Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

“We’ve found partial pelts of these all through the melting permafrost of the delta,” Volkov said. “And working with them has enabled us to perfect the techniques we are then able to apply to the larger fauna. It does mean that we have managed to breed rather a large number of these hares, for they are as fecund as your British rabbits. As such, we have had to find a use for them.”

He nodded, and one of the large Russian workers moved away to the next dome in the line away from them. Whatever they kept in that one preferred more foliage, more cover, for the conifers were tightly backed in a thick copse, and the dome was dominated by a profusion of huge boulders, some as big as a small bus, scattered willy-nilly all over the boggy ground. The Russian went to a touch-screen panel embedded in the glass, and keyed in a four number passcode that sent a singsong tone ringing in the empty space. Then there came a screech, and they saw a sliding barrier open up to a foot high between the hares’ cage and the one beyond.

At first, the hares took no notice, but as the extent of their feeding spread, they moved, slowly but surely, toward where the open barrier gave them access to more luscious ground beyond. One of the smaller, probably younger, hares hopped under the barrier and began feeding on the grasses on the other side.

“Aye, very nice,” Wiggins said, his sarcasm coming through loud and clear, but if he was about to add anything to his statement, it died in his throat. Something huge came out of the conifer copse, so fast that Banks hardly had time to register its presence before it leapt, an impossible bound, ten yards or more across open ground, to land almost on top of the hare. The crunch of the hare’s bones breaking was loud even through the glass, and a mist of blood spray hung in the air for a second while the watchers gaped at the predator as it started to eat.

“Tell me that’s not a fucking saber-toothed tiger,” Wiggins whispered.

Volkov laughed.

“That’s not a Smilodon ,” he said. “Although I would dearly love one, the source materials we need to have a specimen of our own to study have not yet turned up.”

The huge beast was making short work of the hare. The rest of the hares had already disappeared back into their burrows, and when Volkov gave another nod, the Russian worker entered a code in the keypad and the barrier between the cages slid down to block off access.

Banks couldn’t take his eyes off this new beast. It must have been nearly nine feet in length from nose to its hind legs, and a long, swishing, bushy tail added more length again to that. The head was enormous, and when it lifted its snout and looked Banks in the eye, he knew what he was looking at, despite the fact that the shaggy fur along the flanks was almost silver, and barred with darker gray stripes. The almost black mane was the giveaway.

“It’s a fucking huge lion.”

The squat Russian clapped his hands and laughed.

“Right first time, Captain Banks. It is a cave lion, to be exact,” Volkov said. “In 2008, a well-preserved specimen was unearthed near the Maly Anyuy River which still retained some clumps of hair. I was able to obtain some samples, and using the methods which will become clear to you when you see my labs, was able to manufacture this fine specimen that you see here.”

Banks still couldn’t take his gaze from the beast. It was larger by far than any lion he’d seen, any big cat he could imagine. It was a thing of grace and power, a pure animal built only to hunt. He felt a shiver of cold dread in his spine at the sight of it, like an atavistic memory of an ancestor’s encounter with just such a thing, back in the auld country, when all was still ice and snow and wind. He would not like to meet it under such circumstances—under any circumstances. He was brought out of the reverie by another sarcastic remark.

“Manufacture?” Wiggins said. “Is that what we’re calling it these days? Do you have more of these big fuckers?”

“Just this one, so far,” Volkov said. “But he is mature now, and producing sperm so we have plenty of genetic material at our disposal.”

“I don’t want to know how you collect it,” Hynd muttered.

The three British scientists had moved off to a clear space away from the cages, and stood in a huddle, speaking in voices too low to be overheard, but the discussion looked animated, and Waterston’s face was stern, as if he’d seen something he did not like. Banks was not the only one to notice, for Volkov went quickly over to the lead scientist and took him by the arm.

“Come, come,” he said. “The tour has only just begun. There is much to see before lunch.”

They went past more domed cages, but Volkov didn’t stop, and when Banks glanced inside in passing, there appeared to be nothing to see but boggy ground and grass.

All of this area of the zoo appeared to be empty. There were four more domes to match the ones at the front, but no animals inside. The largest of the four looked like it might have contained something at one time, for the ground was scuffed, the turf torn up in clumps, and the glass on the viewing side of the cage had been scratched with deep, scouring scars on the inside surface. More alarmingly, a large area of the outside of the dome was cracked in a spider-web almost ten feet across at its widest point, as if something had launched a violent, head-on attack in an attempt to escape.

“What was in this one?” Waterston asked.

“A failure,” Volkov replied curtly and kept walking on. Banks saw that the Russians behind them had stiffened and grown wary as they passed this damaged dome.

Something happened here—something bad. And I think it’s a good idea I find out what.

It would have to wait, for Volkov had already led the scientists away and only stopped when they reached what appeared to be the central point of the whole zoo. A huge dome, looming twice as high again as the others, was completely caged in, not just with glass but with a lattice of iron and mesh. They entered this dome via a glass-covered walkway that ran around the inside perimeter of the structure. The interior of the dome stretched some fifty yards in diameter, and was dominated in its center by three huge conifers that looked to Banks’ admittedly amateur eyes to be young redwoods. Six black dots sat high on the topmost branches, but Banks couldn’t get his brain to make the required adjustments of scale. They were birds, that was certain, but that was all he could tell.

That changed quickly. The same Russian worker stepped forward to another embedded keypad, and typed in four numbers, again accompanied by the high, ringing tones.

“I don’t need to see another animal being slaughtered, thank you very much,” Waterston said indignantly.

Volkov laughed.

“Then we shall not offend your delicate sensibilities any farther, Professor. Watch.”

A section of the floor opened up, and a long trestle table rose up out of the ground from below. The carcasses of half a dozen large hares lay in a line along the tabletop. As if a whistle had been blown, the black birds dropped from their height, not flying, but gliding, great wings outstretched, acting almost like black parachutes as they circled, once, around the trees then flopped and hopped comically onto the tabletop where they proceeded to feed hungrily. They looked like vultures—Banks guessed they were a kind of Condor—but they stood well over three feet high in body, and their wingspan was enormous, somewhere between fifteen and twenty feet for the largest of the six specimens.

“Fucking thunderbirds,” Wiggins said. “That’s all we’re needing.”

“You may be closer than you know in that nomenclature,” Volkov said, “for these birds almost certainly coexisted with the Native Americans in the northern part of that continent after the retreat of the ice. These, our Teratornis merriami , were the most abundant of the giant bird species. Over a hundred specimens have been found, mostly from La Brea Tar Pits in North America, but we had several of our own here on the delta, drawn, no doubt, by plentiful carcasses on which to feast.”