Operation Siberia

by William Meikle

  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?”

  - 8 -

  The night drew on. Waterston finally abandoned the bottle, and the three scientists, and Private Wiggins, slept, but Banks’ brain wouldn’t allow him the luxury. He went back up front and joined Hynd and McCally.

  Hynd nodded toward the main door.

  “There’s something out there, Cap. If you stand quiet long enough, you’ll hear it, sniffing and snuffling.”

  Banks was now thinking about Volkov, or rather his body, left lying out there, like the carrion they’d seen laid out for the birds. He guessed something was taking advantage of a free meal, but didn’t share his speculations as to what it might be. He checked his watch, and was surprised to see that it was only just past midnight. They had a long stretch of dark still ahead of them before there was any promise of morning.

  “Cally, can you see if there’s any way you can rustle me up a coffee? It’s either that or the whisky bottle, and I’m getting sorely tempted.”

  “You and me both, Cap,” McCally replied, and headed off to the buffet area to check the under-counter cupboards. Hynd lit a cigarette and puffed out two expert rings before speaking.

  “Did you get anything useful out of the prof?”

  “Not much,” Banks replied. “He was more interested in getting inside the whisky bottle. And I can’t say as I blame him. God, this is a fucked-up mess.”

  “Another in a long line of them,” Hynd said and smiled grimly. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks, Cap.”

  “When we get back, remind me to ask for a raise,” Banks said.

  McCally returned with coffee for the three of them.

  “I found a wee machine,” he said. “And it’s the best of stuff, Colombian Dark Roast. We’ve got plenty of it too.”

  “Small mercies,” Banks said, and sipped at the strong, bitter brew thankfully.

  *

  When the time came round for Wiggins’ watch, Hynd spoke up.

  “Let the lad sleep, Cap. The coffee’s got me wired anyway, and between that and the fags, I’m too strung out to get a kip. I’ll keep you company.”

  McCally went up the back to pick a seat. As he did so, he nudged one of the sleeping scientists, the West Country man, who came awake slowly and blearily, rose out of his chair, and came forward to Banks and Hynd.

  He spoke to Hynd first.

  “I could do with one of those smokes if I could?” he said.

  Hynd handed him a cigarette, got out another at the same time, and seconds later, both men were puffing away. At one time, Banks would have happily joined them, but that was one habit he at least had under control.

  “Sorry—I never caught your name,” he said to the scientist.

  “Galloway. Harry Galloway,” the man said. “I’m the primate specialist.”

  “What’s a primatologist doing on this trip?” Hynd asked. But with that one word, a whole lot of things immediately fell into place in the jigsaw puzzle Banks had been working on in his head.

  “Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “Tell me it’s not a fucking oversized gorilla?”

  Galloway lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

  “We’re not sure it’s anything at all,” he said. “But Volkov was spending money on gene-splicing equipment and materials that were very specifically targeted towards apes—and the big apes in particular.

  “King fucking Kong. That’s all we need,” Banks said. “But it might explain the hidden cell behind the steel door out back, and what had frightened that team of Russians.”

  “And it might explain how we ended up locked in here for the night?” Hynd said.

  “I bloody hope not,” Galloway answered, but Banks saw sudden doubt, and fear, behind the man’s eyes.

  *

  By three in the morning, Banks was thinking he might manage to get some sleep, and was about to wake Wiggins when the plane was nudged again from outside, harder this time, and with more intent.

  “Heads up, guys,” Banks said. “We’ve got a visitor.”

  The fuselage rocked and then fell over on its left, hitting the runway hard. Scientists, liquor bottles, empty glasses, and cold meats tumbled across the cabin. Banks only stayed upright by hanging onto the outside door handle.

  A roar sounded outside, deep and grumbling, then the plane rocked again as it was hit hard. Metal scraped and screeched on stone as they were pushed along, coming to a halt with a jolt when they fell off the runway onto softer ground.

  Metal screeched again, tearing this time, the sound coming from the cockpit at the front. The cabin sat skewed at a thirty-degree angle, the slope confusing the eye at first until Banks got himself wedged against the wall. He counted down from three on the fingers of his left hand as he put his right on the cockpit door; Hynd and McCally were already lined up as he threw the door open.

  They were just in time to see the pilot’s body get pulled all the way out of the window and away. Hynd and McCally fired, but they were already too late. All they saw was a glimpse of a huge gray, striped flank and the swish of a long tail as the cave lion dragged the pilot’s corpse away into the night.

  - 9 -

  There were no more alarms until dawn streaked the sky and showed in the plane’s windows, but any thought Banks had of sleep had gone with the appearance of the big cat. He remembered only too well the efficiency with which it had dispatched the hare; and now that it was out of the cage, Banks wasn’t about to let his guard down, even by an inch.

  Wiggins had no such qualms, and was asleep again almost as soon as they’d closed the cockpit door after the lion’s appearance, but he was the only one. The three scientists gathered among the debris around the buffet table, attempting to salvage what they could from the spillage. McCally managed to rustle up coffee for everybody, and Banks endured a continuous litany of theories and questions from the scientists.

  “Look,” he said after a time, “I only know what you know. Somehow, the big cat got out and is on the loose. Whether that’s what caused the alarm, and whether that was what got Volkov, I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a lion that got into the cockpit and tore out the wiring—unless Volkov was programming the beasties for smarts as well as bulk?”

  Waterston went white at that, then shook his head.

  “No,” the scientist said. “This is something else, I agree. And I’m coming round to your way of thinking—I think this is in Galloway’s domain. But we won’t know until we go and look.”


  Banks shook his head.

  “Too risky,” he said. “You’re all staying here with Cally and Wiggo. The sarge and I will head over to the complex and see what’s what; see if we can find some way to get a message out.”

  “That’s not going to work,” the scientist replied. “And you know it. You don’t know what to look for, in the first place. And in the second, we came here to investigate, and I’m bloody well going to do so.”

  “I suppose shooting him isn’t an option?” Hynd said with a laugh, and Banks managed a smile.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  But he saw that the scientist would not be swayed.

  “Okay then, if one goes, we all go. But you do what I say, when I say. If I say run, you leg it. I’m guessing the big cat is going to prefer to be outside in the wild rather than back anywhere near the cages; but we can’t take anything for granted. Our first, our main, objective is to get rescued, so we find a phone, or an internet connection; anything we can. Only after that will I consider any other investigations. Agreed?”

  Waterston didn’t look happy, but it was Banks’ turn to be obdurate, and he was just as good, if not better, at that than the professor.

  *

  They finally woke Wiggins at dawn, and they all had coffee, and what scraps of food had been salvaged, before Banks got them organized to head out.

  “Leave our kit bags here,” he said. “We’re going in fast and light, and if we get separated at all, this is home base; it’s probably the safest spot, even despite the big hole in the front window.”

  The scientists looked pale, terrified even, but the younger two seemed determined to follow Waterston’s lead, and Banks had to admit that the prof had a point—the boffins would spot anything out of the ordinary long before any of Banks’ team.

  “Ready?” he asked. By this time, full daylight showed in the windows. Banks had checked out both sides of the plane; there were mammoths out the left-hand windows, and a quiet, seemingly dead, complex out the right side. There was no sign of the big cat, but it was definitely out there somewhere, he had no illusions about that.