Operation Siberia

by William Meikle

  “The crazy fucker really did it,” he whispered.

  “Did what?”

  “He cloned a hominid,” Galloway whispered. “And one that’s not even supposed to exist at that.”

  “Save it for later,” Banks said and guided the man away to join the others. “For now, we stick to the plan until we need another one. But I’ll need an explanation at some point.”

  Galloway laughed bitterly.

  “You and me both,” he said, but finally lowered his eyes from the roof and walked over to join the others. Hynd and McCally led them all away around the interior pathway of the aviary and into the domed walkways of the main complex.

  *

  Banks kept a close eye on the caged areas, that of the cave lion in particular, but everything was quiet in this part of the facility. The hares were still out of sight, and, Banks hoped, the lion itself would be out in the open country, seeking larger, slower, prey. They moved quickly out into the main reception area. They saw through the large front windows that thin fog was once again drifting across the open tundra outside, partially obscuring the view. But Banks saw enough to know that the fences were down along a large stretch of the enclosures. A mammoth stood, lazily chewing at the grasses on the edge of the runway near the Lear Jet. And what looked to be the whole herd of elk were on the move, walking at a stately pace and led by a huge-antlered male, across their field of vision and off out of sight to the north in the fog. There was no sign of any predators, whether wolf, or lion.

  Or fucking huge ginger gorillas.

  Somehow, that made things worse rather than better. Banks would much prefer to know where the enemy was, rather than be constantly on edge, wondering where an attack might come from. In either case, their current situation was too exposed, and he was keenly aware that only the expanse of glass lay between them and a possible assault. He needed more walls around them.

  “Move up,” he said, and followed at the rear as they made their way up to the guestrooms.

  *

  The eating area looked exactly as they’d left it the night before. Hynd and Cally made a quick sweep of all the guestrooms, before Hynd came back with a thumb up. They all filtered into what had been Waterston’s room the night before, a suite even larger and more opulent than that which Banks had been afforded.

  “You got your phone, Prof?” Galloway asked.

  The older man took out his phone, and for long seconds, the only sound was the beep as he pressed buttons. He finally looked up from the screen.

  “We’ve got a signal, but it’s weak,” he said, and handed the phone over to Banks. “And it’s not on the phone network, just on the internet browser.”

  “That’ll do,” Banks said. But the next few minutes were frustrating as he tried, unsuccessfully, to get a contact back at base. In the end, he resorted to basics, and sent an email detailing their situation, copying in everybody’s email addresses he could remember. The phone’s battery was down to less than a quarter left when he was done, so he switched it off and tucked it in his pocket.

  “I’ll hold on to it,” he said, and Waterston nodded in reply.

  “Any joy?” Hynd asked.

  “We’ll know if they email us back,” Banks replied. “I’ll check in half an hour. In the meantime, see if you can get us some coffee somehow. And rustle up some grub from the kitchen through the back. We might be here for a while. Take Wiggo with you; it’ll keep him out of trouble.”

  *

  The scientists were gathered at the large picture window overlooking the runway and the animal enclosures beyond, but they weren’t taking in the view, instead engaged in hushed but heated conversation. Galloway, in particular, seemed animated, almost angry, and Banks could make a good guess at why. He heard a clatter and curse from through the back; Wiggo had at least found the kitchen. He walked across to join the scientists, while McCally took the lull in proceedings as an opportunity to stand at the open door and have a smoke.

  Banks was about to question Galloway as to what he did, or didn’t, know when a movement out on the boggy land caught his eye. He stepped up close to the window for a better look, and saw twenty of the large elk; females and young in the main, running, full-pelt from left to right across his view. The cause of their flight became obvious seconds later as four wolves, spread out to cover a wide area, ran behind the elk, keeping pace with them, keeping them running in the hope of wearing down a weak deer. Banks had seen this before in Labrador with timber wolves and caribou, but the larger size of the beasts involved here made it, somehow, awe-inspiring, and he couldn’t drag his gaze away, even as the procession thundered away into the thin fog to his right.

  Directly ahead, just past the runway, mammoths, a score at least, were gathered in a close group, all in a circle facing outward, the larger males’ tusks forming a jagged barrier against any attack.

  “The wolves won’t bother them,” Galloway said at Banks’ side. “But that big lion might make a move if it gets hungry. Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

  “As long as we get to see it from up here,” Banks replied. “And what about Wiggo’s fucking ginger gorillas? What kind of hunting might they be doing?”

  “I’ve been wondering—worrying—about that myself,” the scientist replied. “We already know that they’re carnivores.”

  “Aye, they are that,” Banks replied. “But what else are they? What the fuck did Volkov brew up in that lab?”

  Hynd and Wiggins returned with two pots of coffee, and Banks sipped gratefully at the strong bitter brew while waiting for Galloway’s reply. When it came, it was measured and steady, but Banks thought he saw more than a hint of fear dancing in the younger scientist’s eyes.

  “You know about Neanderthals, of course, who doesn’t? But the hominid line includes many more distant—and some very close—relatives than the general public imagination has grasped. From the so-called hobbit people of the Malaysian Islands, to Peking Man, and all manner of sizes and shapes in between, our family tree is a varied one with many scions. And then, there are the myths and legends. Most cultures around the world tell of ‘hairy men.’ We have Sasquatch in North America, Yowie in Australia, Yeti in Tibet, and even an Auld Grey Man in your Scottish Highlands.”

  “And here?” Banks asked. Waterston arrived in the conversation with a bottle of single malt Scotch that he poured a slug of into each of their mugs. Just this once, Banks didn’t turn it down, despite the sacrilege of treating such good whisky with such disdain. He was concentrating on Galloway’s answer.

  “As I said,” the scientist continued, “in Tibet, they have Yeti. Here, in the north of Russia, they have, and have always had, Alma. The tales are very similar, of a hairy primate that keeps itself to itself, roams places where man does not go, and can be fierce if riled.”

  Banks laughed bitterly at that.

  “Riled, like being locked up in a cage in the dark since birth? That kind of riled?”

  Galloway nodded.

  “Primates and captivity never have mixed very well.”

  “So it’s a kind of ginger Yeti?” Banks asked.

  Galloway smiled thinly.

  “Best guess, yes. Volkov found some primate material, and decided to apply his process to it.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Galloway waved at the view beyond the window.

  “Your man, Wiggins, might have got to the nub of the matter when we first got here. Big grazing beasts are all well and good, but the spectacle is with the predators, and seeing them in action.”

  Banks remembered his own reaction minutes earlier on seeing the wolves on the hunt, and knew that Galloway was right; the Russian had wanted something exciting, a show that would wow the public. Banks couldn’t take a guess at how much a performing Yeti might fetch on the open market—but it wouldn’t be cheap, he knew that much. He was still mulling that over when he saw Galloway’s gaze shift to look out the window again.

  “Watch out!” the scientist shouted. Ba
nks didn’t stop to think; his training kicked in and he ducked and rolled, sideward away from the open window towards the corner of the room where there would be most protection.

  Seconds later, the window crashed inward and something roared into the room with the force of a cannonball.

  - 12 -

  Galloway and Waterston were quick enough to react, and went in opposite directions to either side. But Smithson had been standing with his back to the window and never even saw death coming. A rock the size and shape of a rugby ball hit him between the shoulders at the base of his neck, and Banks heard his spine break like a crack of a whip. The scientist was dead before he fell.

  The momentum of the rock barely slowed; it careened on and slammed hard into the far wall of the room, taking out a three-feet-wide hole before landing with a loud thud on the floor of the corridor beyond.

  “Fucking hell, what’s this now?” Banks heard Wiggins say somewhere outside, but by then he had his weapon unslung and was moving toward the smashed window. McCally was already by his side. Banks chanced a look round the edge of the window. A tall, hairy figure stood out on the tundra, well past the edge of the runway.

  It was man-shaped, almost—thicker and sturdier around the belly and thighs, and longer armed. Matted red hair covered most of the body, and was longer below the waist, making it look like it wore a pair of hairy trousers. It had obviously been the thrower of the rock, for it had another in its hand, but the distance seemed too far, almost impossibly so for the strength with which the first rock had hit the room. But it looked like they were about to see proof, for the creature drew back an arm, looking more like an Olympic discus-thrower than any kind of ape, and was ready to launch a second cannonball. Banks sent three quick rounds at it, but he’d hurried and his aim was off. He succeeded in stopping the throw though, for the beast dropped the stone at the sound of the shots, and seemed puzzled by this new noise in its environment.

  “That’s right, big guy,” Banks whispered as he took aim. “Just stand there for a second longer.”

  He didn’t get the time he needed—the beast turned and ran, a long, loping stride eating up the ground and taking it out of range even as McCally sent three shots of his own after it.

  Thin fog rolled in to obscure the view. The mammoths trumpeted loudly amid the gray and somewhere out in the boggy land, the alma responded with a roar.

  A second roar, distant and muffled but recognizably from a similar throat, came from deeper in the fog.

  There’s at least two of the bastards.

  *

  “Watch at the window, Cally,” he said to the other man. “And if you get a clear shot, take it and don’t wait for orders.”

  He turned back to the room. Hynd was bent over the fallen scientist, but everybody had heard his spine snap, and saw the twisted angle his head made at the neck. Hynd only confirmed what they knew already when he rose from beside the body.

  “He’s gone, Cap. Was it a big orange bugger?”

  “Aye,” Banks replied. “And there’s more than one of them. Get Wiggo from wherever he is; we stay together, and we stay sharp from now on. I want you and Wiggo in the corridor here; Cally and I will watch at the window. Hopefully, we don’t have long to wait until they send a rescue team.”

  He went over to Waterston and Galloway. The two scientists stared down at the body of their friend, and Banks saw the shock start to hit them. Waterston still clutched the bottle of Scotch, and Banks made them each take a hefty slug from the neck of it, more to give them something to think about than anything else.

  “These Alma of yours,” he said to Galloway. “How big did they grow?”

  He had to ask twice to get the man’s attention.

  “They were supposed to be regular sized,” the scientist said finally. “Unlike Yeti, the stories never said anything about them being giants.”

  “And yet that one out there was eight feet if it was an inch. Volkov fucked with these as well as lion and wolves?”

  “It looks that way.”

  Hynd was over by the door. He had the rock in both hands.

  “I can hardly lift this fucker. How did he manage to throw it all the way up here?”

  “Pumped up with as many growth hormones as he could get into it I would imagine,” Galloway said. “And those long arms we saw will make great levers.”

  Talking had at least diverted Galloway from the dead man on the floor, but Waterston still couldn’t tear his gaze from the body, and kept drinking from the neck of the bottle. Banks took it away from him, and got an angry look in reply, but no backchat.

  “No more booze,” Banks said, addressing everybody in the room. “Not until we get home, then the first round is on me.”

  He had Hynd and Wiggins move the dead man through to another of the rooms—Waterston had fixated on it, and wouldn’t be ready for any thinking while it was still in his view.

  And I need these scientists thinking. They might know something that’ll give us an advantage.

  He checked his watch, and saw it was time to check for a response. Waterston’s phone was getting dangerously low on battery by now, but there was just enough to pick up the Wi-Fi connection and check his email. There was a terse reply.

  PICK UP AT YOUR LOCATION IN FOUR HOURS FROM THIS MARK.

  It was time-stamped just five minutes ago. They had until three o’clock in the afternoon to survive.

  *

  He joined McCally at the window.

  “We’ve got backup incoming,” he said. “Four hours. Anything going on out there?”

  “All quiet, Cap. I think we put the frighteners on it.”

  “Let’s hope so. Either that or yon big cat will keep it busy. As long as it stays outside throwing rocks, it’s not in here causing mayhem, so let’s keep it that way. Keep an eye open, and I’ll spell you in an hour.”

  McCally gave a small salute, and went back to looking out over the tundra. Banks saw that much of the view was obscured by fog, and wondered what might be going on in the damp grayness beyond the runway, where animals were meeting each other for the first time since the last ice age. It was hard not to think of these beasts as revenants, hard to remember that they had been grown downstairs in the lab, for once they had been seen in their natural environment, it looked like the only place they had ever been.

  Apart from the big orange fuckers; they don’t feel like they belong here at all.

  Banks turned away and went back to join the scientists again. At least they had now eschewed the whisky, and were making serious headway in the coffee.

  “Four hours, and we’ll be getting out of here,” he said, and Galloway managed a tight smile.

  “Well, that’s the best news we’ve had in a while. What’s the plan?”

  “Stay cooped-up as long as we can, and then when backup arrives, we get the fuck out of here and home.”

  “And the beasts?”

  “That’s your domain now. I’m guessing there’ll need to be a round-up and cull, but that’s not my call.”

  “No,” the older man, Waterston said grimly. “That’ll be mine. Or rather, the people I report to. But for now, home seems like a great idea.”

  - 13 -

  For a time, it seemed that McCally had been right and they had put the frighteners on the alma, for everything fell quiet, almost deathly so, with the fog deadening all sound except for the occasional trumpet of a bull mammoth. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted in from the corridor outside and along with it a soft murmur as Hynd and Wiggins chatted, almost casually. The scientists Waterston and Galloway sat at a table, they too talking, heatedly but in lowered voices. Banks guessed they were preparing their story for the brass back home—he’d have one of his own for the colonel in Lossiemouth on their return.

  The first hour passed quietly like that, but the silence was not to last. The calm was broken by the crash of splintering glass from outside.

  “Cally?” Banks said. The corporal shook his head.

&n
bsp; “Not out front, Cap,” he said. “Sounds like it came from ‘round the back somewhere.”

  Banks quickly crossed the room, out into the corridor, and into the room opposite. He ignored the dead scientist on the bed and went directly across to the window, which gave the view over the high domes of the complex. He was just in time to see a rock sail in a high arc out of the fog and crash through the tall dome of the aviary. The sound of the crash carried to him even through the window—as did the high hoots of the Alma. It sounded like triumph, and even more like laughter.

  Two more crashes sounded, one quickly after the other, as he walked back through to the other room.

  “They’re flinging stones at glass houses,” he said, “like a pair of fucking kids.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what they are,” Galloway said softly. “Maybe they don’t know any better.”

  “Aye,” Banks replied, “that’s all well and good. But it’s not my job to teach them some manners; they’re hardly likely to let me skelp their arses. As long as they keep amused with the domes and leave us alone, I’ll just leave them be to enjoy themselves.”

  “Cap?” McCally said at the window. “There’s something else too.”

  Banks went to the window again. The fog had lifted, all across the enclosures beyond the tarmac. Only a hundred yards away, the big cave lion was feeding on the carcass of a dead deer. Four wolves circled it warily, but every time one of them came too close, the lion let out a roar of defiance, and the wolves backed off.

  “They got a meal, and the lion stole it,” Galloway said at his side. “Pretty typical behavior.”

  One of the wolves took a chance and tried to sneak forward. The lion roared, and stood, imposing its sheer bulk on the smaller wolves. It impressed the pack enough to back off. But something else wasn’t quailed. A rock curved from somewhere to the left, and landed right next to the lion. A second came in, flatter and faster, and smacked the huge beast in the side. It fled with a wail of pain, scattering the wolves that likewise took flight as the two Alma walked forward to the deer carcass and bent to feed.