Department 19: Zero Hour

by Will Hill

  Matt grinned. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “You should,” said Jamie. “So tell me about America, mate. I’m really sorry I didn’t know you were going. Did NS9 ask for you?”

  “They asked for a scientific observer,” said Matt. “Cal picked me to go.”

  “That’s awesome,” said Jamie. “And you totally deserve it. So tell me about it.”

  Matt smiled, and quickly ran through everything that had happened in San Francisco. Jamie’s eyes widened as he heard of John Bell’s awful final decision, his face screwed up in a grimace of disgust as Matt described recovering the man’s blood and flesh from beneath the wheels of the truck, and a look of deep fury settled on to his friend’s face as he described the final minutes of Major Simmons’ life.

  “So what do you make of the results?” asked Jamie, when Matt finished his tale. His eyes were wide and shining. “Is it a cure?”

  “Right now?” said Matt. “No. But there’s something there, something in John Bell’s blood that has never been seen anywhere else. The process that cured him is complete, so it’s doubtful that the anomaly on its own can be used to cure others. But if we can reverse engineer it to an active state, we might be on to something big.”

  “It’s incredible, mate,” said Jamie, softly. “Really, it is. You’re going to be the reason I’m not stuck like this forever. And my mum, and Larissa.”

  “Let’s not jump the gun,” said Matt. “We don’t have a cure yet.”

  “I know,” said Jamie. “Yet.”

  “We might never have one,” said Matt. “There are no guarantees here, Jamie. You need to allow for that. And I didn’t really do anything. I was just there.”

  “That’s bullshit,” said Jamie. “You chased Bell halfway across San Francisco, and you got the samples into a lab and found something completely new. Then you crashed a car into a wall, for God’s sake. On purpose. You have to learn to take some credit, mate. You should be so proud of yourself. And when all this is done, when it’s all over and there are no more vampires, people are going to know what you did. I’ll make sure of that.”

  Matt frowned. “Do you really believe that’s going to be the future?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Jamie. “I do.”

  He looked at his friend, searching his face for evidence of pretence, for any sign that he was telling him what he thought he wanted to hear, and found none. Jamie’s pale blue eyes stared up at him, his jaw set firmly, his mouth curling with the faintest hint of a smile he found deeply reassuring.

  Maybe he’s right, thought Matt. Maybe there is still hope.

  Maybe.

  He stood up straight, being careful not to move his neck more than necessary. “I’d better go,” he said. “How long are they keeping you down here?”

  Jamie shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I would have thought they’d discharge me today. I’m not ill. I’m just a vampire.”

  Matt smiled. “I’ll come back and see you later if they keep you in,” he said.

  “No you won’t,” said Jamie. “But that’s OK. Go and do what you have to do. I’ll see you soon.”

  Matt stood awkwardly for a second or two as he tried to think of something else to say, some appropriate, preferably reassuring, way to end his visit, then gave up.

  “Bye,” he said, and headed for the infirmary doors. He pushed them open, turned along the corridor, and almost walked straight into Kate and Larissa.

  “Matt!” cried Kate. “I didn’t know you were back.”

  He grinned. “I just arrived,” he said. “Overnight on the Mina.”

  Larissa stepped forward, her eyes locked on his collar, a frown creasing her forehead. “What happened to your neck?” she asked. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine,” said Matt. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Larissa nodded, although he didn’t think she looked remotely convinced by his answer. “How did you get on in California?” she asked. “Did you find Adam?”

  Matt nodded. “We found him,” he said. “There’ll be a report, but yeah. We found him.”

  “And?” asked Kate.

  “Nothing definitive,” he said. “We’ll know more in a couple of days. But it’s promising.”

  “I want to hear all about this,” said Larissa. “And I want to know what happened to your neck, Matt. Give us ten minutes while we visit Jamie, then we can go and get breakfast. You can fill us in on your adventure.”

  Matt shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m really sorry, but I have to get to work. Some other time, though?”

  “Sure,” said Kate, smiling with familiar bemusement. “See you soon, Matt.”

  He nodded, stepped round the two girls, and walked quickly down the corridor. Behind him, he heard the infirmary doors open and an explosion of raised voices float through them. Then he reached the lift, pressed the button marked F, and was waiting impatiently for the metal doors to slide shut when the console on his belt beeped.

  Cal Holmwood paced back and forth in his quarters, and checked his watch for the hundredth time.

  9:58

  Two minutes, he thought.

  Remarkably, Valentin Rusmanov’s return was not yet common knowledge. Paul Turner had brought the vampire down to the Interim Director’s quarters as midnight approached the previous night, managing to avoid contact with anyone as he did so, and Cal had listened carefully to Valentin’s story, a cold sensation gradually spreading throughout his body.

  This is it, he had instantly realised. Our chance. The only one we’re going to get.

  They had given Cal’s bedroom to Valentin, and ordered him not to leave the quarters unless given express permission to do so; his appearance would cause immediate panic. The vampire had agreed and excused himself, leaving Holmwood and Turner to formulate a response to the information he had provided, information upon which, without exaggeration, the fate of the world might very well rest.

  The plan they had settled on, which had required a series of video and audio calls, the movement of a number of highly classified satellites, and a complete absence of sleep, was what Cal was about to explain to the men and women of Blacklight, who would by now be waiting for him in the Ops Room.

  Holmwood checked his watch again.

  10:00

  It’s time, he thought.

  He crossed his quarters and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him; Valentin had not yet emerged, which was something of a relief. As soon as he exited the lift on Level 0, Cal could hear a low hum of conversation from inside the Ops Room, the drone of hundreds of lowered voices. He took a deep breath, then turned the door’s handle and pushed it open.

  Instantly, all conversation stopped.

  More than two hundred and fifty pairs of eyes swung towards him, as though synchronised by remote control. Holmwood met them with an even stare, nodded sharply, and walked quickly to the front of the room. He stepped up on to the low stage, positioned himself behind the lectern, and looked out across the massed ranks of the Department he had never wanted to lead, but which he was enormously proud to do.

  Paul Turner, Jack Williams and James Van Thal were seated in the front row, looking up at him expectantly. Beyond them, he picked out the faces of Jack’s brother Patrick, Angela Darcy, Elizabeth Ellison, and, sitting together at one end of the third row, Lieutenants Carpenter, Browning, Kinley and Randall. Jamie was still pale, the understandable result of the ordeal he had been through, but his blue eyes were clear and focused steadily on Cal’s.

  “Men and women of Blacklight,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and even. “It is, as most of you will be aware, extremely rare for all of us to gather in a single room at the same time. But there are moments when it is necessary, when there is something that involves each and every one of us, something urgent enough to justify calling you all together. This, my friends, is one of those moments.”

  Cal took a sip from a bottle of water that had been placed on the shelf a
t the rear of the lectern, and made a mental note to thank whoever had put it there.

  “Last night,” he continued, “there was a breach at the perimeter of this facility. Following the tragic accident that befell two members of the group that is even now demonstrating beyond our gates, it was widely assumed that this disturbance was the work of the same protesters. That assumption, however, turned out to be false. The perimeter breach was caused by Valentin Rusmanov, who last night kept the promise he made to Major Turner, that he would return when he had information that would prove useful.”

  There was instant uproar in the Ops Room, as seemingly every member of the Department began speaking at once. Their voices were loud and full of excitement, or fear, or both. Holmwood let the noise build for a few seconds, then brought his hand down on the lectern’s top with a sound like a rifle shot.

  “Enough!” he shouted. “The information that Valentin brought with him was the precise location of Dracula, Valeri Rusmanov, and Admiral Henry Seward, the Director of this Department. I assume I do not need to explain the importance of this intelligence, nor why I expect nothing less than your complete attention.”

  He paused, and this time the room remained silent. Cal took a deep breath and was about to continue when Jack Williams got to his feet and raised his hand.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” he said.

  “Is Admiral Seward still alive, sir?” asked Jack.

  “Yes,” said Cal, and saw expressions of shock appear on a number of faces as Jack sat back down. “Valentin saw the Director with his own eyes, along with his brother Valeri, and what he has described to me as a fully recovered Dracula.”

  He tapped the keys of the lectern’s terminal. Behind him, the huge wall screen lit up, displaying a crystal-clear satellite image.

  “This is the location in question,” he continued. “Château Dauncy, a fortified estate in south-western France, approximately twenty miles south-west of Bordeaux. Investigation of property and land records show that it is owned by a family trust, registered in Geneva and entirely impenetrable. It is, however, the same trust that owns the property in northern Romania that we know was once the Rusmanov family’s summer home. Valentin has confirmed these facts and provided an eyewitness account of his visit to the château, a visit that will go on record as having been made at enormous risk to his personal safety.”

  Holmwood pressed more keys and the screen shifted to an infrared image of the château and its grounds. There was a sharp intake of breath from the watching Operators; moving throughout the image, both within and outside the cold stone walls of the old building, were dozens and dozens of bright yellow and red shapes.

  “Jesus,” muttered someone near the front. “There are hundreds of them in there.”

  Holmwood nodded. “This footage was taken at four o’clock this morning. At that time, the Surveillance Division isolated two hundred and ninety-one individual vampire heat signatures in the château and the surrounding grounds, several of which arrived as our satellite was overhead. If Valentin is correct, and we have no reason to doubt his account, two of the vampires you can see behind me are Valeri Rusmanov and Dracula.”

  The atmosphere in the Ops Room had become so thick it was almost suffocating; excitement and trepidation were palpable, seemingly rising from the pores of the assembled men and women. Their attention was fixed on Holmwood, who waited for several seconds before keying the terminal again. The image on the screen shifted once more, this time to a large digital timer. It read 13:24:17 and was steadily ticking down.

  “You all know what this is,” said Holmwood. “And you know what it represents. Zero Hour is, and has always been, an approximation, based on the best data available to the Intelligence Division. It may be that we are already too late, that Dracula has regained his full power and stopping him is now already impossible. But I look round this room and I see men and women who could not live with themselves if we accepted defeat without a fight, and allowed terror to spread across this planet unchecked. So, while there remains a chance, no matter how small it may be, we will do what we have always done. We will face the darkness head-on and we will drive it back.”

  He looked at the hushed ranks of his Department, noting with satisfaction the expressions of determination that had settled on to many of their faces.

  “As I’m sure you can imagine,” he continued, “we have had an extremely small window in which to prepare a response to Valentin’s information. Nevertheless, we have consulted those Departments around the world who are in a position to offer assistance, and a plan has been formulated. The majority of both the active and reserve rosters will be shipping out at 1700 hours, as per briefings and schedules that will be provided after this meeting concludes. A skeleton security force will remain here at the Loop, along with all essential non-active personnel, who will continue their duties as normal. The Operational force will then rendezvous in southern France with Operators from Germany, Russia, South Africa and America, and will move on Château Dauncy at sunset.”

  A hand shot up on the second row, belonging to Angela Darcy.

  “Yes, Lieutenant?” said Cal.

  “Why sunset, sir?” she asked, and Holmwood saw a number of Operators nod in obvious agreement. “Why give the vamps the advantage?”

  “I understand the question,” said Holmwood. “And it was a factor in our planning. But there were physical restrictions on how quickly Operators from the other Departments could reach the rendezvous point, and the dark does not wholly favour our enemy. It also allows us to deploy the most powerful weapons in our arsenal, by which I’m referring to Valentin Rusmanov, who has agreed to be part of our Operational force, Lieutenant Larissa Kinley, and Lieutenant Jamie Carpenter.”

  A shocked silence filled the Ops Room, followed by a low murmur as the Operators digested the news that Cal had given them. He knew exactly where Jamie was sitting, and gave the young Lieutenant an apologetic look.

  I hope he knows why I had to tell them, he thought. I hope he understands that they need to hear anything that gives them the slightest hope that I’m not sending them all to their deaths.

  Jamie gave a tiny nod, as though he could read the Interim Director’s mind, and kept his gaze steadily focused on the screen, studiously ignoring the many pairs of eyes that had turned towards him. Holmwood nodded in silent thanks, and continued.

  “There are almost seven hours until the Operational force assembles in the hangar,” he said. “Each and every one of you will know whether you are going to France within the hour. If you are, study the briefing and prepare yourselves. After which, I suggest that all of you, whether you are going or staying, spend some time talking to the people you love, and reminding yourself of exactly what we are fighting for. This is not a fight with a single life at stake, or a hundred, or even a thousand. This is a fight that will define the very future of the world for every innocent human being and every vampire who means no harm, whether we will live in peace or cower in terror.

  “Every one of you knew what you were signing up for when you accepted your invitation to join this Department, and whether or not you ever thought it would come to this, I have absolute faith that you will rise above your own fears and do what needs to be done. We receive no parades, no medals that we could ever wear, no outpouring of thanks from a grateful public, and that is as it should be. We do not need such things, because they have never been why we do what we do. We do it because we are the only ones who can, and we will show that yet again today. We will join our colleagues and we will march together into the darkness. We will destroy Dracula, and Valeri, and every vampire who has allied themselves with them, and we will bring Henry Seward home. Or we will die in the attempt, safe in the knowledge that nobody could have done more, or given more, than the men and women in this room.”

  The clapping began somewhere near the back of the room, then rolled forward like a tsunami. By the time it reached the front row, most of the Operators were on their feet, cheering and appla
uding. Paul Turner stood up, clapping steadily, his gaze locked on Holmwood’s, the faintest glimmer of a smile on his face.

  Cal stared out at the men and women whose lives he had assumed responsibility for; he knew full well that whether or not the attack on Château Dauncy was successful, a significant number of them, perhaps even the majority, would never stand in this room again. The thought hurt his heart, but he pushed the pain away; he knew that the Operators were aware of the risks, and would be going to France with their eyes open. He would tip the odds as far in their favour as he could, and the rest would be up to them.

  This is it, thought Cal, as the noise reached a deafening crescendo. One way or the other, it all ends tonight.

  God help us.

  Victor Frankenstein walked quickly down the Level B corridor, eager to return to the sanctuary of his quarters. His stomach was churning at the revelation that Jamie had been turned into a vampire, and his heart was throbbing with a sense of hurt that he knew was absolutely unjustifiable, but which was painful nonetheless; the bitter disappointment that Jamie had not come and told him in person.

  Don’t be so damn self-pitying, he told himself. Don’t you think he had anything more important to do? You don’t even know when it happened.

  Cal Holmwood had sent him a message giving him permission not to attend the meeting in the Ops Room – the Interim Director was well aware of what was starting to happen inside Frankenstein’s misshapen body, and was entirely sympathetic – but he had thanked his friend and refused. His insides felt like they were on fire, his nerve endings sparking and smouldering, and his skin was so itchy that it was taking all of his resolve not to scratch it away in long, bloody strips. Despite all that, he would not have missed Cal Holmwood’s speech for anything. The Interim Director had done a frankly admirable job in Henry Seward’s absence, in circumstances as trying as any leader of the Department had ever faced, and he deserved to know that his efforts were appreciated; forcing himself to sit through fifteen minutes of torment had been the very least Frankenstein could do.