Operation: Yukon

by William Meikle

  "And if I don't?"

  "If you don't, you're going to be the next fucker I set on fire."

  Five minutes later we were all back inside the cabin, all of us looking at the vault door. The cap had made us bring the kit...and Jennings. Davies had led him across the site as if helping a sleepy kid to bed and once we were in the room the corporal retreated into a corner and just stood there, still staring blindly ahead. Watkins too was staring, at the huge steel vault door on the other side of the room.

  "You don't want to be here," he said.

  "Tell me about it," I answered. "But seeing as how we came all this way, why don't you open it up and show us what you keep in there?"

  My hearing was only now beginning to recover from the pounding it had taken and I didn't quite catch what he said next and had to get him to repeat it, although I feared I'd already guessed.

  "You already know," he said. "You were in Siberia. You already know."

  He lifted the same bone flute that the cap had lifted earlier, put it to his lips and blew.

  Somewhere below us a bellow rose in reply. It didn't sound wolf-like, it didn't sound musical. I knew exactly what it sounded like.

  It was an Alma in a rage.

  "How many?" the cap asked grimly.

  "Three," Watkins replied. "Two males and a female, all nearly full grown."

  "How can that be?" I asked.

  "Tell me," the cap added.

  Watkins sighed and seemed to come to a decision.

  "Okay...I'll tell you what I know. Can I barter it for coffee and a smoke? It's going to take a while."

  While Wilko got out the stove and got a brew going, I went to check on Jennings. He was still in the corner, still almost catatonic. I'd seen it before of course, any soldier who's been in more than one firefight has probably seen it at least once. Part of me wanted to chew him out for deserting the squad when we needed him and another part of me felt nothing but sadness and pity for the mess that must be going round in the lad's head. Getting him sorted out was going to take time. That, and peace and quiet, and I had a feeling we were going to be short of all three for a wee while longer yet. I left him where he stood and went to join the others round the table when the smell of fresh coffee could no longer be ignored.

  Watkins took another of my smokes and started up almost straight away.

  "Yes they're Alma, and yes, we got the embryos from Siberia at the same time we got the wolves. I didn't tell you earlier because I thought you had enough on your plate with the pack."

  "And you thought we'd let you fuck off in the chopper with the townsfolk and you wouldn't have to deal with it," I said.

  I got a thin smile in return and a nod of the head in confirmation.

  "I thought, hoped, that you wouldn't find them, that the vault would stay shut and they'd just starve and rot away down there in the cells. It's probably the safest way to deal with them, even now. Leave it locked and walk away."

  "No can do," the cap said. "It wouldn't look good on my report. And so far, you've told us nothing. Come on…"

  Watkins took a lungful of smoke then continued.

  "As I said, we had the embryos. We grew them," he said. "Same way we grew the wolves, and with the help of the growth hormones and modified DNA strands they came to near maturity very rapidly. I believe the guys in Whitehall were hoping for some kind of programmable super-soldiers. But where we were able to train the wolves at least to some extent with the implants, the Alma proved to be intractable. For one thing, they're almost always angry."

  "Angry? If it was me, I'd be fucking furious," I said but had to go quiet when the cap gave me one of those looks. Watkins continued.

  "At first we had them in big pens up the back at the edge of the woods, but it soon became clear we'd need more secure accommodation for them and, besides, they seem to prefer being in the deep dark; a race memory of cave dwelling was the prevalent theory.

  "As with the wolves, I had nothing to do with the day-to-day maintenance of the beasts...out of sight, out of mind for the most part. But there were rumors, of keepers being mauled and of ritualistic, almost cult-like practices being performed by the beasts themselves."

  "Don't tell me, let me guess. Cannibalism?"

  Watkins nodded.

  "There used to be six of them. After that they were kept segregated but it was already too late. The female had been with the males when they reached puberty."

  "She's pregnant?" the sheriff said, understanding the import of the remark before any of the rest of us.

  Watkins nodded again.

  "And due any day now. For God's sake, do as I ask. Leave that door shut and just walk away."

  "You know I can't do that," the cap answered. "Ultimately we both answer to the same people, and they've called for full sanitation. I'm going to have to go down there. I need you to open this door."

  Watkins shook his head.

  "I can't do that."

  "It wasn't a question," the cap said.

  "No, I mean I can't. It's secured. I don't know the code."

  I went over with the cap to study the door. It had one of yon standard numeric keypad entry locks fitted to one side of the big metal wheel.

  "Davies, Wilko, you lads figured out that radio business sweetly enough. Can you do anything with this?"

  "It might take an hour?" Wilko said, and I saw he wasn't fully confident.

  "Do what you can, lads," the cap added. "Unless anybody's got an oxyacetylene unit handy you are our only chance."

  As the lads got to work the sheriff went to the cabin door, opened it and looked out over the still-burning remains outside. I joined her for a smoke.

  "I don't know what I expected to find up here," she said. "But I didn't expect it to be quite so banal. It's almost factory-like."

  "It's British," I replied. "There's a lot of this kind of shite about. But something's got you thinking, hasn't it? Come on, out with it. It might be important."

  "That it might," she said quietly. "But at the time I thought it was just the ramblings of a drunk. Old Tommy Goldfarb has been coming out this way to hunt and drink...mostly the latter...for near on fifty years. He's always been one for stories, bogles in the woods, fairy-folk in the hills, you know the kind of stuff. One night last year I got called out to the local dive for a disturbance and found Tommy had got into a fight with some young-uns...and it was over one of his stories.

  "I got it out of him over a pot of strong coffee back at the station. To cut a long, and surely embellished story short, he was adamant that he'd had a close encounter, not with an alien, but with a Bigfoot. Said he was close enough to see the white of its eyes, and admitted that he'd shat himself in fright, a detail I didn't really need to have heard. Of course I put it down to the drink at the time but now, knowing about the wolf pack and this place, I'm wondering…"

  "Wonder whether the wolves weren't the only things that have escaped?"

  "Exactly. Do you trust that man Watkins to be telling us the truth?"

  "You already ken the answer to that one."

  "I suppose I do. Is your captain a man to leave a job half-done?"

  "You've seen enough of him to know the answer to that one too."

  "I suppose I have. I need this place and everything they've birthed here...what's the word you use...sanitised. I can't have people coming back to town if there's still any danger."

  "We're all on the same page here...well apart from Watkins...and our man Jennings. He's on another fucking planet."

  "Poor fella. Had a friend went like that in the Afghan Foothills. We had to ship him home...ten years ago now and he's still in a sanitorium."

  I could only nod in reply. I'd been harboring hopes that my corporal would just snap out of it and come back to us but with every passing minute it looked less likely.

  There was still no sign of any wolf activity outside and the only sound was the crack of timbers as they smouldered in the ruin of the main building. Thin smoke was dispersed by a b
reeze and the air had turned decidedly chilly under a clearing blue sky. The sheriff and I smoked two cigarettes each in the doorway before the cold drove us back inside.

  Jennings still stood in his corner, Watkins sat in the opposite corner, head down and back against the wall, and the cap was with the privates, doing something with a laptop at the keypad. I went over to see if they were making any progress.

  "We're getting there, Sarge," Davies said. "Twenty more minutes and we should have it cracked."

  Computers and me don't mix; to me they're wee magic number boxes whose secrets will always elude me. That was a young man's game these days, and I was starting to feel my age. I left the lads to it and went over to Jennings. When I looked in his eyes he looked away, lowered his gaze as if in shame. It wasn't much but I took it as an improvement on the faraway stare; maybe there was a chance yet that he'd come back to us. I clapped him on the shoulder.

  "Hang in there, lad. We'll get you hame."

  An answer came in the form of a fresh, blood-curdling howl from outside, not too close, but not too far either. The wolves had regrouped, and I didn't think they were in the mood for reconciliation.

  -11-

  The lads got the vault door code cracked fifteen minutes later. The cap spun the big wheel and the door came open with a faint hiss of escaping air. The smell hit me immediately, a musky, heavy odor of animal with a faint underlay of piss and shite. And with it came the memory of another cave and a charnel-house in Siberia. My legs didn't want me to go any farther and I had to force myself to step in after the cap once the door was fully open.

  Fluorescent tubes lit a set of metal steps going down at a sharp angle in a rock tunnel with hastily whitewashed walls. The stench came up in a warm draft from below, making me breathe carefully through my mouth as we descended. The cap went first, with the sheriff behind me and Davies bringing up the rear; we left Wilko at the vault door covering our backs in case the wolves were feeling extra sneaky.

  We descended in silence, a couple of dozen steps until we reached bottom and stood in a roughly hewn cave, more fluorescent lights buzzing above us. It was a prison, of sorts, three cells again roughly cut into the rock on either side, each with a very hefty iron grille across the front stout enough to contain the strongest of men. But what was inside were no men.

  I'd seen them before so was ready for the sight but the sheriff let out an involuntary yelp and had taken three steps back towards the stairs before she gathered herself. Young Davies looked like he'd join her in flight given half a chance and I can't say I blamed him. On our left-hand side two sullen male Alma stood at the grilles of their respective cages, inspecting us as we were inspecting them. These were paler than the ones in Siberia, almost white to match the snow outside. They stood more than seven feet tall on slightly bowed legs with barrel chests and noticeable pot-bellies, the matted fur hanging like a kilt around their waist, their slightly conical heads almost scraping the roof of their cells. Their hands were the size of shovels, with slate-gray fingernails long and pointed; I knew from experience they could rend flesh like knives through butter. Above shaggy beards that hung on their chests their mouths were full of teeth and their dark brown, almost black, eyes full of anger. And somehow their silence only made them appear all that much more intimidating.

  "Fuck me," Davies said.

  "Don't go giving them any ideas, lad," I answered. "They've been locked up for a while and might take you at your word."

  The sheriff had turned away, but now she let out another yelp of surprise.

  "There's another one over here."

  On the other side of the cave, in the middle of the three cells, we found a third Alma. This one wasn't standing to watch us but was instead lying on a bed of straw near the rear. I had to wash my gun light over in that direction to get a look but it was immediately clear that this was the pregnant female that Watkins had mentioned. Her belly was heavily distended. She lay on her side, almost as large as the males opposite, and moaned most piteously, as if in pain.

  I saw that the cap was building up a steam of rage.

  "I don't care what they are. Even in zoos we don't treat animals like this. And I'm not even sure these are animals. Get Watkins down here," he said to me. "Drag him down if need be."

  I was halfway up the steps when Wilko shouted down from above.

  "The Englishman's done a runner. Want me to go after him?"

  I went up the stairs two at a time and arrived in the room at the top to find Wilko at the door looking out. Jennings was still in his corner but there was no sign of the Englishman.

  "I think he's heading for the trucks," Wilko said.

  "Then he's not going far," I replied as I pushed past him. "The cap and I have got the keys. Watch my back. I'll go fetch."

  I headed out into the snow, following a fresh set of prints that, as Wilko had said, headed down the slope towards the parked trucks. I looked up and saw the man climbing up into the cab of the nearest truck.

  He got out again while I was still only halfway down towards him, obviously having discovered what I already knew; the keys weren't in the ignition.

  "Come back, man," I shouted, aware that my voice was carrying loud and clear in the air. "Don't be a wanker about this. We're safer together."

  He obviously didn't agree. He turned, saw me coming, and immediately headed off at a run towards the main gate. I didn't know what his plan was, I'm not even sure that he had one beyond panic and flight, but whatever it was it made him a determined wee sod. He was getting farther away from me. As I passed the trucks he was already outside the compound and heading down the hill. I briefly considered getting in the truck and chasing him down but the sound of the engines might attract the pack, and besides, I'd lose time on him just getting into the truck and getting it going. I put on a burst of speed.

  I got lucky. He wasn't watching his footing, took a tumble arse over tit and plowed head first into the snow, busting his nose and leaving a bloody red smear on the ground. I was on him as he was pushing himself to his feet.

  "Come here, ya daft bugger," I said as I grabbed his shoulder.

  He didn't reply, but something in the trees to the left of the road did, a low growl that told me we were in serious trouble. Watkins had heard it too and grabbed at my arm.

  "If we stay on the road they'll only run us down. This way. It's our only chance."

  He pulled away from me, went right and ducked under the canopy, almost immediately lost to sight beneath the foliage.

  "Bugger," I muttered, and headed after him, aware that at any minute something might take a bloody bite out of my arse.

  Within a few paces I was on some kind of animal trail; big deer at a guess given the size and frequency of the droppings, and Watkins was barrelling along through the branches ahead of me, unheeding of the noise he was making, intent only on speed. I yielded to his local knowledge and followed right behind him. Somewhere at our backs a wolf barked and was answered by a louder bark to my left, not too close, but not too far either.

  "I hope you ken where you're going," I shouted.

  "Not far now," he shouted back.

  The trail brought us out at the rim of a clearing, a bowl in the snow in the bottom of which sat a squat domed metal building with garage doors.

  "Hurry!" Watkins shouted.

  I didn't need to be told twice. Something rustled the foliage no more than a few yards behind me. I threw myself down into the bowl and raced after Watkins as he opened a door I hadn't seen on the side of the building and ran inside. I was at his back, made it in and the door slammed at my back followed by another slam as something heavy hit it from the outside. We heard a frustrated yelp from beyond the door, then we were alone in a suddenly quiet dark.

  "Don't move. There's a light switch here somewhere," Watkins said, and was as good as his word when several seconds later a fluorescent tube buzzed and stuttered into life overhead.

  We were in a garage with bays for four Skidoos. There was on
ly one machine left and signs that the other spaces had been vacated in somewhat of a hurry.

  "This is where you left from the last time," I said, and Watkins nodded.

  "And there's room for two on that one. We can get off and away clear if we're sneaky."

  "And sneakily leave my mates up there on their own? You don't ken much about loyalty, do you? No, lad, you're coming back with me."

  A second later he had a spanner in his hand and took a swing at me. A second after that the butt of my rifle caught him hard on the temple and he went down like a sack of potatoes, the spanner falling with a clang on the floor. That brought another bark from outside. Something sniffed at the base of the door out there.

  "Fucking great idea, Wiggo," I muttered to myself. "Now what?"

  I left the wanker on the floor and went over to study the Skidoo. I'd never driven one, but a quick going over of it convinced me it wasn't unlike a motorbike; it had a throttle, brakes and handlebars...and the ignition key was already in place. How hard could it be?

  I found gas canisters at the back of the garage, filled up the machine and started her up. She clanked and rattled like a shaken can of nails and the air suddenly tasted harsh and tar-like but she was running so I called that a result. Then I had a harder job, of figuring out how I was going to get Watkins back to the others without him falling off the back on the way. I finally strapped him none too gently into the back seat with some guy ropes I found alongside the gas canisters. He was going to loll around alarmingly but that couldn't be helped; the sniffing outside had turned to scratching and the sound of digging. It wasn't going to be too long before I had unwelcome company.

  Another problem faced me immediately; the main garage doors were shut in front of me. If I opened them, chances were the wolves would get in before I got out. I was sitting in the driving position still pondering that when Watkins spoke behind me. He sounded groggy; a hit from a rifle butt wasn't easily shaken off, but I heard him clear enough.

  "There's a remote, by your left hand."

  I found a switch, flicked it, and the garage door creaked, complained, then started to lift, showing the first foot of the snow outside. I released the brake and we began to move forward. I had one hand on the throttle, another holding my weapon up pointed at the opening space ahead as the chains kicked in and we roared forward with a lurch that nearly threw me off. The door was still rising as we reached it and I had to duck to avoid losing my head. There was a thud behind me; I realised Watkins hadn't ducked enough, but couldn't afford the time to turn to check the damage for we were already out and heading up the wall of the bowled clearing. Something came at me fast from the right. Instinct kicked in and I swung the rifle round and fired blind, holding my trigger down on six shots that almost deafened me even above the noise of the Skidoo.