Operation: Siberia

- 7 -

Duty and instinct kicked in immediately.

“Sarge, get yourself kitted up, then take Waterston to his room, and get the other two in there with him. Get them to get ready to move. Nobody but us in or out. Understood?”

Hynd was already on the move, manhandling a confused Waterston up from the table. The sergeant turned back and gave Banks a quick salute, then led the complaining scientist away.

“You,” Banks said, addressing Volkov. “Find out what’s going on here. And tell your pilots to start getting ready for take-off. We’re leaving.”

He didn’t wait for the Russian’s response, but headed straight for McCally and Wiggins’ rooms. The corporal was already up, in the process of putting on his flak jacket.

“My room, thirty seconds,” Banks said, although in the end it took longer than that, for Wiggins, although fully clothed, was face down on his bed and snoring, despite the klaxon of the alarm. It took both McCally and Banks to get the private upright, but at least Wiggins was soon able to get himself kitted up, although Banks would need to make sure there weren’t any civilians in his line of sight if the shooting started.

“Bring your bags, we’re leaving,” he said. “Out in the corridor, at the double.”

Hynd had gathered the three scientists into Banks’ room as ordered, although the two younger men were still struggling to get into their trousers and button their shirts. Banks had to shout to be heard above the shrill alarm, at the same time retrieving his flak-jacket, webbing belt, and rifle. He slung his kit bag over his shoulder.

“Everybody ready? Right, Hynd, you and Cally take point. I’ll look after Wiggo. You three,” he waved a hand at the scientists, “are in the middle. If I say run, you run. Savvy?”

“We can’t leave,” Waterston shouted back.

“You don’t get a say. This is why I’m here. Now shift your arse or I’ll shift it for you.”

They moved quickly, out of the rooms, through the dining area and downstairs into the open reception area of the complex. The alarm kept sounding, even louder here, but there was no sign of anything being done about it; the squad and the scientists were the only people in sight.

“We should check on the Russians,” Waterston shouted.

“Once we’ve got you on the plane, and not before,” Banks said.

They headed out onto the runway. It was lit up for its whole length, parallel lines of light converging and stretching away into fog that hung at the far end of the strip. But they did not have to look that far to see that the lights were for naught; the plane was going nowhere.

Volkov lay at the foot of the lowered metal steps, what was left of him. The blood looked almost black under the lights, and there was plenty of it, pooled under a body that had been ravaged by something that wasn’t holding back. They only knew it was the Russian from his squat stature and the fur coat; his face had been torn off, from scalp to chin, leaving only a flap of hair over his left ear and a single, red eye staring accusingly. His right leg was gone below the knee and from the look of the jagged bone and torn flesh, it had been torn away with some force. One of the scientists—Banks didn’t turn to check who—threw up noisily, but they had far more than nausea to worry about.

The main cockpit window of the Lear Jet had been staved in, a gaping hole in front of the pilot’s seat—with the pilot himself stuffed partly through it. The man’s head was missing, and blood ran from the window down the nose of the plane.

That was all Banks got a good look at. The alarm cut off, the power going with it. The runway fell dark, the whole complex black and silent. The only light now came from the interior of the plane at the top of the steps. Banks unslung his rifle from his shoulder, and switched on the sighting light. He turned his back on the plane, washing light across the runway.

“Hynd, Cally, you’re up. Check out the plane. If it’s safe, we’ll hunker down here.”

Waterston spoke up again.

“Hunker down? We should head back into the complex where it’s safe.”

“Safe? As in, there’s a fucking huge lion in there, in a cage powered by an electric locking system that’s just failed? That kind of safe?”

Waterston’s mouth flapped open and shut, but no words came out, which was probably just as well, for Banks’ blood was up now, the adrenaline kicking in hard, and he wasn’t in the mood for any crap.

Hynd and McCally were already up the steps, looking into the cabin. Hynd turned back and called down.

“All clear. The cockpit’s a bugger of a mess, but we can shut the door on that if we need to—it’s solid enough.”

“Comms?” Banks said.

Hynd waved a hand in a seesaw motion.

“Maybe aye, maybe no. As I said, it’s a mess.”

“See what you can do. We’re coming up.”

Waterston still looked like he wanted to argue. Banks turned and spoke softly.

“Look, there’s power in there, we’ll be safe inside a metal tube, and there’s as much free booze and grub as you can stomach. So it’s either that, or you fuck off back on your own to a big, dark building with fucking huge scary animals wandering about. It’s up to you.”

Wiggins was dragging Volkov away to one side. Bits of the body stayed behind on the runway, a trail of bloody gore. Something caught Banks’ eye, a darker shadow moving in the darkness. He swung his light in that direction and saw only the high fence delimiting the mammoth enclosure. But now he was thinking, not about the lion, but about the big male wolf, and the way it had looked at him.

“Inside, now,” he barked. “That door gets shut in ten seconds, whether you’re there or not.”

Waterston’s small rebellion seemed to have been quelled; all three of the scientists scurried up into the cabin. Banks let Wiggins go first ahead of him, then had one last sweep of the runway with his light, seeing nothing, before joining the others up in the plane. He pulled the steps up behind him, and closed the door.

It shut with a satisfyingly solid clunk.

McCally and Wiggins were up at the rear of the cabin, having herded the scientists towards the buffet table and bar. Whatever calamity had befallen the plane, it had been confined to the steps outside and the cockpit; in the main cabin, it was almost possible to believe that nothing untoward had happened.

One look at Hynd’s face was enough to convince Banks otherwise. The sergeant stood beside the closed cockpit door, and waited until the three scientists had their backs turned before opening it, just wide enough for the two of them to slip into the cramped cockpit.

The first thing to hit Banks was the smell; blood and pish and shite, an all too well-known stench of recent death. The view out of the front window was obscured by the fact that the pilot’s body was hanging out of the hole they’d seen from outside. Shards of glass lay strewn around—it looked like the whole window had been caved in.

“Something came in from out there?” Banks said, indicating the open view. “Through inch-thick glass. It came through, and then pulled the poor fucker out of the opening?”

“That’s what it looks like, Cap,” Hynd said. He drew Banks’ attention to the control panels. They all looked like they’d been struck, over and over again, by something heavy, possibly a hammer, then had their innards pulled out, just to make sure nothing would ever work again.

“It’s either a fucking smart lion, or we’re looking at something else entirely,” Hynd said.

“I’d say option B is our best bet,” Banks replied. “Comms?”

“No fucking chance,” Hynd said. “It’s all been torn to buggery. We’re lucky we still have power, although that’s coming from a battery somewhere, and I’ve no idea how long that’ll last us.”

“And the co-pilot?”

Hynd motioned to the second chair. A deep pool of dark blood lay in the bucket seat.

“I think it’s safe to say we won’t be seeing him again either.”

“What the fuck got them? Any clues?”

“Apart from big and pissed off?”

“Aye, I get that bit myself.”

Banks checked the door, but it only confirmed their first impressions; whatever happened here had been confined to the cockpit. His guess was that Volkov had been unlucky enough to get in the thing’s way. But conjecture wasn’t getting them anywhere.

He let Hynd leave the cockpit first, then exited and closed the door after them. It too shut with a reassuring clunk. It wasn’t locked, couldn’t be from this side, but judging by the mayhem they’d seen, that was going to be the least of their worries should the cause of it decide to come back.

He turned back to Hynd.

“We stay here until daybreak, then head back into the complex and look for a way to get a message out. We keep watch in shifts, and we don’t let the boffins do anything stupid. And if anything does show up, we keep shooting it until it fucks off again. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Cally, are you sober enough to take a watch?”

The tall corporal nodded.

“I’ll be fine, Cap. Let Wiggo sleep for a bit though, okay? He did the heavy work with the Russians… and their vodka.”

Banks nodded.

“I’m guessing that wee drinking session might even be the cause of all this trouble,” he replied. “If Wiggo was having trouble handling the liquor, I imagine at least one of the Russians was in a similar state?”

McCally smiled ruefully.

“More than one. Are you thinking they had a wee accident?”

“A fucking big one, more like,” Banks replied. “So we keep watch all night. You and the sarge up first then. Keep an eye on these two doors. Shoot first, ask later.”

He pushed Wiggins down into one of the large armchairs.

“Three hours, then you’d better have your head on straight, lad,” he said, but the private’s head had already drooped, and sleep took him down hard. Banks left McCally and Hynd at the front of the plane and made his way up the back.

The two younger scientists looked as beat as Wiggins and they too were close to sleep.

“Rest if you can,” Banks said. “We’re safe in here.”

If Waterston disagreed with that assessment, he was smart enough not to say it in front of the younger men. When Banks joined the older scientist at the bar, the professor waved a bottle of single malt scotch in the air.

“Will you join me?”

“One, then, and a small one at that,” Banks said. “And only because we need to talk, you and I.”

“Indeed we do,” Waterston replied, pouring them both a drink and handing Banks a glass. “But first, I must thank you for getting us to safety so quickly. I had not quite grasped the magnitude of the situation, until…”

He waved a hand toward the outer door. Banks understood his meaning.

“Volkov? Aye. The wee man was a bit of a bastard, but it was a hard way for him to go.”

“What did it?” Waterston asked, and Banks laughed softly.

“I was just about to ask you the same question. You know more than you’ve been telling.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Waterston replied. He downed his whisky fast and poured himself another, then talked.

“I first started to get wind that there was something wrong going on about two years ago. Ours is a tight-knit field of study when all is said and done, and word gets around the community whenever something out of the ordinary occurs. Decades ago, when the Dolly the sheep cloning happened, that caused ripples. But the news coming out of Siberia caused the equivalent of a tidal wave. We all knew that Volkov was working on ancient tissue samples—his requests for materials, and access to others, were not subtle, although he threw enough money at enough cash-starved researchers that ethics were often not the first thing on people’s minds.

“So, in short, we knew the Russian was up to something. But given the remoteness of the location and lack of access to it, there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about it.

“That all changed two years ago, when Volkov engaged the services of a French team, specialists in gene therapy; viruses in particular. He flew them out here, all expenses paid. They spent three months on site and, last November, they all went home, or at least their ashes did. Volkov claimed an industrial accident had necessitated the burning of the bodies, but his reputation had finally caught up with him and it was at that point that the UN Advisory Council came to me and asked me to put a team together.”

Waterston paused to pour another drink for himself. At the same moment, Banks saw Hynd and McCally stiffen and heft their weapons, and felt the whole plane shift, as if something had nudged, heavily, against it outside. Everyone on the plane, at least those that were awake, held their breath, and it was as if time stopped for the space of a heartbeat, everything steady and fixed, like a still from a movie, before the clocks started ticking again. There was no repeat of the nudge from outside, and no sound from beyond the fuselage. Banks tried to look out the nearest window, but there was only deep black beyond, and his own reflection looking back at him.

He turned back to Waterston.

“May as well tell me the rest,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“And neither is Volkov,” Waterston said. “I started my investigations by following the money, and quickly realized that he’d been spending millions, perhaps even billions, on this facility and whatever it was he was building here. Yes, building. I hesitate to use any more natural wording, for there is nothing natural in the things he showed us in his pet zoo here. I had an inkling before I came, but today confirmed it. You see, he not only spent money on his materials, and his viral geneticists, but also on biochemistry, and in particular, the biochemistry of growth—rapid growth—hormones. You probably know of the kind of chemicals that get pumped into the food chain in North America in particular, all of the hormones and antibiotics needed to maintain the food supply in industrial quantities? Well, our man Volkov was using the same chemicals, and in vast amounts. What you saw today was the result; larger, much larger beasts than any Holocene animal that ever was born.”

“He made them bigger than they should be?”

“Exactly. But it’s not the size that has me worried so much as the other side effects. You see, in the States, where they use these very same hormones, they also have to use huge quantities of sedatives alongside them—they need to, to counter the effects of the aggression.”

Banks caught the man’s drift straight away.

“Big, and angry. Not a good combination.”

Waterston waved his glass toward the cockpit, sloshing some of it over his hand.

“I think we can confirm that, don’t you?”