Operation Siberia

by William Meikle

  *

  The wolf’s stare never wavered as Banks walked over to the cage. It was only as he got closer that he saw the beast was not alone. A straw bed dominated the rear of the cage, and on that laid three more wolves, none as large as the big male. It only took a second to confirm that one was a large female, almost all ghost white, and with her, two nearly full-grown cubs with shorter, darker coats and markings.

  The big male’s stare never left Banks’ face, and Banks knew that if the cage was not present, he would face the full cold fury of an attack.

  I think I’d rather face the lion.

  Wiggins whispered at his side.

  “Who’s a good boy then?”

  Banks took another step forward, and the big male growled with a rumble that Banks felt in his belly, as if he’d stood close to a big bass speaker.

  “Careful, Captain,” Volkov said, coming across the room toward them, “our big boy is most protective of his family.”

  Waterston was at the Russian’s side, and only took a quick look in the cage before turning to Volkov.

  “See, that’s exactly what I was talking about. Dire wolves did not grow that large.”

  Banks guessed this was the continuation of a private conversation the men were having. It wasn’t private now. The whole lab fell quiet, as if waiting for the Russian’s response.

  All he did was wave a hand toward the large cage.

  “They do now,” he said, and walked away. Banks noted that his workers—his bodyguards—were not with him. The three Russians stood at the far end of the dome, where it butted up against a hillside beyond the glass. There was a large door at that end, which looked like it went out directly into a courtyard, and the hill just yards beyond that.

  “What’s through there?” Banks asked, nodding towards where the men stood.

  “Storage,” Volkov replied.

  The Russian men’s tension around the back doorway and Volkov’s sudden attack of terseness after his previous volubility told Banks much about the situation he hadn’t known previously.

  They’re hiding something.

  And whatever it is, they’re afraid of it.

  *

  The day wore on. The three British scientists were determined to understand every single facet of the workings of the laboratory. Volkov wheeled in a succession of scientists—half a dozen white-coated men and women who looked to Banks’ eye to be too fresh-faced, too young, for the work. None of them spoke English, and Volkov managed all the translation himself, all too obviously giving everything the positive spin he wished to put on proceedings.

  Banks and his squad stayed near the wolf cage—the big male still sat, unmoving, staring at them. The three Russians were also still in the same spot they’d been since they arrived, over at the rear doorway.

  Wiggins was talking softly, and edging closer to the wolf’s cage.

  “Good boy, there’s a good lad.”

  “It’s not a fucking poodle,” Hynd said. “It’ll have your hand off if you get too close.”

  As if to punctuate the point, the wolf smiled, showing the full scale of its perfect teeth.

  “Wiggo,” Banks said, twice before the private paid attention. “We’re going to be here for a while. Go and see if those Russian lads fancy a Scottish smoke. Take Cally with you, and see if you can find out what’s on the other side of those doors they’re watching so carefully. Take your time, and act casual; we don’t want to spook them.”

  “They look plenty spooked already,” McCally replied.

  The two men walked away, heading around the perimeter of the dome, stopping to look in cages, chatting as naturally as if they were out for a walk on the street. Banks turned away—he didn’t want to be seen watching them. He trusted McCally at least to do the right thing, and even if Wiggins couldn’t keep his mouth shut for two minutes at a time, his natural charm and good humor was enough to win most people over eventually.

  The big wolf’s eyes seemed to follow Banks wherever he moved, although the beast itself didn’t shift from its position. Banks sensed a keen intelligence at work behind that stare, and not for the first time was thankful of the cage between them.

  “So, what do you think, Cap?” Hynd said. “Is everything up front and kosher here or what?”

  Banks shook his head.

  “Watch Waterston. Watch those Russian men over at the door. Volkov has the brass neck to try to pull off his ‘nothing to see here, move along now’ spiel, but Waterston isn’t buying it. And neither am I.”

  The third scientist—Banks was embarrassed that he still didn’t know the man’s name—had come over to look at the wolf, and overheard.

  “And you would be right to be skeptical,” the man said. It was the first words Banks had heard from him on the trip, and he was surprised to hear a strong West Country accent. “There’s something well dodgy going on here. The boss is trying to put his finger on it. Trust me, once the prof gets the bit between his teeth, he won’t let go. Strap in, lads. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a bumpy ride.”

  - 6 -

  The inspection of the lab took up most of the day, with only a short break for coffee and sandwiches to break the monotony. Waterston and Volkov sparred verbally with each other all the way through, and the wolf watched Banks and his team with its unblinking blue stare. At least Wiggins and the Russians seemed to be getting on, judging by the laughter that echoed around the dome from the far end by the doorway, and Banks was looking forward to whatever report McCally and the private would bring him later.

  But first, he had to endure an evening with the scientists. The whole squad was invited to join Volkov and his team for dinner, but Banks left McCally and Wiggins with their new friends, and the two men seemed more than happy with the arrangement. Hynd was less pleased.

  “Come on, John. Let me go with the lads. You don’t need me.”

  Banks laughed.

  “And leave me on my lonesome with that lot? There’s no fear of that. You’re with me. And we’re staying dry. Chin up… it’s going to be a long night.”

  *

  Just as the day in the lab had appeared interminable, so too did the speeches and counter speeches that had to be endured before they even got to eat anything. Banks and Hynd had been relegated to the second table. While the English scientists were feted like royalty and Volkov lorded over the main table, the Scotsmen sat with four of the young Russian scientists, none of whom spoke a word of English or were inclined to try. Banks tried to catch snatches of the conversation between Volkov and Waterston, but although he could see that it was heated, almost argumentative, he could not get the gist of it. He began to regret his order to keep the night a dry one, for a few tall glasses of vodka would have eased the boredom.

  He watched, almost envious, as the two younger English scientists shifted large quantities of the free booze; both of them excused themselves early, and the young Russians took the opportunity to take their leave at the same time. Hynd and Banks sat alone at their table, watching the argument between Volkov and Waterston grow ever more heated as the vodka started speaking for both of them. It looked like it might even come to blows, and Banks was considering getting up to separate them when McCally and Wiggins arrived in the doorway.

  Both men looked the worse for drink—not as drunk as the two at the top table, but not too far off it. Wiggins wore a broad grin, but McCally looked serious, and waved for Banks to join them at the door.

  “I told you this was a dry night,” Banks said.

  “Sorry, sir,” McCally replied. “But it was the only way to get the Russians to talk to us.”

  “Lovely vodka they have here, sir,” Wiggins said, slurring every word. McCally patted the private on the shoulder.

  “Let me talk, Wiggo. You just concentrate on standing up straight.”

  The corporal turned back to Banks and Hynd.

  “We need to talk, sir. In private. There’s more going on here than you know.”

  “I’
d already guessed as much,” Banks replied. He turned to Hynd.

  “Look after Wiggo. Get some coffee in him, strong and black. We need to be on our toes, not on our backs, drunk in bed. And don’t let the boffins start fighting. We’re on a protect and serve mission here. It’s time we started.”

  *

  Banks led McCally back to his suite, and made them both a cup of strong black coffee before settling at the breakfast bar to listen to the corporal’s story. It didn’t take long for Banks fears to be confirmed.

  “Your wee Russian pal has been fucking things up here for years,” McCally said. His Highland accent came through stronger than usual, testament to the effects of the booze, but he was taking to the coffee well enough, and was certainly more sober than Wiggins had been.

  “Tell me everything,” Banks said.

  “You were right about them being worried,” McCally said. “Those three Russians were as spooked as a nun in a whorehouse. But they took to our fags easily, and Wiggo gave them some patter to butter them up, so we were all pals fast enough. And once they took us out the back to their wee shed and broke out the vodka, their tongues loosened. Their English is no’ that great, then again, neither is mine, so we muddled through fine.

  “And the stories they can tell you… folk have died here, sir. A lot of folk. Yon big lion is responsible for a lot of them; they had it outside in an enclosure for a while, but it learned how to take down the fences and got into the deer, so they sent a squad of men in to fetch it out. Butchery was the word the Russians used a lot—and they weren’t just talking about the deaths of animals. Since then, they’ve kept the big cat inside, but they have to watch it closely.”

  “But that’s not what’s got them spooked, is it?” Banks said quietly. “What have they got out the back that they’re not showing us?”

  McCally shook his head.

  “Even the vodka wasnae enough to get them to tell us that. But whatever it is, they’re right feert of it. I’m guessing another animal of some kind—and a bloody vicious one at that. And whatever it is, they keep it out the back there. We saw enough to know that it’s behind a big bloody steel door set in thick concrete, and it’s built into the hill. They keep a night guard at the door—one of the Russians stayed off the vodka because his shift was coming up.”

  “And not a peep as to what it might be?”

  McCally shook his head again.

  “Just that the Russian lads told us we’d be better off buggering away home and forgetting we ever saw this place.”

  “That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Banks replied. “But the brass sent us here to watch the eggheads. So we’ll watch. But we’ll watch carefully. No more vodka, understood?”

  McCally smiled ruefully.

  “Message received and understood, sir.”

  *

  McCally headed off for an early bed, and Banks went out to the eating area. Wiggins stumbled past him, none too steadily, off to his room. Hynd stood over by the big viewing window, looking out into darkness and smoking a cigarette.

  “Did Cally tell you the story about the lion?” the sergeant asked, and Banks nodded.

  “Aye. That, and the fact that the wee man there is definitely hiding something from us.”

  Hynd smiled thinly.

  “Aye. And Professor Waterston knows it. They’ve been going at it hammer and tongs since you left.”

  Volkov and Waterston were still sitting at the large table, still in heated discussion. There was a vodka bottle on the table between them, and the level of the liquid had fallen dramatically even in the short time Banks had been away.

  “Do we need to split them up?” he asked.

  Hynd laughed.

  “It might be more fun to let them have at it—this has been the most boring night I’ve had since the wife’s knitting club came round for tea.”

  Waterston’s raised voice echoed around the open space.

  “You’ve been messing around with things that have never been approved. There’s a reason we’re considering sanctions, and you know it.”

  Volkov went red in the face, and Banks saw that he needed to intervene. But he only took two steps toward the table when he was interrupted by something even louder.

  An alarm, high pitched and strident, echoed and rang throughout the facility.

  - 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 o
f 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.”