway and Waterston stayed at Banks’ side, all three of them watching the Alma feed out on the tundra.

“You know, it could have been magnificent,” Waterston said. “If only he’d kept his ego in check.”

“Aye. It seems that his ego, dodgy use of materials, overuse of hormones, cloning big hairy orange fuckers and pish-poor security were all that stopped it from being a great success,” Banks said laconically. “That, and getting himself eaten, of course.”

Galloway almost spit out a mouthful of coffee in an attempt not to laugh.

“I do believe I’ll quote you on that in my report.”

“Go right ahead,” Banks replied. “It’s only what I’ll be telling my colonel anyway.”

“Our transport?” Waterston asked. “Will it be big enough for us to take Smithson with us?”

“We don’t leave a man behind if we can help it,” Banks said. “Your man is our man. We’ll get him home.”

Being reminded of the fact made him realize it was time to be thinking about logistics. Their kit was still out in the fuselage of the Lear Jet, and they had a dead man to get down onto the tarmac. At the same time, they’d have to protect themselves from attack, whether it was from thrown rocks or a pack of wolves. He was still milling over that when McCally returned with a tray of bread and cold meats. He let the others eat while he kept watch at the window. At first, he was preoccupied with the logistics of getting everyone down onto the tarmac in safety, so it took him several seconds to notice there was something missing from the scene below.

The Alma still sat on their haunches around the carcass of the deer, the mammoths still stood in their circle, and the rhino were still gathered far off across the plain below the gray cliffs. The lion sulked near a dark pool a hundred yards to the west, licking its wounds; the wolves were nowhere to be seen.