"I didn't notice before," Hart said. "Come on. Not far now, and we'll see it from the ridge."
"See what?" Glazkov demanded. Hart stared at him, all the fun vanishing from her expression.
"The hole," she said. "The hole in the world."
Oh my God, she's right, Glazkov thought. It really is a hole in the world. But what's at the bottom?
"I didn't go any further than this," Hart said.
"I don't blame you," Brune said. "Vasily?"
Glazkov assessed the expanse. "Sinkhole."
"Really?" Hart asked. "It's huge!"
Glazkov had the final word. "It's inevitable. Come on."
They started down the steep slope into the valley and the new feature it now contained. Glazkov thought it might have been over five hundred feet across. With the sun lying low, the hole was deep and dark, only a small spread of the far wall touched by sunlight. At first glance he'd had doubts, but there was no other explanation for what they were now walking toward.
A melting of the permafrost––an occurrence being seen all around the globe––was releasing vast, stored quantities of methane gas. Not only a consequence of global warming, but also a contributing factor. In some places, such large quantities were released that these sinkholes formed overnight, dropping millions of tons of rock down into vented caverns hundreds of feet beneath the surface.
"We'll need our instruments," he said. "Methane detectors. Remote camera. Everything."
"So let's go back and get it all," Brune said. "And we need to call this in. We really do."
"Yes," Glazkov agreed.
"Yeah," Hart said.
But they kept on walking toward the hole, hurrying now, excitement biting at their heels.
It took fifteen minutes to descend to the valley floor. It would take a lot longer to climb back up, but Glazkov didn't care. He could already detect the eggy trace of methane on the air, but it didn't smell too strong for now. It started snowing again, and as they followed a stream across the valley floor toward the amazing new feature, visibility lessened. The stream should have been frozen at this time of year, and much of it still was. But a good portion of the water flowed. Approaching the hole's edge, Glazkov heard the unmistakable sound of water pouring down a rock face.
"What was that?" Brune asked. He was frozen behind them, head tilted.
"Waterfall," Hart said.
"No, not that. Something else."
They listened. Nothing.
"We should head back," Brune said. "We need breathing equipment, cameras."
"Not far now." Glazkov was unsettled to see that Brune had slipped the rifle from his shoulder.
"What are you going to shoot?" Hart asked, laughing. "Monsters from the deep?"
Three minutes later, as they emerged from a copse of trees only a hundred feet from the hole's edge and saw what waited for them there––the crawling, tentacled, slick things pulling themselves up out of the darkness, skin pale from lack of pigment, wet mouths gasping in new air––Amanda Hart was the first to fall.
Captain Anna Demidov and her team were ready. Fully equipped, comprehensively briefed, fired up, she was confident that it would be a straightforward search and retrieval without the need for any aggressive contact. But if the separatists did attempt to intervene, Demidov's small Spetsnaz squad was more than ready for a fight. Either way, they would return with the stolen information. In this day and age a printed file seemed almost prehistoric, but the habits of some of Russia's top intelligence operatives never ceased to amaze her.
With her squad milling in the helicopter hangar, she took the opportunity to assess them one last time. Her corporal, Vladimir Zhukov, often teased her about being over-cautious and paranoid about every small detail. Demidov's reply was that she had never lost a soldier in action, nor had she ever failed in a mission. It was something he could not argue with. Yet the banter continued, and she welcomed it. The good relationships between members of her five-person unit was one of the most important factors contributing to success.
"All set, Corporal?"
Zhukov rolled his eyes. "Yes, Captain. All set, all ready, boots shined and underwear clean, weapons oiled, mission details memorized, just as they all were five minutes ago."
Demidov appraised the corporal from head to toe and up again. A full foot taller than she, and a hundred pounds heavier, some knew him by the nickname Mountain. But no one in their unit called him that. He didn't like the name, and none of them would ever want to piss him off.
"A button's undone," she said, pointing to his tunic before moving on. She heard his muttered curse and allowed herself a small smile.
Private Kristina Yelagin was next. Tall, thin, athletic, grim-faced, she was one of the quietest, calmest people Demidov had ever met. She had once seen Yelagin slit a man's throat with a broken metal mug.
"Good?" Demidov asked. The woman nodded once in reply.
"I don't like helicopters," Private Vasnev said. "They make me feel sick."
"And when have you ever been sick during a helicopter trip, Vasnev?"
"I didn't say they make me sick, Captain. I said they make me feel sick."
"Feel sick in silence."
"It's okay for you, Captain." Private Budanov was sitting on a supply crate carefully rolling a cigarette. "You don't have to sit next to him. He's always complaining."
"You have my permission to stab him to death if he so much as whispers," Demidov said.
Budanov looked up at her, his scarred face pale as ever, even in the hangar's shadow. "Thank you," he said. "You all heard that? All bore witness?"
"See, now even my friends are against me!" Vasnev said. "I feel sick. I don't want to go on this mission. I think I have mumps."
A movement caught Demidov's eye and she saw the helicopter pilot gesture through the cockpit's open side window.
"That's us," Demidov said. "Let's mount up."
Professional as ever, her four companions ceased their banter for a while as they left the shadow of the hangar, boarded the helicopter, stowed their weapons, and cross-checked each other's safety harnesses. Demidov waited to board last. As she settled herself and clipped on her headset, and the ground crew closed and secured the cabin door, the crackle of a voice came through from the cockpit.
"We've got clearance," the pilot said. "Three minutes and we'll be away."
"Roger," Demidov acknowledged.
"Sorry to hear about Vasily, Captain,” the pilot said.
Demidov froze. The rest of her squad, all wearing headsets, looked at her. Corporal Zhukov raised his eyebrows, and Vasnev shrugged: Don't know what he's on about.
Demidov's mind raced. If something had happened to Vasily and she hadn't been informed, there must be a reason for that. Perhaps the general would assume that such a distraction would affect her current mission, and that he'd inform her of any news upon her return in six hours.
But after the pilot's comment, her distraction was even greater.
"What's that about Vasily?"
The comms remained quiet. A loaded silence, perhaps. Then a whisper, and the helicopter's turbines ramped up, the noise increase, and the green 'prepare for takeoff' light illuminated the cabin.
Demidov hesitated, ready to throw off her straps and slip through to the cockpit. But she felt a hand on her arm. Budanov. He shook his head, then lifted what he held in his other hand.
Without pause, Demidov nodded, giving silent assent.
Private Budanov was their communications and tech guy. Just as heavily armed as the rest of them, he also carried a bewildering array of hi-tech equipment, some of which Demidov barely understood. There were the usual satellite phones and radios, but also web-based communication systems and other gadgetry, all designed to aid their mission and help them in case of trouble. He'd saved their skins more than once, and now he was promising something else.
Sorry to hear about Vasily, Captain.
As the helicopter li
fted off and drifted north, Budanov opened a palmtop tablet and started tapping and scrolling. Three minutes later he handed it to Demidov, a map on the screen. He motioned for her to place her lover's last known position on the map, which she did––the scientific research base on the Yamal Peninsula. He took the tablet back, nursing a satellite phone in his other hand, and four minutes later, he paused.
None of them had spoken since taking off. When Budanov raised his eyes and looked at his Captain, none of them needed to.
Demidov took the tablet from his lap and looked at what he'd found.
"This is all on me," Captain Demidov said. Her heart was beating fast, and a sickness throbbed heavy in her gut. Part of that was understanding what she was doing––disobeying orders and going AWOL whilst on a highly sensitive mission, as well as hijacking a Russian army helicopter. But most of the sickness came from the dread she felt about Vasily's doom.
Science team missing ... seismic readings from the area ...
"Captain, I can't alter course," the pilot said. She could see his nervousness. He and his co-pilot were sitting tense in their flight seats, and she could sense their doubts, their inner debates. They wore pistols, true. But they also knew who they carried.
"I'm ordering you to," she said.
"Captain, my orders––"
"I'm not pulling rank," Demidov cut in. "This isn't about that. But I will pull my gun if you don't do what I say."
"And then what?" the pilot asked. "You'll shoot me?"
... drastic landscape alteration ... entire region quarantined ...
"Let's not discover the answer to that question. Yelagin, here with me." Private Yelagin squeezed through into the cockpit beside Demidov and behind the two pilots. "You know what to do," Demidov said.
Yelagin leaned forward and started flicking switches. She'd been a pilot before being recruited into Spetsnaz, and she knew how to disable tracking devices and transponders, and where any emergency beacons might be.
"Keep an eye on them," Demidov said. "I'm going to speak to the others. And Kristina ... thanks."
Yelagin nodded once, then settled against the bulkhead behind the pilots.
Back in the cabin Demidov looked around at the others. She saw no dissent. She hadn't expected any––they'd been together as a solid core group for over four years, had seen and done many terrible things, and she knew that their trust and sense of kinship went way beyond family. Yet she still felt a burning sensation behind her eyes as she met their gaze.
"You know what we've done," she said, a statement more than a question. Of course they knew.
"We're just following your orders," Zhukov said.
"I can't order you to do this."
"You don't need to," Vasnev said. "Vasily Glazkov is your friend, so he's our friend too. We all help our friends."
"There'll be repercussions."
Vasnev shrugged. Budanov examined his fingernails.
"Right," Demidov said, sighing softly. "It's only an hour's detour. Our original target isn't going anywhere, and we'll finish our mission as soon as possible."
"That's if the Major doesn't send a jet to blow us from the sky," Zhukov said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but none of them dismissed the notion. They were on dangerous, unknown ground now, and no one knew exactly what the future might hold.
We're coming for you, Vasily, Demidov thought.
Anna will come for me, Vasily Glazkov thought. She'll hear about this, put her team together, and come to find out what happened.
He could see nothing around him in the darkness. But he could feel them there, sense them, and whenever they moved he could smell them––rotting meat, and grim intent.
If only I could warn her to stay away.
"Captain, you need to see this." The pilot sounded scared, and as Demidov pushed through into the cockpit she fully expected to find them facing off against two MI-35s. That would be the end of their brief mutiny.
But the airspace around them was clear, and she saw from Yelagin's shocked expression that this was something worse.
"What is it?" Demidov asked.
"Down there." The co-pilot pointed, and the pilot swung the helicopter in a gentle circle so that they could all see.
There was a hole in the valley. Hundreds of feet across, so deep that it contained only blackness, it had swallowed trees and snow, ground and rocks. Two streams flowed into it, the waters tumbling in spreading sprays before being swallowed into the dark void. It was almost perfectly circular.
It looked so out of place that Demidov had to blink several times to ensure her eyes were not deceiving her.
"What the hell is that?" Yelagin said.
"How far's the scientific station?" Demidov was ignoring her.
"Just over a mile, north and over the valley ridge," the pilot said.
"Take us there."
She heard his sigh, but beneath that was a groan of fear from the co-pilot.
"Don't worry," Demidov said. "We can take care of ourselves." She knew that was true. She commanded the biggest bad-asses the Russian army could produce, and they'd seen each other through many treacherous and violent situations. They had all killed people. Sometimes the people they killed were unarmed; more often than not it was a case of kill or be killed.
They could definitely look after themselves.
But none of them had ever seen anything like this.
"Get ready," she said, back in the cabin. The others were all huddled at the cabin windows, looking down at the strange sight retreating behind them. "We're going in."
Where the hell are you, Vasily?
Demidov stood in the main recreational space of the research base and stared at the half-drunk cup of coffee that sat on the edge of a table. Somebody’d walked away from that cup. Maybe the coffee was shit, or maybe they’d been in a hurry.
“Captain?”
She turned to see Corporal Zhukov filling the doorway. His face told the story, but she asked anyway.
“Any sign?”
“Nothing,” he confirmed. “All three of them. Budanov and Yelagin are checking the logs to see if there’s any record of what drew them out of here, but there’s no question that they’re gone. Vasnev found nothing in the lab to give us any clue.”
“They went to the hole,” Demidov said, thinking of Vasily Glazkov. Not her husband, but he might as well have been. Would be, someday, if he hadn’t fallen into that fucking hole.
“Would they all have gone?” Zhukov said. “That doesn’t seem logical.”
“Scientists. Every discovery’s an adventure. They know better, and protocol demands certain procedures, but it’s easy to get carried away when something new presents itself. Like ravens seeing something shiny.”
Zhukov shifted his massive frame, his shadow withdrawing from the room. “I take it we’re going out there.”
It wasn’t a question. He didn’t have to ask, and she didn’t have to tell him.
Vasnev moaned about the temperature every step of the way. To be fair, it was cold enough to kill, given time. So cold that the snow refused to fall, despite the gray sky stretching out for eternity overhead. It was as if the sun had never existed at all.
“My balls have crawled up inside my body for warmth,” Vasnev whined.
“You’re confused,” Yelagin muttered. “They never dropped to begin with.”
Demidov tried to ignore them. The wind slashed across the hard-packed snow and the bare rock and cut right down to the bone. They had heavy jackets on, thick uniforms, balaclavas and gloves. Their mission had been meant to take place an hour’s chopper flight from here, where it would still have been damned cold, but they’d never have been this exposed for this long.
“This is idiotic,” Vasnev groaned. “They kept this from us for a reason. They’ve got to be sending a team. And you know damn well the pilots have probably already called it in…pro
bably reported us the second we set off. We should just wait for someone else to arrive, someone with better gear—“
Budanov slapped the back of his head. Vasnev whipped around to glare at him, and for the first time Demidov worried real violence might flare amongst them. They’d had their share of hostilities over the year—any team does, given time—but this moment had venom. It had teeth.
“If we wait,” Budanov sneered, “do you really think they’ll let us help look for Vasily and his science friends? We’ll be hauled out of here, original mission scrubbed --and this one along with it. We’ll be slammed into a room and made to wait while they decide on our punishment, and meanwhile someone else will be looking for Vasily and we won’t know how long they’ll take or how much effort they’ll go to.”
Demidov stared at him. They were about the most words she’d ever heard Budanov say at any one time. His ugly face had twisted into something even uglier, but his eyes glinted with fierce loyalty, and she wanted to hug him. Instead, she trudged onward as if nothing had happened.
Vasnev mumbled something else as they all started walking again. Demidov did not turn when she heard the sound of a rifle being racked, but she knew it had to be Zhukov. The Mountain.
“Don’t think I won’t shoot you just for the quiet,” Zhukov said.
Vasnev kept silent for a whole four minutes after that. It was a brief but blessed miracle.
They reached the ridge above the valley and took a breather, staring down at the hole. The sky gave no hint as to the time, not up here in the frozen fuck-you end of the world, a place the world knew people had once been sent when they’d screwed up worse than anyone. Yet Vasily had been so excited to come here with his two research partners, to live in a prefabricated base smaller than a Soviet-era city apartment and freeze his ass off, all to prove what the world refused to believe. Yes, the planetary climate was changing. But Siberia was still cold enough to kill you.
They slid and climbed and scrambled their way down into the valley. Demidov checked her radio. “Wolf to Eagle. You still reading me?”
Don't Go Alone Page 2
