Department 19: Zero Hour

by Will Hill

  “Paul,” he said, and smiled at his friend as he unlocked the door. “What tales of happiness and reasons for optimism have you got for me this morning?”

  Major Turner smiled. “Two deaths by misadventure,” he said. “Three murders. How’s that?”

  “You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” said Holmwood, and pushed open the door. “After you.”

  The Security Officer stepped past him and into the room. As he did so, Holmwood momentarily considered slamming the door shut, running up to the hangar, stealing one of the helicopters and heading for the horizon, leaving the Loop and everything it contained far behind. Instead, he took a deep breath, and followed his colleague.

  “Two accidental deaths,” said Cal, settling into the chair behind his desk. “Please tell me you’re talking about the incident at the perimeter? Not two more since then?”

  Turner stationed himself in front of the desk and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The two men have been identified as Mark Potter, aged twenty-one, from Winchester, and Scott Marshall, aged thirty, from Durham. Both had their wallets in their pockets, along with a number of stickers and leaflets, and the phone number of a solicitor in Peterborough.”

  “They were expecting to be caught,” said Cal. “Not die.”

  Turner nodded again. “Yes, sir. This wasn’t martyrdom, it was civil disobedience that went wrong.”

  “Very wrong,” said Cal. There was no malice in his voice, just weariness; two more deaths seemed almost insignificant when set against the tide of blood and violence that surrounded the Department. When he first set foot in the Loop as a starry-eyed twenty-one-year-old, he would never have believed that he could be capable of regarding the loss of two human lives with such dispassion, but it was now the reality he found himself in. If he dwelt on them all, they would paralyse him.

  “Agreed,” said Turner. “They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “They didn’t deserve to die at all,” said Cal. “They were protesting, for God’s sake, and they climbed a fence they shouldn’t have.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Turner.

  Cal rubbed his eyes and nodded. “All right,” he said. “It’s done, in any case. Where are we in terms of clean-up?”

  “The bodies are about to be released to the coroner,” said Turner. “Police are informing the families and will be releasing the names to the media. I ordered the security-camera footage leaked, and surveillance confirms it’s already appearing online.”

  “Smart,” said Cal. “What’s the fallout going to be like?”

  “The deaths are going to be front-page news,” said Turner. “So we can expect the protest encampment to grow in response. People are going to believe we killed these men, and since I assume we won’t be making any statement to the contrary, it will quickly become accepted as the truth. I’m going to recommend an immediate doubling of the perimeter patrols, with your permission.”

  “That’s fine,” said Cal. “Whatever you need to do.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Turner. “The three murders were vampire-related. Mistaken identity. I’ve sent you the files, but there’s nothing we need to do.”

  “All right,” said Cal. “Anything else?”

  “No, sir,” said Turner. “That’s all. Have we heard anything from Romania?”

  Cal shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “No contact since they entered the forest this morning. We’ve got satellites overhead, and FTB reconnaissance flights, but the target area is impenetrable.”

  “What about Adam?” asked Turner.

  “I got a report from Lieutenant Browning five minutes ago,” said Holmwood.

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cal. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Hang on.”

  He opened his desktop terminal and logged in, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard. There was a low hum as the wide screen on the wall opposite the desk shimmered into life. At its centre was the Blacklight crest and motto, the Latin phrase that had been a favourite of Abraham Van Helsing.

  Lux E Tenebris.

  Paul Turner turned towards the screen as Cal opened the report that had arrived in his inbox. It comprised eighteen lines of simple black text; the Interim Director and the Security Officer read them together, their eyes fixed on the screen.

  REPORT 7545/C

  SUBMITTED: 0245

  BY: LIEUTENANT MATTHEW BROWNING/NS303, 83-C

  FAO: INTERIM DIRECTOR CALEB HOLMWOOD/NS303, 34-D

  SECURITY: ZERO HOUR CLASSIFIED

  SUBJECT: OPERATION GARDEN OF EDEN

  BEGINS.

  Am currently en route back to Nevada. ETA 0425 local time.

  The subject previously known as ADAM, since identified as John Bell, was located by our squad at his place of employment, a charity in central San Francisco. I pursued him as he attempted to flee, confronted him, and was able to confirm his identity before he took his own life.

  I have isolated flesh and blood samples, and run provisional tests. These tests show an unidentified abnormality in John Bell’s blood. Provisional DNA analysis should be available within approximately twelve hours, and thorough investigation can begin as soon as I am able to return to the Loop with the physical samples.

  ADDITIONAL/PERSONAL: After my initial research was complete, Major Richard Simmons put his gun to my head and took me hostage, for reasons that are as yet unknown. He was killed while attempting to escape, and I sustained a neck injury in the same incident. Major Simmons spoke the word SAFEGUARD before he died, but NS9 have so far found no mention of it in their databases.

  ENDS.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Holmwood, his voice low. “I know Rich Simmons.”

  “Me too, sir,” said Turner. “I’ve been on operations with him. More than once.”

  “Does Safeguard mean anything to you?” asked Holmwood.

  “No,” said Turner.

  “I don’t like this, Paul.”

  “Nor do I, sir. They stopped Simmons, though, whatever it meant. And Browning seems to have done us proud.”

  Holmwood nodded. “An unidentified abnormality,” he said. “What the hell does that mean? Has he found a cure or hasn’t he?”

  “I think it means he doesn’t know,” said Turner. “And that he’s being very careful not to get carried away. But he thinks they’ve found something, Cal. That much is obvious.”

  Cal stared at Matt Browning’s report, his mind racing. He wanted to believe the young Lieutenant had found something that might qualify as good news on a day that already seemed destined to be long and full of the opposite; wanted to believe it so much that his heart was pounding with something worryingly close to longing.

  An unidentified abnormality, he thought. It needs identifying, quickly.

  “All right,” he said. “I want Browning home today. The Mina II is still in Nevada, right?”

  “No, sir,” said Turner. “I sent her to Beijing this morning. Professor Karlsson is finished at PBS6 and asked for extraction.”

  “Damn it,” said Cal. “What’s his ETA?”

  “Ten hours from now, sir.”

  “I want the Mina checked and refuelled and sent to Dreamland as soon as she lands,” said Cal. “The minute she lands. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Turner. “I could have an RAF transport chartered within the hour if you don’t want to wait?”

  Cal shook his head. “It’s a twenty-eight-hour round trip to Nevada, allowing for time on the ground. Sending Mina will still be quicker, even if we have to wait ten hours until she gets here.”

  Turner nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Good,” said Cal. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

  Turner nodded and strode towards the door. He had almost reached it when the Interim Director spoke again.

  “Paul,” said Cal, his voice low. The Security Officer stopped, and turned back. “What are the chances of this actually being anything? Whatever it is that Brow
ning has found?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” said Turner. “I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I want to believe he’s on to something,” said Cal. “But I don’t want to get my hopes up. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Turner. “I do.”

  There was a long moment of silence, broken by Holmwood’s console vibrating loudly into life on the surface of his desk. The Interim Director picked up the plastic rectangle, read the newly arrived message, and swore heartily.

  “Aleksandr wants me to call him,” said Holmwood. “It’s urgent, apparently.”

  Turner nodded. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  “No, stay,” said Holmwood. “I’m probably going to be telling you about it as soon as we’re done. You might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “If you’re sure?” asked Turner.

  “I am. Sit down.”

  The Security Officer walked over to one of the pair of armchairs that stood below the wall screen and did as he was told. Cal closed Matt Browning’s report, opened a live video connection, and brought up his contacts list. He scrolled down until he reached the name of his Russian counterpart, and clicked CALL. A square window opened and was filled instantly with the lined, heavyset face of Aleksandr Ovechkin. The SPC Director smiled thinly as the secure connection was established, but he looked tired, and even paler than usual.

  Holmwood’s heart sank.

  Christ. This doesn’t look like it’s going to be good, whatever it is. Brilliant.

  “Aleksandr,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too, old friend,” said Ovechkin. “You are well?”

  Holmwood laughed. “As well as can be expected. You?”

  The SPC Director shook his head. “I am not so good, Cal. Not so good at all. This is a very difficult call for me.”

  A chill ran up Holmwood’s spine. He glanced over at Paul Turner; the Security Officer was watching the screen with an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Well, spit it out,” said Cal, forcing a smile he hoped would come across as reassuring. “We’ve known each other too long for any bullshit, Aleksandr.”

  Ovechkin nodded. “That is why I asked you to call me personally, my friend. I would not have you hear this from anyone else.”

  Holmwood’s smile disappeared. “Hear what? Out with it now, Aleksandr. You’re starting to make me nervous.”

  “I am sorry,” said Ovechkin. “I have to tell you that Richard Brennan is dead. He died yesterday, here in Polyarny.”

  For long seconds, silence filled the room. As was so often the case, it was the Security Officer who regained his composure first.

  “Colonel Ovechkin,” he said. “This is Paul Turner. Are you saying that the SPC has successfully eliminated Richard Brennan?”

  “No, Major Turner,” said the SPC Director. “That is not what I am saying. It is more complicated than that.”

  “So what are you saying?” asked Holmwood, his tone sharp. “My patience is starting to wear thin, Aleksandr.”

  “I will tell you everything,” said Ovechkin. “But as I do, I would ask you to keep what you said moments ago in your mind, about how long you and I have known each other. And I would ask you to afford the same courtesy to my predecessor.”

  Yuri? wondered Holmwood. What the hell has he got to do with this?

  General Yuri Petrov, the uncle of one of the men who was at that moment marching into the darkness of the Teleorman Forest, had been a legend in the classified community to which Cal had devoted his life, and his loss had been deeply felt. Henry Seward had often referred to Petrov as the hardest man he had ever known, and Cal had never seen anything to cast doubt on his friend’s claim.

  “I’ll do that, Aleksandr,” he said. “Now, please. Tell me.”

  “Yesterday evening our Surveillance Division picked up a man hiking through the forest that surrounds this facility,” said Ovechkin. “It is not uncommon for hunters and trappers to approach our physical borders, although most have sense enough to turn back before they get too close. We monitored the man, whose route appeared likely to lead him on to restricted land, and prepared a team to intercept him if he didn’t change course.”

  “Let me guess,” said Holmwood. “He didn’t?”

  Ovechkin shook his head. “He did not. The team was despatched, but before they reached the man there were two gunshots, and the heat signature we were monitoring became confused. When my men arrived, they found him lying beside a brown bear, which he had managed to kill with a point-blank shot to the head. The man had sustained terrible injuries, but he was still breathing when he was brought into the base. My medical staff were unable to save him, but he regained consciousness on his way to surgery, and told one of the doctors that his name was Richard Brennan.”

  “Jesus,” said Holmwood. A hundred questions were jostling for priority in his mind. “What the hell was he—”

  The SPC Director held up his hand. “There is more, Cal. Let me finish, then ask your questions.”

  Holmwood stared at the screen for a long moment, then nodded.

  “Thank you,” said Ovechkin. “We checked his DNA against the sample that your Science Division provided, and confirmed that he was who he claimed to be. My intention was to inform you of his death last night, but there was something else in the report I received from my medical staff. As well as his name, Brennan also said a single word, in Russian. Safeguard. I ordered a search of our network for all references to such a word. Hidden deep in our Research Division files, accessible only by the Director and a former member of this Department by the name of Yevgeny Demidov, we found the records of a project. A project codenamed Safeguard.”

  Cal glanced over at Paul Turner again; the Security Officer was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

  “I remember Demidov,” said Holmwood. “He’s dead.”

  “He died seven years ago,” said Ovechkin. “A cardiac arrest in his sleep. He was a disgusting slob, a disgrace to our Department. He is not missed.”

  “What was Safeguard?” asked Turner. “What was he doing?”

  “It was a black project,” said Ovechkin. “Classified above Top Secret. I had no idea it existed until yesterday, and there is nothing to suggest that Yuri Petrov was aware of it either. But the records show it ran for almost twenty years.”

  “You can give me the detailed history later, Aleksandr,” said Holmwood. “Just tell us what it was.”

  The SPC Director sighed deeply. “Spies,” he said. “Demidov was making spies. And Richard Brennan was one of them.”

  As Arkady Petrov led them deeper and deeper into the forest, Jamie found himself wondering how such a place could still exist.

  The generally accepted wisdom seemed to be that the world was smaller than it had ever been, that there was nowhere left to explore, no dark corners into which to shine a light; the North and South Poles reached so often they had become tourist destinations, Everest scaled time and again, the deepest reaches of the Amazon braved, the great wildernesses of Siberia and Canada mapped. Satellites, GPS, camera phones, the internet: all had combined to increase knowledge and reduce mystery.

  But then again, thought Jamie, we kept vampires a secret for more than a century. So who knows what else is still out there?

  The Teleorman Forest was large, although not in comparison to the great Russian steppes or the seemingly endless frozen wilds of Alaska. But the facts were indisputable: all their equipment, the modern technology that connected them to the outside world and which Jamie was only now truly realising they had come to rely on so heavily, had failed barely thirty minutes after they had stepped into its trees.

  There were no signals, no radio, no satellite contact.

  They were on their own.

  Cut off from the chain of command, the tension within the squad was rising with every minute that passed. It seemed clear to Jamie that Tim Albertsson was
struggling with the pressure of leading the operation; without surveillance, without the ability to contact his superiors in Nevada for clarification, mistakes that were made would be his and his alone. Jamie almost felt sorry for the American; Operators throughout the Departments were trained to function as parts of a whole, to adhere to mission objectives and patrol grids and Operational parameters. Initiative was encouraged, of course, and self-sufficiency was drummed into every man and woman who underwent training. But theory was one thing; being forcibly separated from a support structure that you had come to take for granted was quite another.

  The rest of the squad were all dealing with the isolation in their own way. Petrov had become even more stoical, if that was possible; his hard, pale face was entirely expressionless, and he spoke only when he had something directly related to the operation to say. Engel seemed to be shrinking before Jamie’s eyes; her jovial manner seemed ever more forced as she withdrew into herself, as though it was an act that she herself no longer believed. Van Orel had gone the opposite way; he had become louder and more manic as they made their way through the unchanging landscape of green and brown, rattling out a stream of jokes and anecdotes so relentless that Tim Albertsson had eventually ordered him to shut up. And it was obvious to Jamie that Larissa, her already apparent frustration amplified by the sudden unreliability of her supernatural senses, was fighting a pitched internal battle with her vampire side.

  He knew the signs all too well. She was flying constantly and erratically, responding to comments with frowns and rolled eyes and grunts that were close to growls, and regularly soaring away through the trees, separating herself quite intentionally from her squad mates. Jamie knew that her vampire side was hardest to resist when she felt uneasy or threatened; the combination of the strange properties of the forest, the operation itself, and whatever was between her and Tim Albertsson, was clearly causing her to feel both.

  I can wait until we get out of here, Jamie thought. Because there’s no sense in making this situation even worse. But then one of them is going to tell me what’s going on, whether they want to or not.