Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

Every footstep in the boggy ground was like wading in thick treacle that threatened to pull off his boots at any second. Galloway with his bad ankle must be in agony already, and Banks knew they weren’t going to make it far. But after several minutes, he smelled a stronger stench than anything else they’d encountered, and his gut feeling told him he’d been brought to the right place when they descended into a hollow, and the smell got stronger still.

“Bloody hell, Cap,” Wiggins said quietly. “It smells like shite here.”

“That’s because it is shite,” Banks replied. “Mammoth shite at a guess, and plenty of it.”

“Then let’s get the flock out of here before I spew,” Wiggins replied.

“Nope, get settled, we’re staying put. I’ve seen it in Africa; they use elephant shite, smeared on the houses to keep predators away. And it works.”

“Aye,” Wiggins said. “The lad next door to me in Glasgow used to use dog’s shite to keep his mother-in-law away. That worked too. But I didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.”

“Tough,” Banks said. “Just think yourself lucky I don’t order you to roll in it—although it might come to that yet.”

The hollow was little more than an eight-feet-wide, four-feet-deep cavity in the tundra. The bottom was damp, but not any more than the rest of the moorland. Large clumps of darker material, accumulated dung of the mammoth herd, lined the bottom, and some of the walls.

“Cozy,” Hynd said laconically.

“We’ve slept in worse places though,” McCally added.

“And with smellier women too,” Wiggins replied. “Remember Brenda in Belfast?”

“Stow it, lads,” Banks said quietly. “We’re supposed to be hiding, remember?”

Galloway had already sat down in the bottom of the hollow ignoring the cold damp that must already be seeping through his clothes in order to check on the bandages at his ankle. The scientist looked up at Banks and smiled wanly.

“I’ll live—I hope. But I won’t be walking any farther for a while.”

“With any luck, you won’t have to,” Banks replied. “Now, quiet lads, and lights out. Take a sector each, and don’t shoot unless you really need to. Get settled as much as you can. We’ve got a long wait ‘til morning.”

By Banks’ reckoning, the quadrant he’d chosen to stand watch over was the one that faced directly back to the complex, but he saw nothing but fog, still glowing faintly green where the aurora seeped through from above. There was a slight breeze wafting the fog to and fro, sending it swirling at times, but there was no sound now, and nothing to see. If he turned to his left or right, he could just about make out the darker shadows of the other men, Wiggins and Hynd, but when facing forward, it felt like he was lost, alone, in the green glow.

The lack of anything to concentrate on, anything to look at or listen to, meant that it was a struggle to maintain focus. His mind kept slipping away to earlier events of the night, of poor Waterston being squeezed to death, of the mayhem in the cave mouth, of the flight in the dark through the domes, and the bloody battle between lion and Alma. He wondered whether one side had prevailed over the other, and hoped that both sides had taken enough damage to keep them quiet, until morning at least.

That hope was dashed when he heard a distinct, and loud, sniff coming out of the fog, only feet in front of him.

Banks peered, trying to make out movement or a darker shadow, but there was only the shifting fog. The sniffing came again, followed by a loud whuff; not laughter this time, but obviously disgust. Banks resist the impulse to switch on his light as his grip tightened on his rifle. He remembered the musty odor of the Alma, but couldn’t smell it or taste it in his throat now over the stench of the dung in the hollow. But he knew it was out there, somewhere just beyond the limits of his vision.

And it was hunting.

The snuffle came again, quickly followed by another snort of disgust, then splashing, fading, as the Alma retreated from the smell. Banks let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, and forced his fingers to relax where they gripped the rifle. His gut had been right—again. The smell of the dung had forced the Alma to retreat. Whether it would also work on the cave lion wasn’t something he hoped to find out.

The night drew on. The squad stood guard, but nothing else disturbed the silence for several hours. After a while, Banks had Wiggins go through the kit bag and distribute field rations—the automatic-warming packets of soup were a welcome respite against the damp. He allowed the men a smoke, guessing that the stench of the dung was more than enough to mask their tobacco, then had Wiggins and McCally stand down to get some sleep while he and Hynd maintained the watch.

He cleared his mind, searching for the watchful state he knew of old, where he would be able to achieve some rest while maintaining a state of alertness. It was a condition honed by years spent on duty, many of them much more perilous than this particular foxhole. But his foes then had been human, in the main, and he knew how men’s minds worked, could anticipate them. With these beasts, he was operating blind, both figuratively and literally, although that was starting to change.

He noticed it first when the green tinge faded. Then he heard the first noise for more than an hour, not a snuffle, but a soft trumpeting somewhere off to his left. He looked that way, and noted a thinning of the fog. Looking up, he saw stars twinkle overhead, Orion striding across the sky. Part of him welcomed the lifting of what had felt like an oppressive blanket. But now he felt exposed, more so when he realized their position, although in a hollow, was in a wide expanse of open moorland with no other cover for hundreds of yards around.

But at least nothing’s going to sneak up on us.

The domed complex sat, a darker shadow framed against the skyline. There was no sign of any movement, not any sound of lion or Alma. He looked for the source of the trumpeting, but if the mammoth were close by, he could not see them in the dark. The whole tundra plain seemed quiet and asleep.

The attack came from Hynd’s side ten minutes later.

“We’ve got incoming, Cap,” the sarge said. “Three of the big orange fuckers, at fifty yards and closing. They’ve clocked our position.”

Banks kicked McCally where he slept, almost standing up, against the side of the hollow. The corporal came awake immediately.

“Get Wiggo up then stand with the sarge,” Banks said. “We’ve got trouble.”

Banks stayed at his post while McCally, and then Wiggins, moved quickly to cover the sarge’s position. He knew better than to have all four of them looking one way at the same time; the Alma had already proved themselves to be sneaky. There was no sense in giving them another opportunity to show it.

He heard the sarge shouting. “Fire!” A volley of shots rang out.

“One down,” Wiggins shouted, then they all fired again.

The shots rang and echoed around them, then all went quiet.

“Two down, one buggered off, but I think I winged it,” McCally said.

A wail rose over the tundra, high and wild.

It was answered by a chorus of howls that came from all parts of the compass.

“Fuck me, there’s hundreds of them,” Wiggins said.

As if a silent command ran through them, the Alma attacked, all at once, coming from all sides. They heard them before they saw them, splashing their way through the bogs, hooting and wailing. Banks had once seen a tribe of chimpanzees on a hunt in a television documentary, and this had the same frenzied yet at the same time totally controlled quality to it. Every fiber of him wanted to start firing, but the range was too far; the beasts had already shown an ability to take a shot and keep coming. He’d have to let them get close.