Operation: Siberia

- 11 -

Hynd and McCally took point again as they went back into the facility. Banks was initially just glad to get away from the worst of the smell, although he thought he might hold the memory of it in his nose and throat for a while to come yet. They went back through the ruined doors and into the lab area.

“Are we sure there’s nothing working in here?” he said. This time, he addressed the scientists rather than his own men. Galloway was first to reply.

“Everything’s torn to buggery,” he said, “pardon my French. And you’re right. This wasn’t a lion, or the wolves. Whatever tore the shit out of all the electronics had at least some sense of what they were doing.”

“So, fucking smart giant ginger gorillas?” Wiggins said. “Fucking marvelous.”

“There’s no network in the background somewhere untouched? A Wi-Fi router or some such?”

This time, it was the older scientist, Waterston, who replied.

“I got through on my phone on Wi-Fi from my room just before we ate last night,” he said. “In all the excitement, I’d completely forgotten.”

“Aye,” Wiggins said sarcastically. “It’s no’ as if our lives depend on it or anything important like that.”

Banks gave the private a cuff on the ear.

“If you’re not going to help, shut the fuck up, Wiggo. The smart folk are thinking.”

He turned back to Waterston.

“So there’s Wi-Fi up in the guest areas?”

“There was last night, before all the commotion. Whether there still is…?” Waterston made a see-saw motion with his left hand.

“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” Banks said. “And it looks like there’s no survivors to tell us otherwise. So, upstairs it is. Hynd, Cally?” The other two looked around. “Double time, up to the guest area. And keep your eyes open.”

Banks saw all three of the scientists pointedly ignore the carnage and butchery in the corridor out of the labs on this return journey—he didn’t blame them. No man should have to look at the insides of another lying splayed open for all to see in the ultimate invasion of privacy. He’d seen far too much of it himself over the years to judge anyone else for their reaction.

Hynd and McCally went through into the aviary dome first, then came to a sudden halt. Hynd put up a fist in the air. Wiggins and Banks knew well enough to stop and go quiet, but the three scientists had to be stopped with an arm on Waterston’s shoulder, and a finger to his lips.

“Cap, you need to see this,” Hynd said, and motioned him forward.

Banks had been wondering what had happened to Volkov’s body; he’d thought the big lion must have taken it, but now he had a new suspect. The little squat Russian lay on the aviary trestle, ribs splayed like eagle-wings, sightless eyes staring at the treetops high overhead. All of his internal organs had been scooped out, and lay in a wet, red, too-neat pile under the table.

“Something tried to make a fucking canoe out of him,” Hynd said.

Waterston came up to Bank’s shoulder, had one look at the view, then turned away, retching.

“He wasn’t there when we came in,” McCally said, keeping his voice low.

“No, he wasn’t,” Banks replied. “That means whatever put him there can move quick and quiet—and it might still be in here with us. The plan hasn’t changed though; double time, up to the guestrooms, and try to get a message through. Keep your eyes open, and keep this simple.”

Banks looked up, following the dead Russian’s gaze, only to find himself the object of scrutiny from thirty feet up in the branches. He almost took it for a part of the tree itself at first, for it was russet colored and almost blended with the bark and branches. But the face was paler than the body, and almost hairless in comparison to the shaggy reddish hair that covered the rest of it. Pale blue eyes, like a river on a clear day, stared back at Banks. He only caught a glimpse of head and shoulders before it ducked away into the thicker foliage. It looked human—bulkier, bigger, and definitely hairier, but also, definitely, almost human.

Branches cracked and swayed, and pine needles fell all around them as the beast climbed, going up the tree under the foliage with almost unbelievable speed. Banks remembered to lift his weapon, and tried to take aim, but there was no clear target, and the thing was already way up on the tops.

They got a closer look at it as it left the aviary. Banks tried to gauge size and compare it to the birds he’d seen up there the day before, but surely his calculations, or memory, must be off, for he estimated the beast to be at least eight feet tall. With arms that looked too long to be normal, it leapt up, grabbed one of the metal struts of the dome and swung out of a hole at the very top. It had scampered off and away—running upright, like a man, across the roof before any of them even thought to breathe.

“I knew it,” Wiggins said. “Fucking huge ginger gorillas.”

“Move,” Banks said. “It’s buggered off for now, but if it comes back, put a few rounds over its head. It’s probably never seen, or heard, a gun. Here’s hoping it’s enough to put a fright into it.”

Galloway was still staring up at the roof, unable to believe what he’d just seen.

“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. Banks 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.