Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

His squad had all got some sleep on the flight from Moscow, and although it was dawn when their bodies expected it to be nearer midnight, Banks knew from experience that he could trust them to be on their toes. So he was surprised when he turned after supervising the unloading of their bags and kit onto the tarmac to see Wiggins standing, open-mouthed, gaping into the fog.

“Get your arse in gear, Private,” Banks said. “This kit won’t shift itself.”

“Shift did you say? I thought you said shit, for I think I just did.”

Banks turned to follow Wiggin’s gaze. At first, the fog confused his sense of distance and scale, and he thought he was looking at a small shaggy, russet-colored animal, a highland cow beyond a high fence. Then he saw that the fence must be thirty feet or more high, with the animal a third as tall as the barbed top wire—and realized that highland cows were much smaller, did not have tusks… nor did they have long trunks.

The wooly mammoth beyond the fence lifted its trunk high and hooted, a trumpet call to start the day.

Out in the fog, more trumpets answered the first, a whole chorus of them.

Smithson came up to Banks’ side and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Told you, Captain, didn’t I? Like no zoo anybody has ever seen.”

“Welcome, welcome,” a voice called from the other side of the plane.

A squat, almost round, little man strode through the fog towards them. He had a full head of bushy black hair going gray at the temples, a beard to match, and wore a fur coat—more of a cloak—that covered him from neck to ankles and gave him the appearance of a small, friendly bear. When the newcomer shook Banks’ hand, the captain noted a smell coming off the fur, of damp and sweat, a thick animalistic musk that would make him gag if he had to spend too much time with it. The Russian didn’t seem to notice it, but Banks was thankful when the man had moved on to address the scientists.

“I am Volkov,” he said in thick-accented English that spoke of an educated Russian. “Welcome to my home.”

It did not look much of a home; all that could be seen from where they stood was tarmac and the impossible to ignore wooly mammoth drifting in and out of sight in the shifting fog.

“Come, come,” Volkov said, taking Waterston by the arm and almost dragging him away. “All has been prepared. You will see that I have nothing to hide. You will see wonders.”

The other two scientists followed behind and Banks turned to his squad.

“Okay, lads, get your kit, and let’s see what’s so fucking important to drag us all this way.”

He said it loud enough to ensure that the Russian Volkov would hear him but the squat man, if he heard, paid no attention, merely dragged Waterston away to their left into the fog.

Banks hefted a heavy kit bag over his shoulder and led his men after the scientists. He had one look back at the Lear Jet, and saw it, and the impossible mammoth beyond the runway, get swallowed by the fog.

As the fog thickened behind them, so it thinned before them, and within ten yards, they got a clearer view of the facility. It certainly looked more like a zoo than a laboratory. The nearest building was a low two-storey affair; modernistic, metal, and large expanses of glass that could almost be an airport terminal, but beyond that, looming in the shifting fog, were a series of tall glass and metal domes of various sizes, like vast eggs dropped into the landscape. Banks had seen their like before, at a huge indoor garden in Cornwall, but this was even larger than that, and if it was a zoo, it looked like it had been built for much larger animals than even the mammoth they’d seen already.

What are we into here?

He was given little time to consider it, for the Russian had already led the scientists into the main building. Banks led the squad in after them, and was immediately hit by a blast of warm air that smelled like Volkov’s fur coat, only stronger still, an almost meaty odor, cloying and musky.

“Christ, what a stink,” Wiggins muttered at his side, and Banks could only agree.

Volkov led them through an empty, wide reception area, up a flight of stairs, and into a corridor behind a long, well-stocked bar overlooking a wide window that showed only fog beyond. They were shown to rooms that felt more like a hotel than a zoo—Banks had a well-appointed double room all to himself, a room that was almost as opulent as the main cabin area of the Lear they had just left. He knew better than to let himself be distracted by its seductive softness

“Five minutes,” he said to his men. “Freshen up, then meet me back at that bar. And remember—we’re staying dry on this one until we know what’s what.”

Wiggins still didn’t look happy at the command, but Banks trusted the other two to keep him in line. He spent his five minutes having a quick shower—as hot as he could have liked, and with water pressure that put his captain’s room back in Lossiemouth to shame—then dressed again quickly. He stowed his kit bag, mostly unpacked, in the large wardrobe, holstered a pistol at his shoulder under his jacket, and went back out to the bar.

Breakfast arrived on a succession of trolleys wheeled in by three burly Russian men who looked more like soldiers than hostesses. They eyed Banks and his squad warily, and Banks gave them the courtesy of giving them a once over in return, one professional to another. It didn’t look like they wore holsters under their scullery whites, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to be proven wrong.

The food proved to be as rich and varied as the buffet on the plane, with more caviar, warm bread, cold meats, and some milk that tasted fresh, but also carried the same musky odor that Banks was already coming to hate.

“Cap,” Wiggins said after he had eaten. “Can we have a fag in here do you think? I’m gasping here, and I need something to kill this fucking stink.”

The scientists still hadn’t emerged from their rooms, and there seemed to be no imminent danger to anybody, so Banks took his team away from the bar itself and over to the big viewing window, looking out over the foggy tarmac.

“Smoke them if you’ve got them, lads. This is one time I wish I hadn’t given up.”

Wiggins passed smokes to McCally and Hynd, and lit all three of them up—the other two first, then striking a fresh flame for his own, an old Army superstition that all of them still followed. It was only after all three had sucked in a deep draw that Wiggins spoke up.

“So, are we going to talk about this or what, Cap?”

“Talk about what?”

“The fucking huge, hairy, ginger elephant in the room, that’s what. Those things went extinct, like ten thousand years ago, right?”

“Nearer five than ten I think, but aye. They’re extinct. Or rather, they were.”

“And now they’re not?” Hynd said. “Some relict population, a lost world?”

Banks shook his head.

“This is a lab, remember. And it’s a UN inspection. I’m guessing cloning, or genetic manipulation at least.”

“Fucking Jurassic Park. That’s all I need,” Wiggins said.

“Holocene Park, more like,” Hynd said. “I’m betting the wee Russian bawbag even has it trademarked. I wonder what else he’s got in this wee zoo of his.”

“That’s what I’m wondering too,” Banks said. He looked out the window, trying to gaze through the fog, but couldn’t even see the Lear Jet, never mind into the fenced area beyond it. He was also all too aware of the huge, high glass domes they’d seen on their way in. They were big enough to hold a multitude of sins. A previous thought kept coming back to him.