“Okay, we move,” he said. “Stay tight, keep an eye on the hairy men, and make for the mammoths. If they take fright, God help us.”
*
Banks stood up. The Alma hooted and wailed, and two rocks flew at him, but at least he saw them coming and was able to gauge their landing point, both hitting the ground two yards to his left.
“Look sharp, lads,” he said. “Wiggo, take point. I’ll watch your back. Double time.”
They moved out.
At the same time, the Alma made a move, closing in fast. Banks sent a volley of bullets their way. They were too far away for his shots to do any real damage, but the noise alone seemed to be enough to slow the beasts’ advance.
The squad headed at speed for the mammoth herd. Banks was busy watching the rear, trusting his men to make the right decisions depending on what happened in front of them. He heard the bull mammoth trumpet, loud and bellowing, the sound seeming to punctuate a sudden silence across the whole plain.
Then, before he realized it, he was inside a wall of shaggy, orange hair and suddenly felt a lot warmer. The smell was worse than it had been in the foxhole, and they had to stay nimble to avoid being squeezed between the huge flanks of the mammoths. But the squad was completely enclosed inside the mammoth’s defensive circle.
The Alma started to hoot and yell, but they sounded muted and distant, and they had stopped throwing rocks.
Galloway’s plan appeared to have been completely successful.
*
Outside the defensive ring, the Alma seemed confused at this turn of events. They came together in a group, thirty or more of them that Banks saw through the narrow gaps between the mammoths, and they showed no sign of wishing to press any further attacks, as if intimidated by the bulk of the tusked beasts facing them.
“Not bad, for an Englishman,” Wiggins said, and clapped Galloway on the shoulder.
The scientist smiled, then winced when he tried to put his weight on his injured ankle.
“I don’t know how long I can stand,” he said.
“We’ll carry you if we need to,” Banks said. “We’re all getting out of this together, I promise you that.”
“Is that your gut or your head talking, Cap?” McCally asked.
“A bit of both, lad,” Banks said, but he wasn’t looking at his men—his attention was on the big bull mammoth, who had pricked up his ears and lifted his head. Banks had seen the gesture before, and guessed what was coming next. The mammoth lifted its great tusks high, and trumpeted long and loud over the tundra.
Another sound slowly rose to join it, the distinctive whump of an approaching chopper.
*
“Get ready, lads, we’re leaving,” Banks said as the bulky swollen body of a Russian transport helicopter came into view, arriving fast from the north.
“Very good, Cap,” Wiggins said. “But I hardly think these beasties will give us a guard of honor to the runway. How do we get across the open ground?”
Banks laughed.
“The same way we always do things. We run like buggery and shoot the fuck out of anything that gets in our way. Any questions?” The chopper circled high above the domed complex as Banks continued. “We need to let them know we’re here. Let’s make some noise. Move out.”
He squeezed between the flanks of the bull and its nearest neighbor; the big mammoth sidled aside to let them pass through, and trumpeted again; Banks liked to think it was wishing them luck.
We’re going to need it.
- 24 -
The Alma were not slow in taking note that the squad had broken cover, and began to move toward them even as Banks had Wiggins and McCally take point and head for the runway.
“Get the pilot’s attention any way you can,” he said. “The sarge and I have got our backs. Move your lardy arses if you want to get out of here.”
Hynd stood with him as the other three, Galloway limping noticeably, headed off towards the complex. The chopper saw them, and started to come down for a landing. Banks caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and turned to see the four remaining huge thunderbirds swooping down in formation as they had before, intent on seeing off this new intruder as they had done with the last plane.
“Oh no you don’t. Not this time,” he said, and took aim, shooting the lead bird out of the sky. It fell in a flurry of broken wings and feathers, in the space between their position and the Alma. The other three birds broke off and began to circle high above, while the Alma, sensing a meal, surged forward in a rush to be first at the fallen bird. The chance of such an easy meal meant they had lost all interest in the men.
“Fuck me, if I knew it was as simple as just feeding the fuckers, I’d have shot Wiggo long before now,” Hynd said as they backed off, fast, hurrying to catch Wiggins, McCally, and Galloway.
*
The chopper landed on the edge of the runway between the ruin of the Lear Jet and the domed complex. Two armed men got out and covered them as they ran, Banks and McCally having to almost carry Galloway while Wiggins and Hynd lugged what was left of their kit.
“The others,” Galloway shouted in Banks’ ear. “We can’t just leave them.”
“Somebody will be back,” Banks shouted, and bundled the scientist into the chopper. At the same moment, the two armed backup men started to fire out onto the tundra. Banks turned to look.
The dead bird hadn’t lasted long, and the Alma’s attention had once again turned to the men. A score or more of the loping, shaggy humanoids were coming at speed across the boggy ground, heading directly for them. Banks, Hynd, McCally, and Wiggins lined up at the chopper door, ready to lay down a field of fire.
But it wasn’t necessary.
Whether it was the noise of the gunfire, the presence of the chopper, or simply the fact that there was a large tribe of Alma on his territory, the bull mammoth decided that enough was enough.
His trumpeting bellow sounded loud even above the thump of the choppers rotors. The bull raised his huge tusks high, then lumbered into a charge, directly toward the Alma. At the same time, the door of the domed complex burst open and a gray torpedo, the cave lion, bleeding from a dozen wounds, came out at a run, also heading straight for the tribe of Alma.
Faced with the double threat, the Alma faltered, and broke, fleeing before the onslaught. The mammoth herd, all as one, came on in a stampede that shook the ground, the lion threw itself among the hairy humanoids, tearing and biting and sending gouts of blood spraying in a fine mist in the air.
Overhead, the thunderbirds circled, sensing an imminent feast.
Banks turned his back on all of it, and got his men into the chopper.
He had one last look back as they rose up off the tarmac.
The Alma were in flight, loping at speed away across the plain towards the towering cliffs at the edge of the fjord. The lion had given up, settled, crouched, over a large slab of meat. The thunderbirds were already fluttering down onto another body twenty yards distant, and the mammoth were regrouped in a circle, almost in the same position they had been in previously.
As the chopper turned away, the bull raised its tusks and let out a farewell bellow.
Banks raised his hand and waved back as a fog rolled in below him and the chopper took them away to safety.
Read on for a free sample of Prehistoric Beasts And Where To Fight Them
Hugo Navikov
PREHISTORIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIGHT THEM
(An Except)
One of Katherine Muir’s favorite things about taking a panoramic submersible down was watching the bubbling waterline crawl up the viewing windows, letting her see the old, familiar world get replaced by the new, exciting one under the surface. But that was about the only thing she regretted about the design of her new vehicle, this sleek and solid lozenge built with viewports that were much stronger than those of any panoramic-view vessel, but much smaller, too.
Those bubble subs were wonderful for examining coral reefs, fish, and other sea life
. Watching the amazing octopus as it changed its color, pattern, everything to make itself completely invisible to predators. The times she had watched them deploy such camouflage, the only way she even knew they were there was because she followed silently behind them and waited until they felt a threat. Then they slapped themselves against whatever surface was nearby… and disappeared. Truly, studying ocean life in the panoramic submersibles was a joy.
But this new vessel, Deep Thoughts, was made not to explore ocean creatures, but the ocean itself. Katherine and her husband, Sean, had designed the submersible, working hand in glove with some of the most innovative subaquatic transport engineers in the world. It had been a difficult decision whether to create a one-person vessel or one more like the bubble subs, with room for two. She and her husband wrestled with how cool it would be to explore together, but a submersible meant to reach the floor of the benthic depths 20,000 feet below the surface couldn’t be very big. So it came down to either giving up the amount of scientific and observational equipment that would allow a second passenger to ride or giving up the fun of doing it as a couple.
They decided in favor of more science. It was to be a research vessel, after all, funded by a variety of philanthropic and academic sources to expand the frontiers of human knowledge about the still little understood landscape and biome at the bottom of some of the deepest water on the planet. Benthic was as far down as one could go and still investigate “normal” undersea terrain. There were deeper fissures and channels, but the deepest average real estate on Earth was benthic, and scientists still knew near to nothing of what went on in the complete darkness at the bottom of this zone.
This wasn’t an expedition, despite the fact that they had a small documentary and communications ship, The Moaning Mermaid, along with their main launch and support vessel, Sea Legs. This was the second of four tests to make sure the submersible—christened D-Plus by the whole smart-aleck crew (because it was “below C level,” har dee har )—could handle the greater pressure and harsher environment it would encounter the farther it descended.
Katherine took the first test run, this to “just” 5,000 feet. Not terribly deep, but deep enough that a major malfunction would force the crew on Sea Legs to get the winch going and haul her back up by D-Plus’s tether, which also included data lines and fiber optics for communications. At a crisis point, however, the high-tech tether would just be a rope everybody needed to yank on immediately if they wanted to rescue the researcher tasked with making sure everybody got their paychecks.
As expected, however, the first test went off without a hitch, and she and Sean were pleased. Any major hiccups would have been obvious—or at least detectable—at 5,000 feet, so each of the next two tests would be to make sure the things they designed on land worked under the stresses of the deep ocean. Also, going to 10,000 feet exposed the submersible to double the pressure of 5,000 feet, and 20,000 feet would double the pressure again. The second test, with Sean at the controls, would venture almost two miles into the black depths; and the third, this time piloted by Katherine, would dive to 15,000. If D-Plus didn’t exhibit any major issues during the third dive, then the final test would touch down on the seafloor at roughly 20,000 feet and come back up almost immediately. If everything worked the way it had been designed to work—or most everything; no exploration went off perfectly—then the first real mission would spend a few hours at the bottom and see what there was to be seen. Take sediment samples, look at creatures that somehow made a life at four tons of pressure on every square inch, and perform a preplanned battery of observations and measurements. This particular area of the ocean bottom had never been explored, and many in the oceanographic community were watching the Muir mission with great interest.
Katherine took the first dive, and they were supposed to take turns, but somehow her klutz of a husband—they named their boat Sea Legs in honor of his many times he almost fell over on any size of watercraft—had managed to run afoul of a line on board the launch ship and dislocated three fingers on his right hand just that morning as they were setting up the winch for the next test. It was 2016, for the love of God! They weren’t sailing with Blackbeard here—who got caught up in rigging anymore?
Nevertheless, there it was: if a second test was to be performed, it would be Katherine Muir, not Sean, who would take D-Plus down. Piloting the submersible, even a deep-sea vessel going on what was essentially a controlled drop, required both hands and all ten of the pilot’s digits. But they told only their crew chief, Mickey Luch, about the change, since professional mariners, like those who worked the boats while scientists did their science-ing, were still a superstitious lot. Changes in plans made them antsy, to say the least. So she and Mickey just secured her in the sub without any announcement. Once she was in place, he told the crew they were making a switch—never you bunch mind why—and Katherine would be executing Test No. 2.
There was a small murmur of protest—the winch greaser (a job title that always elicited snickers but was quite important) and the camera specialist on deck were especially superstitious and vociferous—but Mickey just helped Katherine into D-Plus, and the assistants got it locked up tight and ready to go. This crew had overseen 10,000-foot dives many times, and that’s why they were hired as a team by the Muirs.
“Let’s move ’er out and get ’er down!” their chief shouted, and the A-frame winch structure slowly stretched its long crane out over the water. With a thumbs-up between Katherine and Mickey, the winch whined and the submersible was lowered into the choppy sea.
This would be a very awkward and dangerous point to stop the operation, so it wasn’t until that moment that Sean Muir stepped out onto the deck, his first three fingers wrapped in a splint. The next test dive wouldn’t be for two days, and he’d work through the pain if necessary—he was no stranger to the sea, and he had “played hurt” through worse than this. The crew was preoccupied with the task at hand, but when they saw the researcher on the deck, they took a moment to bust his balls and laugh at his “horrible” accident.
Some of them weren’t laughing, though. Sean knew that this switch—obviously due to the injury they could see with one glance at his right hand—would initiate rituals of touching wood (where they could find it) and prayers to Saint Michael, not to mention whispered oaths and grumblings about the expedition leader at the mariners’ table come chow time. Slipjack and Toro and Vanessa—the winch team—looked especially upset, although obviously trying to hide it so as not to visibly challenge Sean.
He nodded at all of them and released them to work on the dive. He and Katherine exchanged “See you soon! Love you!” through the interior camera feed and monitor as she was lowered into the water. Once in the water, she started testing instrumentation and such while Sean supervised the support crew on the surface.
The winch would be turning for an hour or so, meaning relatively little to do for the boat crew but help the scientists, if needed. Sean took the opportunity to motion for the three shaken-looking members of the winch crew to join him on the lee side of the huge spool, where it made enough noise to render eavesdropping impossible. When they had assembled, Sean said, “So what’s the rumpus here, guys? I know it’s considered bad luck to change things at the last minute, but—”
“It isn’t superstition, Doctor Muir,” Vanessa said, and just from that Sean knew she was trying not to be a nuisance but truly was upset. After their first meeting, he had asked the solid, sun-leathered woman to call him “Sean,” and she always had. But calling him by his title and surname was like her filing an official complaint. “Last-minute changes mean other last-minute changes, and those make for mistakes. We should’ve put off this dive until you were recovered from… did you break your fingers?”
“No, just dislocated them. Should be fine in a day or two.”
“Well, then, what I’m saying is even more true—we’ve had to wait days before because of rough seas, Sean… Doctor Muir. Why risk everything now? That’s your wife down
there! How can you tempt fate with her under the water?”
Sean listened intently and respectfully, and she was right about last-minute changes often leading to mistakes, but the words “tempt fate” told him everything he needed to know about her objection. “Fate is what it is, Van, and by definition, we can’t change it. But you know that Kat and I are equally trained to pilot the sub, and we had equal hands in designing it. Really, it barely counts as a change at all. The weather gives us the chance to do things on schedule—we have to take advantage of that.”
Vanessa didn’t look thrilled with what he said, but she nodded and even gave him an “Aye, sir.” Formal, indeed, but he hoped that its vestigial tone of worry would vanish once plans returned to normal and his wife and he got back into the correct rotation. He didn’t like to “pull rank” or tell hard-working people such as these to fall in line or start swimming home. They were professionals upon whom he relied, and he treated them that way. But they had to respect his decisions, too, and he had decided operating D-Plus without the use of three of his favorite fingers was not going to get this expedition where it needed to go, not on schedule.
“Thank you, Vanessa, that’s all.” He said to Slipjack and Toro, “You guys stay here for a second, okay? I need to check on Kat. On the descent, I mean.”
He rushed over to the video feed and radio comm, swept up the transceiver and pushed the black button with his left hand’s thumb. “How are you doing down there, my dear?”
Katherine’s grin on the video was infectious. “I believe you mean ‘How are you doing down there, Professor Muir?’”
“Of course.”
She laughed. “All is well. We’re at almost 2,500 feet. Everything is humming along just right. The next 7,500 should be a breeze. How’re your poor fingers?”
Sean couldn’t help hoping the others on deck didn’t hear. “Um, they’re great. So, seen any new friends down there?” That was a weird and stupid question, he realized, but he was anxious.
Operation Siberia Page 12
