Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

“Depends what’s available, I guess. And we won’t know until we hear it coming. So listen out, and listen good.”

Something shifted, downstairs in the main reception area, and the two men looked at each other.

“Remind me never to bet against your hunches, Cap,” Hynd said, as the noise came again; Banks thought he knew what it was—the legs of a chair being nudged across a polished floor.

“No shooting unless we have to,” Banks said in a whisper. “I don’t want to remind those big orange wankers that we’re still here.”

He motioned that Hynd should follow and they padded quickly across the floor space to the stairwell leading down to reception. Banks got to the top landing first, and looked down.

Twenty steps below, the big male wolf sat on its haunches at the foot of the stairway, staring back up at him.

Without the benefit of a cage between them, Banks felt even more like prey caught in the gaze of a predator, and had to force down a sudden urge for flight.

“Nice doggie,” Hynd said at his side, and Banks forced away a laugh. The wolf’s stare was too focused to ignore, although at the same time, the beast gave the impression of being completely relaxed, poised and waiting to see what was going to happen.

Banks raised his weapon, pointing it at the wolf’s face, but that didn’t get any reaction.

It doesn’t know what a rifle is for.

He was tempted—more than tempted—to shoot, but remembered his warning to Hynd of minutes before. Any gain from killing this beast would have to be offset against the knowledge that it would alert the Alma, and they might be a lot harder to put down.

He took a step forward, down onto the staircase.

“Cap?” Hynd said.

“Just cover me,” Banks replied. “I’ve got another hunch.”

He took another step. The wolf yawned, showing its teeth and a meaty, wet tongue. Somewhere down in reception, there was another scrape of chair on floor.

The pack is there too, waiting to see what happens.

Banks didn’t take his gaze off the wolf’s stare, and took a third step. The wolf stood up, and walked away out of sight. He stood on the third step down, listening, but there was no more sounds from down in reception, and his hunch, which appeared to be in full working order today, told him that they were once again alone in the building,

I called its bluff.

“Jesus Christ, Cap,” Hynd said at his back. “Don’t do that to me again. I nearly pished myself here.”

Banks looked down at the foot of the stairs. The wolf had left them a statement, a pool of yellow fluid.

“I think he did it for you,” Banks replied.

Wiggins was waiting for them in the corridor by the rooms.

“Any joy?” he said.

“Aye,” Hynd replied. “It was the dog’s bollocks. Big, huge, hairy ones.”

“Just like your wife likes it,” Wiggins replied, and all three of them laughed. But there was tension here still that couldn’t be denied, and the humor, though welcome, felt slightly forced and unnatural. It seemed Wiggins had noticed too, for he fell quiet and serious.

“The two boffins are getting squirrelly, Cap,” he said. “It shook them up seeing their pal killed. They’ll need close watching if we get into a tight spot.”

“I’ll spell Cally at the window, and keep an eye on them myself. Smoke them if you’ve got them, lads. All we need to do is hang tight here for a couple of hours, keep our wits about us, and avoid the big ginger fuckers. We’ll be back in Lossiemouth for breakfast in the morning if it goes to plan.”

“We have a plan?” Wiggins said, smiling. “I thought we just made this shit up as we went along.”

Banks went back to the room and relieved McCally at the window.

“Any action?” he asked.

The corporal shook his head.

“Last I saw before the fog rolled in again was the two hairy folk still chowing down on the deer. Since then, I’ve only been able to see as far as the end of the runway. The mammoths are still about the area; you can hear the big one trumpeting clear enough. But apart from that, it’s been all quiet.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way, eh?”

The corporal was already taking a pack of smokes from his breast pocket as he headed out to the corridor. Banks stood at the window, but the corporal had been right—there was nothing to see but a slowly shifting wall of gray.

Galloway came over to join him at the window. The man was holding the bone flute they’d found in the cave earlier.

“Captain Banks? Can I run something past you? There is something that doesn’t add up here.”

“Something else, you mean?”

The man nodded, and held out the flute.

“I’ve been wondering. How did newly cloned beasts learn to do work like this?”

Banks took the bone and had a close look at it for the first time. The slit for blowing in was finely carved, and the finger holes smoothed down for ease of use.

“The holes are spaced exactly right for maximum musicality,” Galloway said. “Again, I’ve seen this before; the method is passed down from elders to youths in cultures where flutes are common. But what doesn’t happen—what never happens—is that newborns are born with the facility to craft them. It’s learned, not innate.”

Banks started to see what the man was getting at.

“And I take it that applies to the wall painting too?”

Galloway nodded.

“So there’s that. Then there’s the fact that the beasts are older than they should be.”

“You said something earlier about growth hormones?”

“That makes them bigger. I mean, they’re older in years than they should be. We know Volkov’s only been working here this past decade. But I’m guessing the pair of Alma we’re seeing are at least teenagers, maybe older.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I saying—guessing—that Volkov didn’t grow these Alma. He found them.”

“They were already here?”

Galloway nodded.

“Yes. And that’s got me wondering how many more there might be. And where they are.”

“How does this new information help us?” Banks asked.

“I’m not sure, yet,” Galloway said. “But it’s another variable in an equation with too many of them already.”

“That I can agree with,” Banks said. “Do you agree with this line of thinking, Prof?”

The older scientist had been sitting, head bowed, on the edge of the bed while the discussion went on, and when he looked up, Banks saw that the man had been crying.

“I just want to go home,” Waterston said. “But Galloway’s theory is sound and fits the facts—fits Volkov’s overweening ambition too. But like you, I cannot see how it changes anything.”

“We’ll just add it to the big list of things that’ll need to be sorted out by the clean-up squad,” Banks replied. “That’s one job I won’t be volunteering for.”

McCally came back from his smoke break with fresh coffee, and stood with Banks at the window as they both drank.

“Will they be able to land in this fog?” the corporal asked.

“The jet managed it just fine yesterday,” Banks replied. “And you’ve seen how it comes and goes. I’m more worried about the beasties than the fog.”

“It all seems quiet now, Cap.”

“Aye. That’s what worries me.”

He was thinking about the cold hard stare of the wolf again, and how it felt to be seen as prey. It wasn’t a feeling he intended to revisit. To take his mind off it, he told McCally about Galloway’s theory.

“The hairy ginger lad’s a local?”

“That’s what the man says. And there’s probably more of them around, given that the two we’ve seen are just kids.”