Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

“But that’s not what’s got them spooked, is it?” Banks said quietly. “What have they got out the back that they’re not showing us?”

McCally shook his head.

“Even the vodka wasnae enough to get them to tell us that. But whatever it is, they’re right feert of it. I’m guessing another animal of some kind—and a bloody vicious one at that. And whatever it is, they keep it out the back there. We saw enough to know that it’s behind a big bloody steel door set in thick concrete, and it’s built into the hill. They keep a night guard at the door—one of the Russians stayed off the vodka because his shift was coming up.”

“And not a peep as to what it might be?”

McCally shook his head again.

“Just that the Russian lads told us we’d be better off buggering away home and forgetting we ever saw this place.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Banks replied. “But the brass sent us here to watch the eggheads. So we’ll watch. But we’ll watch carefully. No more vodka, understood?”

McCally smiled ruefully.

“Message received and understood, sir.”

McCally headed off for an early bed, and Banks went out to the eating area. Wiggins stumbled past him, none too steadily, off to his room. Hynd stood over by the big viewing window, looking out into darkness and smoking a cigarette.

“Did Cally tell you the story about the lion?” the sergeant asked, and Banks nodded.

“Aye. That, and the fact that the wee man there is definitely hiding something from us.”

Hynd smiled thinly.

“Aye. And Professor Waterston knows it. They’ve been going at it hammer and tongs since you left.”

Volkov and Waterston were still sitting at the large table, still in heated discussion. There was a vodka bottle on the table between them, and the level of the liquid had fallen dramatically even in the short time Banks had been away.

“Do we need to split them up?” he asked.

Hynd laughed.

“It might be more fun to let them have at it—this has been the most boring night I’ve had since the wife’s knitting club came round for tea.”

Waterston’s raised voice echoed around the open space.

“You’ve been messing around with things that have never been approved. There’s a reason we’re considering sanctions, and you know it.”

Volkov went red in the face, and Banks saw that he needed to intervene. But he only took two steps toward the table when he was interrupted by something even louder.

An alarm, high pitched and strident, echoed and rang throughout the facility.

Duty and instinct kicked in immediately.

“Sarge, get yourself kitted up, then take Waterston to his room, and get the other two in there with him. Get them to get ready to move. Nobody but us in or out. Understood?”

Hynd was already on the move, manhandling a confused Waterston up from the table. The sergeant turned back and gave Banks a quick salute, then led the complaining scientist away.

“You,” Banks said, addressing Volkov. “Find out what’s going on here. And tell your pilots to start getting ready for take-off. We’re leaving.”

He didn’t wait for the Russian’s response, but headed straight for McCally and Wiggins’ rooms. The corporal was already up, in the process of putting on his flak jacket.

“My room, thirty seconds,” Banks said, although in the end it took longer than that, for Wiggins, although fully clothed, was face down on his bed and snoring, despite the klaxon of the alarm. It took both McCally and Banks to get the private upright, but at least Wiggins was soon able to get himself kitted up, although Banks would need to make sure there weren’t any civilians in his line of sight if the shooting started.

“Bring your bags, we’re leaving,” he said. “Out in the corridor, at the double.”

Hynd had gathered the three scientists into Banks’ room as ordered, although the two younger men were still struggling to get into their trousers and button their shirts. Banks had to shout to be heard above the shrill alarm, at the same time retrieving his flak-jacket, webbing belt, and rifle. He slung his kit bag over his shoulder.

“Everybody ready? Right, Hynd, you and Cally take point. I’ll look after Wiggo. You three,” he waved a hand at the scientists, “are in the middle. If I say run, you run. Savvy?”

“We can’t leave,” Waterston shouted back.

“You don’t get a say. This is why I’m here. Now shift your arse or I’ll shift it for you.”

They moved quickly, out of the rooms, through the dining area and downstairs into the open reception area of the complex. The alarm kept sounding, even louder here, but there was no sign of anything being done about it; the squad and the scientists were the only people in sight.

“We should check on the Russians,” Waterston shouted.

“Once we’ve got you on the plane, and not before,” Banks said.

They headed out onto the runway. It was lit up for its whole length, parallel lines of light converging and stretching away into fog that hung at the far end of the strip. But they did not have to look that far to see that the lights were for naught; the plane was going nowhere.

Volkov lay at the foot of the lowered metal steps, what was left of him. The blood looked almost black under the lights, and there was plenty of it, pooled under a body that had been ravaged by something that wasn’t holding back. They only knew it was the Russian from his squat stature and the fur coat; his face had been torn off, from scalp to chin, leaving only a flap of hair over his left ear and a single, red eye staring accusingly. His right leg was gone below the knee and from the look of the jagged bone and torn flesh, it had been torn away with some force. One of the scientists—Banks didn’t turn to check who—threw up noisily, but they had far more than nausea to worry about.

The main cockpit window of the Lear Jet had been staved in, a gaping hole in front of the pilot’s seat—with the pilot himself stuffed partly through it. The man’s head was missing, and blood ran from the window down the nose of the plane.

That was all Banks got a good look at. The alarm cut off, the power going with it. The runway fell dark, the whole complex black and silent. The only light now came from the interior of the plane at the top of the steps. Banks unslung his rifle from his shoulder, and switched on the sighting light. He turned his back on the plane, washing light across the runway.

“Hynd, Cally, you’re up. Check out the plane. If it’s safe, we’ll hunker down here.”

Waterston spoke up again.

“Hunker down? We should head back into the complex where it’s safe.”

“Safe? As in, there’s a fucking huge lion in there, in a cage powered by an electric locking system that’s just failed? That kind of safe?”

Waterston’s mouth flapped open and shut, but no words came out, which was probably just as well, for Banks’ blood was up now, the adrenaline kicking in hard, and he wasn’t in the mood for any crap.

Hynd and McCally were already up the steps, looking into the cabin. Hynd turned back and called down.

“All clear. The cockpit’s a bugger of a mess, but we can shut the door on that if we need to—it’s solid enough.”

“Comms?” Banks said.

Hynd waved a hand in a seesaw motion.

“Maybe aye, maybe no. As I said, it’s a mess.”

“See what you can do. We’re coming up.”

Waterston still looked like he wanted to argue. Banks turned and spoke softly.

“Look, there’s power in there, we’ll be safe inside a metal tube, and there’s as much free booze and grub as you can stomach. So it’s either that, or you fuck off back on your own to a big, dark building with fucking huge scary animals wandering about. It’s up to you.”