Operation: Siberia

- 23 -

“We can’t just sit here, Cap,” Wiggins said. “We’re sitting ducks.”

“I’m open to suggestions, lad,” Banks said. “I’m not doing the fucking hokey-cokey in and out of the building again. And yon big cat is still out there somewhere too.”

Another rock hit inside the hollow, close to McCally’s feet.

“Wiggo’s got a point, Cap,” the corporal said. “We might be better off on the move.”

“Take a lookout, lads,” Banks said. “We’ve got no cover, and it’s a fucking bog in every direction. At least here we can cower down.”

“Cowering’s never really been our style,” Hynd said. “I’m with the lads on this one, John. I’d rather my number came up on the move than lying in a hole full of hairy elephant shite.”

Banks turned to Galloway, and saw that the scientist was lost in thought.

“Well, everybody else has had their say. What about you? Any bright ideas?”

Galloway wasn’t looking at him, but had turned his gaze to the west. Banks looked that way, and saw the mammoth herd, still gathered together in their tight circle.

The scientist smiled thinly.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Like what?”

He nodded toward the mammoth herd just as another rock splashed down hard right on the rim of their hollow. Somewhere out on the tundra, an Alma hooted and whuffed, its loud laughter ringing across the open ground.

“We get the mammoths to shield us,” the scientist said.

Wiggins laughed.

“I can see that. Please mister hairy ginger elephant, can we join your gang? And by the way, your shite smells lovely. Aye, I can see that working.”

Galloway was still looking over the bog towards the mammoths.

“I haven’t seen it myself, but I’ve heard of it in Africa; people being given shelter in an elephant herd.”

“Aye,” Banks replied. “But these aren’t elephants. And they haven’t seen many people. How do we know they’ll be friendly?”

Another rock, the largest one yet, landed in the middle of the hollow, embedding itself almost completely in the wet ground.

“I think we should try,” Galloway said. “Can we afford not to?”

Banks saw the man’s point, as another rock splashed down close by. It looked like the beasts were finding their range, and any second now, somebody was likely to take a serious injury.

“Okay, we move,” he said. “Stay tight, keep an eye on the hairy men, and make for the mammoths. If they take fright, God help us.”

Banks stood up. The Alma hooted and wailed, and two rocks flew at him, but at least he saw them coming and was able to gauge their landing point, both hitting the ground two yards to his left.

“Look sharp, lads,” he said. “Wiggo, take point. I’ll watch your back. Double time.”

They moved out.

At the same time, the Alma made a move, closing in fast. Banks sent a volley of bullets their way. They were too far away for his shots to do any real damage, but the noise alone seemed to be enough to slow the beasts’ advance.

The squad headed at speed for the mammoth herd. Banks was busy watching the rear, trusting his men to make the right decisions depending on what happened in front of them. He heard the bull mammoth trumpet, loud and bellowing, the sound seeming to punctuate a sudden silence across the whole plain.

Then, before he realized it, he was inside a wall of shaggy, orange hair and suddenly felt a lot warmer. The smell was worse than it had been in the foxhole, and they had to stay nimble to avoid being squeezed between the huge flanks of the mammoths. But the squad was completely enclosed inside the mammoth’s defensive circle.

The Alma started to hoot and yell, but they sounded muted and distant, and they had stopped throwing rocks.

Galloway’s plan appeared to have been completely successful.

Outside the defensive ring, the Alma seemed confused at this turn of events. They came together in a group, thirty or more of them that Banks saw through the narrow gaps between the mammoths, and they showed no sign of wishing to press any further attacks, as if intimidated by the bulk of the tusked beasts facing them.

“Not bad, for an Englishman,” Wiggins said, and clapped Galloway on the shoulder.

The scientist smiled, then winced when he tried to put his weight on his injured ankle.

“I don’t know how long I can stand,” he said.

“We’ll carry you if we need to,” Banks said. “We’re all getting out of this together, I promise you that.”

“Is that your gut or your head talking, Cap?” McCally asked.

“A bit of both, lad,” Banks said, but he wasn’t looking at his men—his attention was on the big bull mammoth, who had pricked up his ears and lifted his head. Banks had seen the gesture before, and guessed what was coming next. The mammoth lifted its great tusks high, and trumpeted long and loud over the tundra.

Another sound slowly rose to join it, the distinctive whump of an approaching chopper.

“Get ready, lads, we’re leaving,” Banks said as the bulky swollen body of a Russian transport helicopter came into view, arriving fast from the north.

“Very good, Cap,” Wiggins said. “But I hardly think these beasties will give us a guard of honor to the runway. How do we get across the open ground?”

Banks laughed.

“The same way we always do things. We run like buggery and shoot the fuck out of anything that gets in our way. Any questions?” The chopper circled high above the domed complex as Banks continued. “We need to let them know we’re here. Let’s make some noise. Move out.”

He squeezed between the flanks of the bull and its nearest neighbor; the big mammoth sidled aside to let them pass through, and trumpeted again; Banks liked to think it was wishing them luck.

We’re going to need it.