William Meikle

OPERATION: SIBERIA

- 1 -

Private Wiggins was first to respond to Captain Banks’ news.

“Siberia? Come on, Cap, you’re having a laugh, aren’t you? Fucking Siberia? You said it was a milk run.”

“And it is,” Banks replied. “We’re babysitting a UN inspection team as they make an inspection of a lab. It’s a cushy number. There’s no creepy drifting boat, no empty Nazi UFO bases, none of that weird shite from the last couple of missions.”

“Cushy, maybe,” Wiggins said, “but you promised us somewhere warmer. I was hoping for Barbados. But we’ll be freezing our bollocks off again. My knob’s only just warmed up from that last trip.”

“You should use it more often,” Hynd replied.

“Aye, that’s what your wife says too.”

Wiggins had to roll out of his chair to avoid a cuff on the ear, and Banks had to catch the private’s beer to avoid it falling off the table, but at least the team was all in good spirits, despite his news. He waited until Wiggins was settled back at the table, and McCally returned with another round of beers from the mess bar before continuing.

“Besides,” he continued, “maybe it won’t be all that cold. It’s summer over there, same as it is here.”

“Aye,” Wiggins muttered. “Like Largs on a wet August Bank Holiday, and just about as much fun. I’ll pack my trunks and sunscreen.”

“Babysitting, did you say?” Hynd asked.

“Aye. Three English scientists—they’re coming up tonight from London.”

“And what kind of lab is it?” Wiggins asked. “It’s no’ nuclear, is it? I won’t need the lead-lined Y-fronts, will I?”

“Not nuclear or chemical. Biological,” Banks replied. “The colonel says that the word is it’s more in the line of a rich man’s zoo—exotic animals and such. Some Russian oilman’s plaything is what I was told. Why it warrants a UN inspection is above our pay grade. The job’s as simple as fuck. We look after the boffins, we keep our noses clean, and we’re in and out in forty-eight hours and back here for the weekend. You’ll like this bit though—no rickety transport planes for us this time. We’re traveling in style. The wee rich zookeeper is sending his private jet for us.”

“I’ll pack my tuxedo as well,” Wiggins replied.

Hynd laughed.

“Fucking James Bond, that’s all I need.”

“Aye,” Wiggins replied, already moving away from the slap he knew was coming. “Your wife says that too.”

*

The squad’s introduction to the trio of scientists in the morning was awkward. They all met over a full cooked breakfast in the mess, and it became immediately obvious that the ‘boffins’ knew more than the squad about what they’d be walking in to—and equally obvious that they weren’t prepared to talk about it.

Waterston, a stocky, bearded Englishman in his sixties, appeared to be the most senior of the three and did most of the talking, what little there was of it.

“What part of ‘classified’ are you having trouble with, Private?” he said when Wiggins pushed, not for the first time, for more information about the zoo.

Wiggins bristled—the toxic combination of Waterston’s tone and the cut-glass of his accent bringing the Scotsman’s anger front and center.

“How about the bit where we’re supposed to save your arse when you get into bother? Let’s start there, shall we, before you start looking down your nose at me?”

Banks waved to McCally to take Wiggins aside—any further conversation the private had with the scientist from that point on wasn’t going to go anywhere pretty for either of them. He turned back to Waterston.

“Wiggins has a point though. We generally have some idea what we’re going to be up against,” he said, realizing as he said it that it was mostly a lie.

Waterston’s stare lost some of its ice.

“Look, it’s a zoo, okay? Volkov’s put together a strange collection of exotics, and he wants to show it to the world. Our job is to evaluate if that would be safe.”

“Safe? What the hell’s he got—venomous snakes, big spiders, crocodiles the size of a bus… what?”

But the scientist refused to be drawn, and by the time they were packed, prepped, and called out to the runway for their flight, Banks and his squad were none the wiser.

Wiggins perked up when he saw their ride—a sleek, white Lear jet that looked too new, too clean for their small R.A.F. base in Northern Scotland.

“Caviar and champagne it is then,” he said. “I knew I should have worn the tux.”

Once Banks ensured their gear was securely stowed and locked in the jet’s hold, he joined the others inside, and found that his private hadn’t been too far wrong about the fare on offer to them.

A buffet table took pride of place in a cabin area as opulent as any hotel Banks could imagine. The leather chairs looked capable of swallowing a man, there was a bar stocked with all manner of single-malt scotch and expensive vodka, and the buffet itself did indeed include caviar, along with a bewildering mix of cold meats, fancy chocolates, breads, and exotic pickles.

“Somebody’s trying a wee bit too hard to impress us,” Hynd said as Banks joined him at the table.

“Not us; them,” Banks said, nodding to where the three scientists were already piling their plates as high as they could manage. “There’s obviously a lot at stake here for somebody. Eyes open, and game heads on, okay? Don’t let the lads near the booze.”

*

The order to stay off the free drink didn’t go down too well with Wiggins and McCally, but Banks knew Hynd would keep them in order—and that the richness of the other fare on hand would do much to mollify them. The scientists, in the meantime, had no qualms about partaking, and were already on their way to sampling a scotch from every bottle at the bar while they were still over the North Sea. By the time they reached Moscow and landed to refuel, the three men from London were dozing drunkenly in their seats at the rear of the plane.

Wiggins looked at them ruefully.

“See, Cap, that could be us right now. It’s not as if there’s anything for us to protect them from up here, apart from the threat of a hangover.”

“We’ll see about relaxing a bit on the return journey,” Banks said. “But I need more info yet before I’m ready for that.”

Banks knew he wouldn’t get anything from Waterston, even drunk, but he waited until one of the younger men, Smithson, woke blearily and came forward again. Banks bearded him at the buffet table as the man, rather clumsily in his drunkenness, tried to prepare a sandwich.

“Come on then, Steve—it is Steve, isn’t it—what’s the story? I know your boss has a pole up his arse and is a stickler for regs, but you strike me as a decent chap. Talk to me. We’re all in this together here, and I don’t know what we’re walking into. My lads deserve to know the score.”

Smithson put a finger to his lips and whispered theatrically.

“Hush-hush stuff. Not allowed.”

“Come on. All this free booze, the best quality of tucker too. This Ruskie’s buttering you up, you’re letting him, yet you won’t tell your own people what’s going on? And I thought you were decent.”

The appeal to decency, helped along by the booze, got through the man’s filters, just for a few seconds, but long enough for it to worry Banks for a while after the scientist went unsteadily back to his seat.

“Let’s just say it’s not going to be like any zoo you’ve ever seen. Not like one that anyone has ever seen—not for ten thousand years at least.”

*

Banks was amused to see that all three of the scientists were green around the gills on wakening as the pilot announced their descent to their destination. Smithson, in particular, was particularly bad, and had to avail himself twice of a sick bag before they landed with a hop and a bump. Banks tried to get a look out at the terrain, but there was only gray beyond the window, a thick fog obscuring the view that was still too thick to see through as they taxied to a halt and were allowed to disembark.

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.”

- 2 -

“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.

What are we into here?

- 3 -

They got their answer after the scientists had their breakfast. The small stout Russian, now divested of his fur and showing off a Saville Row suit that would cost more than Banks made in a year, climbed up on top of the long bar to address them. He clapped his hands, twice, calling for silence, and waited until all eyes were on him before starting to speak.

“Fifteen years ago, the ground you stand on now was an icy bog of tundra and melting permafrost, an ancient river valley and raised beach long abandoned by humans as being too inhospitable for life. Yuri Gregorov was the only person in a forty-mile circle, a hunter from the closest village to the north, having ventured to the limit of his range in what passes for summer here, in search of beaver pelts. He thought he had struck lucky when he saw crows fighting over a carcass, but when he shooed them away, he found, not a fresh kill, but an ancient one. The ginger hair did not belong to any animal Yuri was familiar with, but he pried the pelt out of the thawing ice and took it home with him.

“It was almost winter again before anyone took serious note of Yuri’s find, but word finally came to me of a great wonder, for the pelt was of a young mammoth, almost perfectly preserved, even including some intact internal organs. I had to have it, and I used every ounce of my persuasion and leverage with the powers that be to be allowed free agency in its use.

“That next summer, our work here started in earnest. The scientists here know of my enthusiasms in this area; I may have become rich on the spoils of the Russian shipping fleet, but I like to think of myself as a philanthropist. I have been instrumental in saving populations of several endangered species in these wilds, and there are still tigers in the forests in the south that owe their existence to my diligence. But as soon as I saw the mammoth pelt, I knew—there could be something even more magnificent in my future.

“Over the intervening years, I have made use of that pelt—you have seen the results of that for yourself. But there are other, even greater wonders that have emerged, or been brought forth, from the frozen plain, and I, and my team here, have been busy.

“It is the results of these endeavors that you have been brought here to witness. You should think yourselves most fortunate, my friends, for you will see things that none apart from my own people have yet seen; you will be the first, and you will take my vision to the world.”

Banks was struggling with a sudden idea that he had been dropped into a Bond movie by accident, for that self-same speech could just as easily come from any of the incarnations of Ernst Blofeld. He was still smiling inwardly at the thought when Volkov clapped his hands again.

“And look, the elements have heard me, and even they bend to my will.”

*

Everybody in the room turned at the same time to look out of the large picture window. Nobody spoke, all struck dumb by the scene as the fog slowly rolled away, revealing new vistas, new wonders, as it cleared.

The mammoth they had seen earlier was still standing in the same spot just past the runway and the parked Lear jet, but now they could see where the answering chorus of bellows had arisen. The beast was only one of a large flock, a score and more of sizes ranging from full adult male to three that looked to have only recently been born. The beasts, ranging in color from almost ginger to a dark, muddy brown, were spread out in a fenced-off, wide, marshy area stretching away from them to where the fog rolled off over a distant shoreline.

That was the view to their right. To their left, there were two other large penned enclosures, also in marshland, although this time stretching and rising up in a slope to a tall, almost sheer, set of slate-gray cliffs towering several miles away, and half that again high. The nearer of the two enclosures, which butted up close to the edge of the end of the runway in front of the buildings, contained an even larger herd of animals, and although these weren’t as large, their sheer number made them impressive. They were deer, shaggy like the red stags on Scottish hillsides, but twice as tall, with a span of antlers wider than a man. Banks had seen their like before, but only in recreations in museums; giant elk, such as had walked the marshes of Britain, herding again here, several hundred of them, in the marshy tundra. Once again, they ranged in color, darker than the mammoths, more red but less ginger, and they came in a variety of sizes and ages. Banks was so rapt in his attention that he almost didn’t take note of the occupants of the third pen.

At first, he took them for hairy black cattle, for these were smaller than the mammoth, smaller than the elk, but he saw that they still must be almost six-feet tall, and almost barrel-like. It was only when he saw the single, curved, horns on their snouts that he realized he was looking at another beast rescued from the past. These were wooly rhinoceros, only a handful of them in comparison to the larger herd of elk, and spread out over a much bigger area of marsh. He counted a dozen, although he knew there could be more in dips and hollows of the undulating ground.

Wiggins broke the silence.

“Aye, very nice I’m sure. But they’re a bit bloody boring, just standing about there, bollocks-deep in mucky water. And the fucking stink alone is going to keep the punters away. What’s the big selling point? Do they do tricks?”

If Volkov took umbrage, he didn’t show it.

“This vista represents a pinnacle of human scientific achievement,” he said. “I do not expect the common man to recognize the beauty of it. But do not fret. There are more things on heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Come, let me show them to you.”

*

Volkov led the party—three scientists, Banks’ team, and three of the Russian workers bringing up the rear. They went down the staircase to the main foyer, then headed left, and through a wide double door that led straight into an open, concrete-floored area under the high glass domes they’d seen outside.

It was warmer here, but not stiflingly so. The vegetation in the domes wasn’t lush and tropical as Banks had been expecting, but was mainly spindly conifers, rough gorse and shrubs, and more of the thick matted grass that made up the moorland outside. Each separate dome contained a cage, delineated by inches-thick glass that lay in a curve between the concrete walkway and whatever was kept within. Volkov led them to the first such area on the left.

They stood with their noses to the glass, looking down into a sunken area of grassland. At the back of the cage, the ground rose up in a slope where it was piled against the outer wall of the dome. The slope was more like dry, bare earth than grass, and was punctuated with a series of holes—burrows by the look of them.

“Badgers?” Hynd said at Banks’ right. “Looks like a sett we had out the back of the school when I was a lad.”

“No, not badgers,” Volkov replied, and at the same time, a gray-faced beast looked out of one of the burrows, then hopped out fully onto the slope. At first, Banks thought it to be one of the large South American rodents—Coypu or Capybara maybe. Then he saw the hind legs, and the shaggy, almost white, fur. It was a mountain hare, and he’d seen their like before on remote Scottish hillsides. But he’d never seen one this size; it was as large as a good-sized dog. He was still marveling at it when two, three, half a dozen more of them emerged from different burrows, hopped down the slope and began to feed on the thin grasses and mosses of the boggy ground directly under the watchers’ gaze.

“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.”

- 4 -

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.”

The birds made short work of their lunch, stripping the carcasses clean with beaks and talons as efficient as any blades. The show appeared to be over. The birds hopped off the table and, rather laboriously, took to the air again, achieving height with some frantic, again almost comical, flapping of the huge wings. They finally soared almost gracefully for a few seconds as they circled up the dome, then looked clumsy again as they attempted to land on springy branches at the high tops. But within seconds, all was settled and calm again, and the six black dots looked down from their high perches. The Russian stepped forward and keyed a code into the touch screen; the table whirred and sank. The opening in the floor closed as if it had never been, leaving a green sweep of grass with not even a stray bone or scrap of flesh left to show for the feeding.

*

The three scientists had gone into a huddle again, and this time when Volkov noticed, he got visibly more agitated, and made straight for Waterston.

“Come, sir, tell me,” he demanded. “What have you seen that makes you so conspiratorial? I have bared the secrets of this place to you. At least do me the same courtesy.”

“Bared your secrets?” Waterston said. “I don’t think we’ve even begun to see the depths to which you have sunk in your rush to get your ‘zoo’ open.” The emphasis he used on the word showed all too clearly his opinion of both the little Russian and his work.

Banks started to pay attention; the tension had just risen several notches. Volkov bristled, and the three Russian workers moved, almost imperceptibly, closer to their boss. Banks had changed his earlier opinion; now he was pretty sure they were all armed; the bulge of a shoulder holster showed when one of them moved closer to their boss. Banks saw Hynd and McCally take note and go still and watchful.

They were one false move away from a knockdown fight, possibly even a shooting match.

And we’ve only been here an hour.

- 5 -

It was obvious to Banks that the stocky Russian needed the scientists’ approval; it had been obvious as soon as he’d seen the Lear Jet in Lossiemouth, and took note of the spread of food and drink on offer.

Sugar works better than vinegar.

Waterston was, however, so far at least, proving immune to the bribery, and Banks’ estimation of the English scientist had gone up several notches. But something had to give before the tension spilled over into action, and Volkov himself broke the strained silence. He waved his men away and went to stand beside Waterston, leaning in close to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Yes, there are indeed things yet to see, things that will explain everything. Will you come? Your curiosity can be assuaged within minutes. I have nothing to hide.”

“That is yet to be seen,” Waterston muttered in reply, but the scientists allowed themselves to once again be led away. Banks’ squad followed, with the Russian workers at the rear, but the tension had not dissipated completely, and he had a much more watchful team around him as they circled the great aviary. Finally, they arrived at a spot where a double doorway led to another concrete and glass building at the back of the facility.

This time, Volkov used the keypad, six numbers with no associated tones, but the doors slid open with a hiss in response, revealing a gleaming, white-tiled corridor beyond.

“I told you I have nothing to hide,” he said as he motioned the group forward into the corridor. “Come and see where the magic happens. Welcome to my labs.”

*

As they walked along the sterile white corridor, a double door twenty yards inside opened at their approach, triggered by a motion detector switch. Beyond that was yet another dome, a single high structure containing what appeared to Banks’ untutored eye to be a state-of-the-art modern laboratory. Several large cages ran around the outside walls, while the center of the area was a mixture of computers, monitors, printers, refrigeration units, and high, banked systems of glassware and chrome containing a variety of liquids that he could only guess at. For as much as he knew of the working of this place, it might as well be magic.

Volkov, Waterston, and the other two Englishmen were already deep in the esoterica of a scientific discussion that Banks lost the thread of within seconds. Wiggins was at his side, also listening.

“I don’t know what the fuck Reverse Transcriptase is, but it sounds painful,” the Glaswegian said after a while.

Hynd answered.

“It’s an enzyme used to generate DNA from an RNA template,” he said laconically, and smiled. “What, you didnae pay attention in O’ Level Biology?”

“The only thing I was paying attention to in class was the teacher’s tits,” Wiggins replied, and leered, then his eyes went wide as he looked over Hynd’s shoulder to one of the cages against the outside wall of the dome.

“Holy fuck, would you look at the size of that.”

Banks turned to look.

At first, he thought it was some kind of German Shepherd, then his sense of scale kicked in again. It was indeed canine, but this was a wolf, sitting inside a large cage on its haunches, its steely blue gaze fixed directly on Banks and Wiggins. It was as gray along the flanks as the lion they’d seen early, but shaggier, and almost white in places. It was difficult to gauge its size while it was sitting, but given the size of the head—and its teeth—it would stand around four feet high when upright. The power and strength of the lion had impressed him—but this was different again. What he felt now was the same kind of weak-kneed terror that came just before a firefight. He faced it the same way he would in combat—he looked it in the eye and went to meet it.

*

The wolf’s stare never wavered as Banks walked over to the cage. It was only as he got closer that he saw the beast was not alone. A straw bed dominated the rear of the cage, and on that laid three more wolves, none as large as the big male. It only took a second to confirm that one was a large female, almost all ghost white, and with her, two nearly full-grown cubs with shorter, darker coats and markings.

The big male’s stare never left Banks’ face, and Banks knew that if the cage was not present, he would face the full cold fury of an attack.

I think I’d rather face the lion.

Wiggins whispered at his side.

“Who’s a good boy then?”

Banks took another step forward, and the big male growled with a rumble that Banks felt in his belly, as if he’d stood close to a big bass speaker.

“Careful, Captain,” Volkov said, coming across the room toward them, “our big boy is most protective of his family.”

Waterston was at the Russian’s side, and only took a quick look in the cage before turning to Volkov.

“See, that’s exactly what I was talking about. Dire wolves did not grow that large.”

Banks guessed this was the continuation of a private conversation the men were having. It wasn’t private now. The whole lab fell quiet, as if waiting for the Russian’s response.

All he did was wave a hand toward the large cage.

“They do now,” he said, and walked away. Banks noted that his workers—his bodyguards—were not with him. The three Russians stood at the far end of the dome, where it butted up against a hillside beyond the glass. There was a large door at that end, which looked like it went out directly into a courtyard, and the hill just yards beyond that.

“What’s through there?” Banks asked, nodding towards where the men stood.

“Storage,” Volkov replied.

The Russian men’s tension around the back doorway and Volkov’s sudden attack of terseness after his previous volubility told Banks much about the situation he hadn’t known previously.

They’re hiding something.

And whatever it is, they’re afraid of it.

*

The day wore on. The three British scientists were determined to understand every single facet of the workings of the laboratory. Volkov wheeled in a succession of scientists—half a dozen white-coated men and women who looked to Banks’ eye to be too fresh-faced, too young, for the work. None of them spoke English, and Volkov managed all the translation himself, all too obviously giving everything the positive spin he wished to put on proceedings.

Banks and his squad stayed near the wolf cage—the big male still sat, unmoving, staring at them. The three Russians were also still in the same spot they’d been since they arrived, over at the rear doorway.

Wiggins was talking softly, and edging closer to the wolf’s cage.

“Good boy, there’s a good lad.”

“It’s not a fucking poodle,” Hynd said. “It’ll have your hand off if you get too close.”

As if to punctuate the point, the wolf smiled, showing the full scale of its perfect teeth.

“Wiggo,” Banks said, twice before the private paid attention. “We’re going to be here for a while. Go and see if those Russian lads fancy a Scottish smoke. Take Cally with you, and see if you can find out what’s on the other side of those doors they’re watching so carefully. Take your time, and act casual; we don’t want to spook them.”

“They look plenty spooked already,” McCally replied.

The two men walked away, heading around the perimeter of the dome, stopping to look in cages, chatting as naturally as if they were out for a walk on the street. Banks turned away—he didn’t want to be seen watching them. He trusted McCally at least to do the right thing, and even if Wiggins couldn’t keep his mouth shut for two minutes at a time, his natural charm and good humor was enough to win most people over eventually.

The big wolf’s eyes seemed to follow Banks wherever he moved, although the beast itself didn’t shift from its position. Banks sensed a keen intelligence at work behind that stare, and not for the first time was thankful of the cage between them.

“So, what do you think, Cap?” Hynd said. “Is everything up front and kosher here or what?”

Banks shook his head.

“Watch Waterston. Watch those Russian men over at the door. Volkov has the brass neck to try to pull off his ‘nothing to see here, move along now’ spiel, but Waterston isn’t buying it. And neither am I.”

The third scientist—Banks was embarrassed that he still didn’t know the man’s name—had come over to look at the wolf, and overheard.

“And you would be right to be skeptical,” the man said. It was the first words Banks had heard from him on the trip, and he was surprised to hear a strong West Country accent. “There’s something well dodgy going on here. The boss is trying to put his finger on it. Trust me, once the prof gets the bit between his teeth, he won’t let go. Strap in, lads. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a bumpy ride.”

- 6 -

The inspection of the lab took up most of the day, with only a short break for coffee and sandwiches to break the monotony. Waterston and Volkov sparred verbally with each other all the way through, and the wolf watched Banks and his team with its unblinking blue stare. At least Wiggins and the Russians seemed to be getting on, judging by the laughter that echoed around the dome from the far end by the doorway, and Banks was looking forward to whatever report McCally and the private would bring him later.

But first, he had to endure an evening with the scientists. The whole squad was invited to join Volkov and his team for dinner, but Banks left McCally and Wiggins with their new friends, and the two men seemed more than happy with the arrangement. Hynd was less pleased.

“Come on, John. Let me go with the lads. You don’t need me.”

Banks laughed.

“And leave me on my lonesome with that lot? There’s no fear of that. You’re with me. And we’re staying dry. Chin up… it’s going to be a long night.”

*

Just as the day in the lab had appeared interminable, so too did the speeches and counter speeches that had to be endured before they even got to eat anything. Banks and Hynd had been relegated to the second table. While the English scientists were feted like royalty and Volkov lorded over the main table, the Scotsmen sat with four of the young Russian scientists, none of whom spoke a word of English or were inclined to try. Banks tried to catch snatches of the conversation between Volkov and Waterston, but although he could see that it was heated, almost argumentative, he could not get the gist of it. He began to regret his order to keep the night a dry one, for a few tall glasses of vodka would have eased the boredom.

He watched, almost envious, as the two younger English scientists shifted large quantities of the free booze; both of them excused themselves early, and the young Russians took the opportunity to take their leave at the same time. Hynd and Banks sat alone at their table, watching the argument between Volkov and Waterston grow ever more heated as the vodka started speaking for both of them. It looked like it might even come to blows, and Banks was considering getting up to separate them when McCally and Wiggins arrived in the doorway.

Both men looked the worse for drink—not as drunk as the two at the top table, but not too far off it. Wiggins wore a broad grin, but McCally looked serious, and waved for Banks to join them at the door.

“I told you this was a dry night,” Banks said.

“Sorry, sir,” McCally replied. “But it was the only way to get the Russians to talk to us.”

“Lovely vodka they have here, sir,” Wiggins said, slurring every word. McCally patted the private on the shoulder.

“Let me talk, Wiggo. You just concentrate on standing up straight.”

The corporal turned back to Banks and Hynd.

“We need to talk, sir. In private. There’s more going on here than you know.”

“I’d already guessed as much,” Banks replied. He turned to Hynd.

“Look after Wiggo. Get some coffee in him, strong and black. We need to be on our toes, not on our backs, drunk in bed. And don’t let the boffins start fighting. We’re on a protect and serve mission here. It’s time we started.”

*

Banks led McCally back to his suite, and made them both a cup of strong black coffee before settling at the breakfast bar to listen to the corporal’s story. It didn’t take long for Banks fears to be confirmed.

“Your wee Russian pal has been fucking things up here for years,” McCally said. His Highland accent came through stronger than usual, testament to the effects of the booze, but he was taking to the coffee well enough, and was certainly more sober than Wiggins had been.

“Tell me everything,” Banks said.

“You were right about them being worried,” McCally said. “Those three Russians were as spooked as a nun in a whorehouse. But they took to our fags easily, and Wiggo gave them some patter to butter them up, so we were all pals fast enough. And once they took us out the back to their wee shed and broke out the vodka, their tongues loosened. Their English is no’ that great, then again, neither is mine, so we muddled through fine.

“And the stories they can tell you… folk have died here, sir. A lot of folk. Yon big lion is responsible for a lot of them; they had it outside in an enclosure for a while, but it learned how to take down the fences and got into the deer, so they sent a squad of men in to fetch it out. Butchery was the word the Russians used a lot—and they weren’t just talking about the deaths of animals. Since then, they’ve kept the big cat inside, but they have to watch it closely.”

“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.

- 7 -

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.”

Wiggins was dragging Volkov away to one side. Bits of the body stayed behind on the runway, a trail of bloody gore. Something caught Banks’ eye, a darker shadow moving in the darkness. He swung his light in that direction and saw only the high fence delimiting the mammoth enclosure. But now he was thinking, not about the lion, but about the big male wolf, and the way it had looked at him.

“Inside, now,” he barked. “That door gets shut in ten seconds, whether you’re there or not.”

Waterston’s small rebellion seemed to have been quelled; all three of the scientists scurried up into the cabin. Banks let Wiggins go first ahead of him, then had one last sweep of the runway with his light, seeing nothing, before joining the others up in the plane. He pulled the steps up behind him, and closed the door.

It shut with a satisfyingly solid clunk.

*

McCally and Wiggins were up at the rear of the cabin, having herded the scientists towards the buffet table and bar. Whatever calamity had befallen the plane, it had been confined to the steps outside and the cockpit; in the main cabin, it was almost possible to believe that nothing untoward had happened.

One look at Hynd’s face was enough to convince Banks otherwise. The sergeant stood beside the closed cockpit door, and waited until the three scientists had their backs turned before opening it, just wide enough for the two of them to slip into the cramped cockpit.

The first thing to hit Banks was the smell; blood and pish and shite, an all too well-known stench of recent death. The view out of the front window was obscured by the fact that the pilot’s body was hanging out of the hole they’d seen from outside. Shards of glass lay strewn around—it looked like the whole window had been caved in.

“Something came in from out there?” Banks said, indicating the open view. “Through inch-thick glass. It came through, and then pulled the poor fucker out of the opening?”

“That’s what it looks like, Cap,” Hynd said. He drew Banks’ attention to the control panels. They all looked like they’d been struck, over and over again, by something heavy, possibly a hammer, then had their innards pulled out, just to make sure nothing would ever work again.

“It’s either a fucking smart lion, or we’re looking at something else entirely,” Hynd said.

“I’d say option B is our best bet,” Banks replied. “Comms?”

“No fucking chance,” Hynd said. “It’s all been torn to buggery. We’re lucky we still have power, although that’s coming from a battery somewhere, and I’ve no idea how long that’ll last us.”

“And the co-pilot?”

Hynd motioned to the second chair. A deep pool of dark blood lay in the bucket seat.

“I think it’s safe to say we won’t be seeing him again either.”

“What the fuck got them? Any clues?”

“Apart from big and pissed off?”

“Aye, I get that bit myself.”

Banks checked the door, but it only confirmed their first impressions; whatever happened here had been confined to the cockpit. His guess was that Volkov had been unlucky enough to get in the thing’s way. But conjecture wasn’t getting them anywhere.

He let Hynd leave the cockpit first, then exited and closed the door after them. It too shut with a reassuring clunk. It wasn’t locked, couldn’t be from this side, but judging by the mayhem they’d seen, that was going to be the least of their worries should the cause of it decide to come back.

He turned back to Hynd.

“We stay here until daybreak, then head back into the complex and look for a way to get a message out. We keep watch in shifts, and we don’t let the boffins do anything stupid. And if anything does show up, we keep shooting it until it fucks off again. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

*

“Cally, are you sober enough to take a watch?”

The tall corporal nodded.

“I’ll be fine, Cap. Let Wiggo sleep for a bit though, okay? He did the heavy work with the Russians… and their vodka.”

Banks nodded.

“I’m guessing that wee drinking session might even be the cause of all this trouble,” he replied. “If Wiggo was having trouble handling the liquor, I imagine at least one of the Russians was in a similar state?”

McCally smiled ruefully.

“More than one. Are you thinking they had a wee accident?”

“A fucking big one, more like,” Banks replied. “So we keep watch all night. You and the sarge up first then. Keep an eye on these two doors. Shoot first, ask later.”

He pushed Wiggins down into one of the large armchairs.

“Three hours, then you’d better have your head on straight, lad,” he said, but the private’s head had already drooped, and sleep took him down hard. Banks left McCally and Hynd at the front of the plane and made his way up the back.

The two younger scientists looked as beat as Wiggins and they too were close to sleep.

“Rest if you can,” Banks said. “We’re safe in here.”

If Waterston disagreed with that assessment, he was smart enough not to say it in front of the younger men. When Banks joined the older scientist at the bar, the professor waved a bottle of single malt scotch in the air.

“Will you join me?”

“One, then, and a small one at that,” Banks said. “And only because we need to talk, you and I.”

“Indeed we do,” Waterston replied, pouring them both a drink and handing Banks a glass. “But first, I must thank you for getting us to safety so quickly. I had not quite grasped the magnitude of the situation, until…”

He waved a hand toward the outer door. Banks understood his meaning.

“Volkov? Aye. The wee man was a bit of a bastard, but it was a hard way for him to go.”

“What did it?” Waterston asked, and Banks laughed softly.

“I was just about to ask you the same question. You know more than you’ve been telling.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Waterston replied. He downed his whisky fast and poured himself another, then talked.

*

“I first started to get wind that there was something wrong going on about two years ago. Ours is a tight-knit field of study when all is said and done, and word gets around the community whenever something out of the ordinary occurs. Decades ago, when the Dolly the sheep cloning happened, that caused ripples. But the news coming out of Siberia caused the equivalent of a tidal wave. We all knew that Volkov was working on ancient tissue samples—his requests for materials, and access to others, were not subtle, although he threw enough money at enough cash-starved researchers that ethics were often not the first thing on people’s minds.

“So, in short, we knew the Russian was up to something. But given the remoteness of the location and lack of access to it, there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about it.

“That all changed two years ago, when Volkov engaged the services of a French team, specialists in gene therapy; viruses in particular. He flew them out here, all expenses paid. They spent three months on site and, last November, they all went home, or at least their ashes did. Volkov claimed an industrial accident had necessitated the burning of the bodies, but his reputation had finally caught up with him and it was at that point that the UN Advisory Council came to me and asked me to put a team together.”

Waterston paused to pour another drink for himself. At the same moment, Banks saw Hynd and McCally stiffen and heft their weapons, and felt the whole plane shift, as if something had nudged, heavily, against it outside. Everyone on the plane, at least those that were awake, held their breath, and it was as if time stopped for the space of a heartbeat, everything steady and fixed, like a still from a movie, before the clocks started ticking again. There was no repeat of the nudge from outside, and no sound from beyond the fuselage. Banks tried to look out the nearest window, but there was only deep black beyond, and his own reflection looking back at him.

He turned back to Waterston.

“May as well tell me the rest,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“And neither is Volkov,” Waterston said. “I started my investigations by following the money, and quickly realized that he’d been spending millions, perhaps even billions, on this facility and whatever it was he was building here. Yes, building. I hesitate to use any more natural wording, for there is nothing natural in the things he showed us in his pet zoo here. I had an inkling before I came, but today confirmed it. You see, he not only spent money on his materials, and his viral geneticists, but also on biochemistry, and in particular, the biochemistry of growth—rapid growth—hormones. You probably know of the kind of chemicals that get pumped into the food chain in North America in particular, all of the hormones and antibiotics needed to maintain the food supply in industrial quantities? Well, our man Volkov was using the same chemicals, and in vast amounts. What you saw today was the result; larger, much larger beasts than any Holocene animal that ever was born.”

“He made them bigger than they should be?”

“Exactly. But it’s not the size that has me worried so much as the other side effects. You see, in the States, where they use these very same hormones, they also have to use huge quantities of sedatives alongside them—they need to, to counter the effects of the aggression.”

Banks caught the man’s drift straight away.

“Big, and angry. Not a good combination.”

Waterston waved his glass toward the cockpit, sloshing some of it over his hand.

“I think we can confirm that, don’t you?”

- 8 -

The night drew on. Waterston finally abandoned the bottle, and the three scientists, and Private Wiggins, slept, but Banks’ brain wouldn’t allow him the luxury. He went back up front and joined Hynd and McCally.

Hynd nodded toward the main door.

“There’s something out there, Cap. If you stand quiet long enough, you’ll hear it, sniffing and snuffling.”

Banks was now thinking about Volkov, or rather his body, left lying out there, like the carrion they’d seen laid out for the birds. He guessed something was taking advantage of a free meal, but didn’t share his speculations as to what it might be. He checked his watch, and was surprised to see that it was only just past midnight. They had a long stretch of dark still ahead of them before there was any promise of morning.

“Cally, can you see if there’s any way you can rustle me up a coffee? It’s either that or the whisky bottle, and I’m getting sorely tempted.”

“You and me both, Cap,” McCally replied, and headed off to the buffet area to check the under-counter cupboards. Hynd lit a cigarette and puffed out two expert rings before speaking.

“Did you get anything useful out of the prof?”

“Not much,” Banks replied. “He was more interested in getting inside the whisky bottle. And I can’t say as I blame him. God, this is a fucked-up mess.”

“Another in a long line of them,” Hynd said and smiled grimly. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks, Cap.”

“When we get back, remind me to ask for a raise,” Banks said.

McCally returned with coffee for the three of them.

“I found a wee machine,” he said. “And it’s the best of stuff, Colombian Dark Roast. We’ve got plenty of it too.”

“Small mercies,” Banks said, and sipped at the strong, bitter brew thankfully.

*

When the time came round for Wiggins’ watch, Hynd spoke up.

“Let the lad sleep, Cap. The coffee’s got me wired anyway, and between that and the fags, I’m too strung out to get a kip. I’ll keep you company.”

McCally went up the back to pick a seat. As he did so, he nudged one of the sleeping scientists, the West Country man, who came awake slowly and blearily, rose out of his chair, and came forward to Banks and Hynd.

He spoke to Hynd first.

“I could do with one of those smokes if I could?” he said.

Hynd handed him a cigarette, got out another at the same time, and seconds later, both men were puffing away. At one time, Banks would have happily joined them, but that was one habit he at least had under control.

“Sorry—I never caught your name,” he said to the scientist.

“Galloway. Harry Galloway,” the man said. “I’m the primate specialist.”

“What’s a primatologist doing on this trip?” Hynd asked. But with that one word, a whole lot of things immediately fell into place in the jigsaw puzzle Banks had been working on in his head.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispered. “Tell me it’s not a fucking oversized gorilla?”

Galloway lowered his voice to almost a whisper.

“We’re not sure it’s anything at all,” he said. “But Volkov was spending money on gene-splicing equipment and materials that were very specifically targeted towards apes—and the big apes in particular.

“King fucking Kong. That’s all we need,” Banks said. “But it might explain the hidden cell behind the steel door out back, and what had frightened that team of Russians.”

“And it might explain how we ended up locked in here for the night?” Hynd said.

“I bloody hope not,” Galloway answered, but Banks saw sudden doubt, and fear, behind the man’s eyes.

*

By three in the morning, Banks was thinking he might manage to get some sleep, and was about to wake Wiggins when the plane was nudged again from outside, harder this time, and with more intent.

“Heads up, guys,” Banks said. “We’ve got a visitor.”

The fuselage rocked and then fell over on its left, hitting the runway hard. Scientists, liquor bottles, empty glasses, and cold meats tumbled across the cabin. Banks only stayed upright by hanging onto the outside door handle.

A roar sounded outside, deep and grumbling, then the plane rocked again as it was hit hard. Metal scraped and screeched on stone as they were pushed along, coming to a halt with a jolt when they fell off the runway onto softer ground.

Metal screeched again, tearing this time, the sound coming from the cockpit at the front. The cabin sat skewed at a thirty-degree angle, the slope confusing the eye at first until Banks got himself wedged against the wall. He counted down from three on the fingers of his left hand as he put his right on the cockpit door; Hynd and McCally were already lined up as he threw the door open.

They were just in time to see the pilot’s body get pulled all the way out of the window and away. Hynd and McCally fired, but they were already too late. All they saw was a glimpse of a huge gray, striped flank and the swish of a long tail as the cave lion dragged the pilot’s corpse away into the night.

- 9 -

There were no more alarms until dawn streaked the sky and showed in the plane’s windows, but any thought Banks had of sleep had gone with the appearance of the big cat. He remembered only too well the efficiency with which it had dispatched the hare; and now that it was out of the cage, Banks wasn’t about to let his guard down, even by an inch.

Wiggins had no such qualms, and was asleep again almost as soon as they’d closed the cockpit door after the lion’s appearance, but he was the only one. The three scientists gathered among the debris around the buffet table, attempting to salvage what they could from the spillage. McCally managed to rustle up coffee for everybody, and Banks endured a continuous litany of theories and questions from the scientists.

“Look,” he said after a time, “I only know what you know. Somehow, the big cat got out and is on the loose. Whether that’s what caused the alarm, and whether that was what got Volkov, I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a lion that got into the cockpit and tore out the wiring—unless Volkov was programming the beasties for smarts as well as bulk?”

Waterston went white at that, then shook his head.

“No,” the scientist said. “This is something else, I agree. And I’m coming round to your way of thinking—I think this is in Galloway’s domain. But we won’t know until we go and look.”

Banks shook his head.

“Too risky,” he said. “You’re all staying here with Cally and Wiggo. The sarge and I will head over to the complex and see what’s what; see if we can find some way to get a message out.”

“That’s not going to work,” the scientist replied. “And you know it. You don’t know what to look for, in the first place. And in the second, we came here to investigate, and I’m bloody well going to do so.”

“I suppose shooting him isn’t an option?” Hynd said with a laugh, and Banks managed a smile.

“Don’t tempt me.”

But he saw that the scientist would not be swayed.

“Okay then, if one goes, we all go. But you do what I say, when I say. If I say run, you leg it. I’m guessing the big cat is going to prefer to be outside in the wild rather than back anywhere near the cages; but we can’t take anything for granted. Our first, our main, objective is to get rescued, so we find a phone, or an internet connection; anything we can. Only after that will I consider any other investigations. Agreed?”

Waterston didn’t look happy, but it was Banks’ turn to be obdurate, and he was just as good, if not better, at that than the professor.

*

They finally woke Wiggins at dawn, and they all had coffee, and what scraps of food had been salvaged, before Banks got them organized to head out.

“Leave our kit bags here,” he said. “We’re going in fast and light, and if we get separated at all, this is home base; it’s probably the safest spot, even despite the big hole in the front window.”

The scientists looked pale, terrified even, but the younger two seemed determined to follow Waterston’s lead, and Banks had to admit that the prof had a point—the boffins would spot anything out of the ordinary long before any of Banks’ team.

“Ready?” he asked. By this time, full daylight showed in the windows. Banks had checked out both sides of the plane; there were mammoths out the left-hand windows, and a quiet, seemingly dead, complex out the right side. There was no sign of the big cat, but it was definitely out there somewhere, he had no illusions about that.

And what else is out there with it?

That was the question he hoped to get an answer to as he opened the door and kicked the stepladder down out of the plane.

“Move out,” he said.

*

There was no sign of the previous day’s fog, and they had a clear view over the runway. There were no bodies, neither Volkov’s nor the pilot’s. There was a red, gory, scrape where Volkov had been dragged off, the streak showing for several yards on the thick grass before the trail got lost in the mire. They found a single paw mark in mud, the telltale lobes of a cat the size of a small car, but there was no other sign of the beast, or the bodies it had obviously carted away.

Let’s hope its hunger is sated, for a while anyway.

The mammoths seemed unperturbed, and were milling around in their fenced-off area, feeding as contentedly as before; if the lion was around, it wasn’t bothering the bigger beasts.

Not when there’s easier prey available.

Banks pushed that thought away; the worst thing he could do was to consider himself vulnerable. The squad was well trained, well armed, and more than a match for any beast, no matter how big. As long as he believed that to be true, then they were the predators here.

“Sarge, Wiggo, watch our backs,” he said. “Cally, you’re with me.”

They headed across the runway at a fast walk, making for the quiet complex.

*

The main reception area was as dark and empty of life as it had been when they’d left so quickly the night before. The first signs of mayhem were only apparent once they entered the area under the domes. The first body they found was one of the young, white-coated scientists who’d shared Banks and Hynd’s table at their meal. Her head sat at an unnatural angle to her shoulders, her belly was open, guts spilling out from under the white coat. She had been thrown more than once against the glass wall of the lion’s cage; the glass itself was smeared with blood, and cracked along its whole length. But the lion’s means of egress had eventually been simpler still. The large patch of the dome leading out to the runway area had been caved in, forced inward from the outside. The lion had definitely escaped, but it was now obvious that it had help. There was no sign of any of the hares; if they had any sense, they’d be staying in their burrows for a while longer yet.

The huge dome of the aviary had also been breached—the cause was equally obvious, as two huge stones lay on the floor surrounded by broken glass and bent steel. Whatever had launched the rocks from outside had to be of prodigious strength for Banks knew just by looking at them that he wouldn’t be able to lift them off the ground, never mind throw them over a distance of many yards. He looked up to the tops of the conifers, but the branches were bare; the thunderbirds had gone to join the lion in freedom.

They found the rest of the young scientists in the corridor to the lab area. They were clustered around the door, their blood, guts, and torn limbs decorating the brilliant white tile with red. It looked like they’d been trying to make an escape but had been caught in the doorway; caught, and slaughtered, as efficiently as if they’d been stripped and dismembered by a butcher’s knives. Banks didn’t have to look too closely to know that there were too few limbs among the carnage for the number of torsos.

Whatever it is, it took a snack to go.

One of the younger Englishmen, Galloway, had lost all his color, and looked unsteady on his feet. Sergeant Hynd put a shoulder under his armpit, and kept him upright.

“Come on, lad,” he said. “Keep your eyes shut if you have too, but I’ve got you. Let’s get through to the lab and cleaner air. We need to find some comms.”

Banks led as they picked their way through the butchery, trying not to step in anything too viscous. But if they were hoping to find cleaner air in the lab, they were to be disappointed.

*

The first thing Banks noted as he led the squad into the large dome was that the wolf cage was on its side, and lying open. His legs went weak, the memory of the big male’s hungry stare still all too clear in his mind, but he saw, without having to move too close, that the cages were empty, and the lab quiet. Like the lion and the thunderbirds, it appeared that the wolves had taken their chance of freedom.

A breeze blew against his cheek, coming from a large breach in the dome over to Banks’ left. And there wasn’t going to be any chance of comms, at least not here. All of the computers, laptops, terminals, anything electrical at all, was piled high in smashed and shattered pieces in the center of the floor, as if someone had been preparing for a bonfire.

At least the wind kept some of the stench away, but not all. Two of the Russian workers that Wiggins had been drinking with earlier lay, face up, on their backs, spread out on the top of the long trestles. They were naked, and had been opened up from crotch to neck by something intent on getting at their innards. Their ribs were torn asunder, gruesome shattered shards of bone poking out of the red, gaping holes that remained.

“This looks ritualistic,” Waterston said.

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Wiggins said in reply. “It looks like bloody fucking murder to me.” The private turned to Banks. “I’ve never seen a fucking cat, no matter how big, capable of this kind of shite. Have you, Cap?”

It was Galloway that replied.

“I’ve seen its like before,” he said quietly. He was still as white as before, but was standing on his own, and had even moved closer to the bodies on the table, his scientific curiosity overriding his nausea at the sight. “In Africa; a troupe of gorillas caught a chimp; the end result was much the same as this.”

“Fucking gorillas? Don’t talk shite, man,” Wiggins said, and again turned to Banks for confirmation, but Banks didn’t have an answer for him.

But I think I know where to look for one.

- 10 -

The back door of the dome was no longer there; there was only another large hole in the structure, and broken glass, stones, and twisted metal strewn around the area. The third and last of the Russians lay in the courtyard beyond, at the doorway that led into the hill. The door lay open, and looked to have been forced out that way from the inside, huge hinges buckled as if having finally given way under intense pressure. The Russian had got in the way of whatever wanted so badly to escape; he wasn’t just butchered, he was mangled, almost minced in places, torn apart in a frenzy of violence that almost defied belief.

“Aw, wee man,” Wiggins said. “Your vodka was shite, but you didnae deserve this.”

“Nobody deserves this,” Banks replied.

He eyed the dark hole of the doorway. The opening led straight into the hill; there didn’t look to be any light source, and a stench wafted out of the gloom, a thick, almost meaty odor, worse somehow than anything else they’d smelled already.

“Cally, watch the civilians, and get noisy if you need us,” he said. “We’re going in.”

Again, it was Waterston who disagreed.

“We all go,” he said. “You need our insights.”

“I need a drink,” Wiggins replied, but Banks saw the scientists, all three of them, were resolved.

“Okay,” he replied. “But same rules apply; I say run, you run.”

Waterston nodded in reply. Banks switched on the foresight light on his rifle, sprayed the beam ahead of him, and headed into the hill.

*

The stench got even worse. Banks breathed as lightly as he could through his nose, but even then he felt his guts roil and complain. He remembered how, when he was a lad, their old dog had delighted in rolling in wet cowpats. He’d thought that would be the worst thing he’d ever smell. Now he knew better.

His light washed on roughly hewn walls, old workings, done by hand, showing no sign of having been made by machined tools. This passage had been here long before Volkov’s facility had grown up around it.

What the hell was he keeping here in the dark?

The passageway went down at a slight slope, and continued deep into the hill, ten paces or more before Banks got a sense of a wider, more open space. His light showed him a circular chamber some five yards across, with a domed ceiling six feet overhead and three more passageways heading off left, right, and ahead.

“Want me to check one out, Cap?” Wiggins said at his side.

“Fuck no,” Banks replied in a low voice. “We all go together, wherever it is we’re going. We don’t know how far into the hill these tunnels go, or what’s in them. Whatever butchered everybody in the facility might be in here with us. So keep it close and tight, and watch each other’s backs.”

He chose the passage that was emitting the strongest odor, and headed straight ahead. The path sloped downward again, deeper still into the hill, but did not go far, and the echoing sound made by their footsteps told Banks that they had once again come to an open area. He swung his light beam around.

This new chamber was larger still, some ten yards in diameter at its widest, and nine feet high at the tallest point. Thin, watery light seeped in from a crevice in the rock, but it was still too dim to make out anything without the use of the sight light. It was—or had been—a sleeping chamber of a kind judging by the mounds of straw, two of them, heaped tight and high. Banks swung the light around again, before a shout from Waterston stopped him.

“Wait. Go back. Put some light on the wall to your left.”

Banks did as requested, and his light picked out something on the rock. At first, he thought it was more blood, more evidence of slaughter. But this was different; it was only when he stepped closer that he realized how different. Crude pictograms daubed the wall, above Bank’s head height, representations of animals that were immediately recognizable despite the crudity of the painting—mammoth and deer, wolf and rhinoceros. To one side, higher still, almost eight feet of the floor, was a single red handprint. It took a couple of seconds for Banks to get the scale—it had five fingers, and an opposable thumb, but it was flatter, broader than a human hand… and at least twice the size.

Galloway pushed past Banks and traced a finger on one of the daubings.

“I’ve seen the like of these before too,” he said. “Not gorillas though, but stone-age peoples. The ones I saw in the French hills were twenty thousand years old or more. But these… these were done in the past couple of days at a guess.”

“What the fuck were they keeping in here?” Wiggins asked, but no one had an answer for him.

*

They searched the rest of the chambers. It didn’t take long. One of the two side passages led to a hole in the floor and the sound of running water somewhere impossibly far below; Banks had seen enough field latrines to recognize one when he smelled it.

The left-hand chamber led to another equally obvious spot—it was a small, domed area, containing only a stone table and the remnants of food—mostly meat, and mostly raw. Although it didn’t smell as earthy as the sleeping area, Banks could only take twenty seconds of it before he backed out, looking for clearer air.

He met Waterston by the buckled steel door. The scientist was pulling something from the hinges: long strands of thick hair.

“So what the fuck is it?” Wiggins said insistently. “Don’t tell me they were keeping fucking huge gorillas. Just don’t tell me.”

“I don’t think they’re gorillas,” Waterston said, and showed everybody the hairs he’d pulled from the torn and twisted metal. They were thicker than human hair, almost wiry. And they were russet colored, almost orange in places.

“So, big fucking ginger gorillas it is then?” Wiggins said. “Or are we talking Orang-Utan here?”

“Gorillas, ginger or otherwise, don’t paint pictures and keep tidy tables,” Galloway said at their back. “And they certainly don’t play flutes. I found this in one of the beds.”

He had a bone in his hands, and they could all see that it had five holes along its length. Galloway put it to his lips, and blew, trilling out a simple tune of two bars. Somewhere out beyond the dome, a mammoth trumpeted in reply then, louder still, something else responded with a roar, a wild cry of longing and pain that echoed around them long after Galloway had dropped the bone from his mouth.

*

“What kind of shite have you got us into this time, Cap,” Wiggins said as all four of the squad reached for their rifles. They stood in a row in front of the busted steel door, with the scientists at their back, all of them tense, waiting for an attack.

None came.

Banks patted his weapon then slung it back over his shoulder.

“Whatever they are, they’re just animals. We’ve got the firepower to put any big fucker we meet down, if they’re daft enough to come close. Let’s just find a way of getting a message out. I want to be well out of here before it gets dark.”

- 11 -

Hynd and McCally took point again as they went back into the facility. Banks was initially just glad to get away from the worst of the smell, although he thought he might hold the memory of it in his nose and throat for a while to come yet. They went back through the ruined doors and into the lab area.

“Are we sure there’s nothing working in here?” he said. This time, he addressed the scientists rather than his own men. Galloway was first to reply.

“Everything’s torn to buggery,” he said, “pardon my French. And you’re right. This wasn’t a lion, or the wolves. Whatever tore the shit out of all the electronics had at least some sense of what they were doing.”

“So, fucking smart giant ginger gorillas?” Wiggins said. “Fucking marvelous.”

“There’s no network in the background somewhere untouched? A Wi-Fi router or some such?”

This time, it was the older scientist, Waterston, who replied.

“I got through on my phone on Wi-Fi from my room just before we ate last night,” he said. “In all the excitement, I’d completely forgotten.”

“Aye,” Wiggins said sarcastically. “It’s no’ as if our lives depend on it or anything important like that.”

Banks gave the private a cuff on the ear.

“If you’re not going to help, shut the fuck up, Wiggo. The smart folk are thinking.”

He turned back to Waterston.

“So there’s Wi-Fi up in the guest areas?”

“There was last night, before all the commotion. Whether there still is…?” Waterston made a see-saw motion with his left hand.

“It’s the only plan I’ve got,” Banks said. “And it looks like there’s no survivors to tell us otherwise. So, upstairs it is. Hynd, Cally?” The other two looked around. “Double time, up to the guest area. And keep your eyes open.”

*

Banks saw all three of the scientists pointedly ignore the carnage and butchery in the corridor out of the labs on this return journey—he didn’t blame them. No man should have to look at the insides of another lying splayed open for all to see in the ultimate invasion of privacy. He’d seen far too much of it himself over the years to judge anyone else for their reaction.

Hynd and McCally went through into the aviary dome first, then came to a sudden halt. Hynd put up a fist in the air. Wiggins and Banks knew well enough to stop and go quiet, but the three scientists had to be stopped with an arm on Waterston’s shoulder, and a finger to his lips.

“Cap, you need to see this,” Hynd said, and motioned him forward.

Banks had been wondering what had happened to Volkov’s body; he’d thought the big lion must have taken it, but now he had a new suspect. The little squat Russian lay on the aviary trestle, ribs splayed like eagle-wings, sightless eyes staring at the treetops high overhead. All of his internal organs had been scooped out, and lay in a wet, red, too-neat pile under the table.

“Something tried to make a fucking canoe out of him,” Hynd said.

Waterston came up to Bank’s shoulder, had one look at the view, then turned away, retching.

“He wasn’t there when we came in,” McCally said, keeping his voice low.

“No, he wasn’t,” Banks replied. “That means whatever put him there can move quick and quiet—and it might still be in here with us. The plan hasn’t changed though; double time, up to the guestrooms, and try to get a message through. Keep your eyes open, and keep this simple.”

Banks looked up, following the dead Russian’s gaze, only to find himself the object of scrutiny from thirty feet up in the branches. He almost took it for a part of the tree itself at first, for it was russet colored and almost blended with the bark and branches. But the face was paler than the body, and almost hairless in comparison to the shaggy reddish hair that covered the rest of it. Pale blue eyes, like a river on a clear day, stared back at Banks. He only caught a glimpse of head and shoulders before it ducked away into the thicker foliage. It looked human—bulkier, bigger, and definitely hairier, but also, definitely, almost human.

Branches cracked and swayed, and pine needles fell all around them as the beast climbed, going up the tree under the foliage with almost unbelievable speed. Banks remembered to lift his weapon, and tried to take aim, but there was no clear target, and the thing was already way up on the tops.

They got a closer look at it as it left the aviary. Banks tried to gauge size and compare it to the birds he’d seen up there the day before, but surely his calculations, or memory, must be off, for he estimated the beast to be at least eight feet tall. With arms that looked too long to be normal, it leapt up, grabbed one of the metal struts of the dome and swung out of a hole at the very top. It had scampered off and away—running upright, like a man, across the roof before any of them even thought to breathe.

“I knew it,” Wiggins said. “Fucking huge ginger gorillas.”

*

“Move,” Banks said. “It’s buggered off for now, but if it comes back, put a few rounds over its head. It’s probably never seen, or heard, a gun. Here’s hoping it’s enough to put a fright into it.”

Galloway was still staring up at the roof, unable to believe what he’d just seen.

“The crazy fucker really did it,” he whispered.

“Did what?”

“He cloned a hominid,” Galloway whispered. “And one that’s not even supposed to exist at that.”

“Save it for later,” Banks said and guided the man away to join the others. “For now, we stick to the plan until we need another one. But I’ll need an explanation at some point.”

Galloway laughed bitterly.

“You and me both,” he said, but finally lowered his eyes from the roof and walked over to join the others. Hynd and McCally led them all away around the interior pathway of the aviary and into the domed walkways of the main complex.

*

Banks kept a close eye on the caged areas, that of the cave lion in particular, but everything was quiet in this part of the facility. The hares were still out of sight, and, Banks hoped, the lion itself would be out in the open country, seeking larger, slower, prey. They moved quickly out into the main reception area. They saw through the large front windows that thin fog was once again drifting across the open tundra outside, partially obscuring the view. But Banks saw enough to know that the fences were down along a large stretch of the enclosures. A mammoth stood, lazily chewing at the grasses on the edge of the runway near the Lear Jet. And what looked to be the whole herd of elk were on the move, walking at a stately pace and led by a huge-antlered male, across their field of vision and off out of sight to the north in the fog. There was no sign of any predators, whether wolf, or lion.

Or fucking huge ginger gorillas.

Somehow, that made things worse rather than better. Banks would much prefer to know where the enemy was, rather than be constantly on edge, wondering where an attack might come from. In either case, their current situation was too exposed, and he was keenly aware that only the expanse of glass lay between them and a possible assault. He needed more walls around them.

“Move up,” he said, and followed at the rear as they made their way up to the guestrooms.

*

The eating area looked exactly as they’d left it the night before. Hynd and Cally made a quick sweep of all the guestrooms, before Hynd came back with a thumb up. They all filtered into what had been Waterston’s room the night before, a suite even larger and more opulent than that which Banks had been afforded.

“You got your phone, Prof?” Galloway asked.

The older man took out his phone, and for long seconds, the only sound was the beep as he pressed buttons. He finally looked up from the screen.

“We’ve got a signal, but it’s weak,” he said, and handed the phone over to Banks. “And it’s not on the phone network, just on the internet browser.”

“That’ll do,” Banks said. But the next few minutes were frustrating as he tried, unsuccessfully, to get a contact back at base. In the end, he resorted to basics, and sent an email detailing their situation, copying in everybody’s email addresses he could remember. The phone’s battery was down to less than a quarter left when he was done, so he switched it off and tucked it in his pocket.

“I’ll hold on to it,” he said, and Waterston nodded in reply.

“Any joy?” Hynd asked.

“We’ll know if they email us back,” Banks replied. “I’ll check in half an hour. In the meantime, see if you can get us some coffee somehow. And rustle up some grub from the kitchen through the back. We might be here for a while. Take Wiggo with you; it’ll keep him out of trouble.”

*

The scientists were gathered at the large picture window overlooking the runway and the animal enclosures beyond, but they weren’t taking in the view, instead engaged in hushed but heated conversation. Galloway, in particular, seemed animated, almost angry, and Banks could make a good guess at why. He heard a clatter and curse from through the back; Wiggo had at least found the kitchen. He walked across to join the scientists, while McCally took the lull in proceedings as an opportunity to stand at the open door and have a smoke.

Banks was about to question Galloway as to what he did, or didn’t, know when a movement out on the boggy land caught his eye. He stepped up close to the window for a better look, and saw twenty of the large elk; females and young in the main, running, full-pelt from left to right across his view. The cause of their flight became obvious seconds later as four wolves, spread out to cover a wide area, ran behind the elk, keeping pace with them, keeping them running in the hope of wearing down a weak deer. Banks had seen this before in Labrador with timber wolves and caribou, but the larger size of the beasts involved here made it, somehow, awe-inspiring, and he couldn’t drag his gaze away, even as the procession thundered away into the thin fog to his right.

Directly ahead, just past the runway, mammoths, a score at least, were gathered in a close group, all in a circle facing outward, the larger males’ tusks forming a jagged barrier against any attack.

“The wolves won’t bother them,” Galloway said at Banks’ side. “But that big lion might make a move if it gets hungry. Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”

“As long as we get to see it from up here,” Banks replied. “And what about Wiggo’s fucking ginger gorillas? What kind of hunting might they be doing?”

“I’ve been wondering—worrying—about that myself,” the scientist replied. “We already know that they’re carnivores.”

“Aye, they are that,” Banks replied. “But what else are they? What the fuck did Volkov brew up in that lab?”

Hynd and Wiggins returned with two pots of coffee, and Banks sipped gratefully at the strong bitter brew while waiting for Galloway’s reply. When it came, it was measured and steady, but Banks thought he saw more than a hint of fear dancing in the younger scientist’s eyes.

“You know about Neanderthals, of course, who doesn’t? But the hominid line includes many more distant—and some very close—relatives than the general public imagination has grasped. From the so-called hobbit people of the Malaysian Islands, to Peking Man, and all manner of sizes and shapes in between, our family tree is a varied one with many scions. And then, there are the myths and legends. Most cultures around the world tell of ‘hairy men.’ We have Sasquatch in North America, Yowie in Australia, Yeti in Tibet, and even an Auld Grey Man in your Scottish Highlands.”

“And here?” Banks asked. Waterston arrived in the conversation with a bottle of single malt Scotch that he poured a slug of into each of their mugs. Just this once, Banks didn’t turn it down, despite the sacrilege of treating such good whisky with such disdain. He was concentrating on Galloway’s answer.

“As I said,” the scientist continued, “in Tibet, they have Yeti. Here, in the north of Russia, they have, and have always had, Alma. The tales are very similar, of a hairy primate that keeps itself to itself, roams places where man does not go, and can be fierce if riled.”

Banks laughed bitterly at that.

“Riled, like being locked up in a cage in the dark since birth? That kind of riled?”

Galloway nodded.

“Primates and captivity never have mixed very well.”

“So it’s a kind of ginger Yeti?” Banks asked.

Galloway smiled thinly.

“Best guess, yes. Volkov found some primate material, and decided to apply his process to it.”

“Why would he do that?”

Galloway waved at the view beyond the window.

“Your man, Wiggins, might have got to the nub of the matter when we first got here. Big grazing beasts are all well and good, but the spectacle is with the predators, and seeing them in action.”

Banks remembered his own reaction minutes earlier on seeing the wolves on the hunt, and knew that Galloway was right; the Russian had wanted something exciting, a show that would wow the public. Banks couldn’t take a guess at how much a performing Yeti might fetch on the open market—but it wouldn’t be cheap, he knew that much. He was still mulling that over when he saw Galloway’s gaze shift to look out the window again.

“Watch out!” the scientist shouted. Banks didn’t stop to think; his training kicked in and he ducked and rolled, sideward away from the open window towards the corner of the room where there would be most protection.

Seconds later, the window crashed inward and something roared into the room with the force of a cannonball.

- 12 -

Galloway and Waterston were quick enough to react, and went in opposite directions to either side. But Smithson had been standing with his back to the window and never even saw death coming. A rock the size and shape of a rugby ball hit him between the shoulders at the base of his neck, and Banks heard his spine break like a crack of a whip. The scientist was dead before he fell.

The momentum of the rock barely slowed; it careened on and slammed hard into the far wall of the room, taking out a three-feet-wide hole before landing with a loud thud on the floor of the corridor beyond.

“Fucking hell, what’s this now?” Banks heard Wiggins say somewhere outside, but by then he had his weapon unslung and was moving toward the smashed window. McCally was already by his side. Banks chanced a look round the edge of the window. A tall, hairy figure stood out on the tundra, well past the edge of the runway.

It was man-shaped, almost—thicker and sturdier around the belly and thighs, and longer armed. Matted red hair covered most of the body, and was longer below the waist, making it look like it wore a pair of hairy trousers. It had obviously been the thrower of the rock, for it had another in its hand, but the distance seemed too far, almost impossibly so for the strength with which the first rock had hit the room. But it looked like they were about to see proof, for the creature drew back an arm, looking more like an Olympic discus-thrower than any kind of ape, and was ready to launch a second cannonball. Banks sent three quick rounds at it, but he’d hurried and his aim was off. He succeeded in stopping the throw though, for the beast dropped the stone at the sound of the shots, and seemed puzzled by this new noise in its environment.

“That’s right, big guy,” Banks whispered as he took aim. “Just stand there for a second longer.”

He didn’t get the time he needed—the beast turned and ran, a long, loping stride eating up the ground and taking it out of range even as McCally sent three shots of his own after it.

Thin fog rolled in to obscure the view. The mammoths trumpeted loudly amid the gray and somewhere out in the boggy land, the alma responded with a roar.

A second roar, distant and muffled but recognizably from a similar throat, came from deeper in the fog.

There’s at least two of the bastards.

*

“Watch at the window, Cally,” he said to the other man. “And if you get a clear shot, take it and don’t wait for orders.”

He turned back to the room. Hynd was bent over the fallen scientist, but everybody had heard his spine snap, and saw the twisted angle his head made at the neck. Hynd only confirmed what they knew already when he rose from beside the body.

“He’s gone, Cap. Was it a big orange bugger?”

“Aye,” Banks replied. “And there’s more than one of them. Get Wiggo from wherever he is; we stay together, and we stay sharp from now on. I want you and Wiggo in the corridor here; Cally and I will watch at the window. Hopefully, we don’t have long to wait until they send a rescue team.”

He went over to Waterston and Galloway. The two scientists stared down at the body of their friend, and Banks saw the shock start to hit them. Waterston still clutched the bottle of Scotch, and Banks made them each take a hefty slug from the neck of it, more to give them something to think about than anything else.

“These Alma of yours,” he said to Galloway. “How big did they grow?”

He had to ask twice to get the man’s attention.

“They were supposed to be regular sized,” the scientist said finally. “Unlike Yeti, the stories never said anything about them being giants.”

“And yet that one out there was eight feet if it was an inch. Volkov fucked with these as well as lion and wolves?”

“It looks that way.”

Hynd was over by the door. He had the rock in both hands.

“I can hardly lift this fucker. How did he manage to throw it all the way up here?”

“Pumped up with as many growth hormones as he could get into it I would imagine,” Galloway said. “And those long arms we saw will make great levers.”

Talking had at least diverted Galloway from the dead man on the floor, but Waterston still couldn’t tear his gaze from the body, and kept drinking from the neck of the bottle. Banks took it away from him, and got an angry look in reply, but no backchat.

“No more booze,” Banks said, addressing everybody in the room. “Not until we get home, then the first round is on me.”

He had Hynd and Wiggins move the dead man through to another of the rooms—Waterston had fixated on it, and wouldn’t be ready for any thinking while it was still in his view.

And I need these scientists thinking. They might know something that’ll give us an advantage.

He checked his watch, and saw it was time to check for a response. Waterston’s phone was getting dangerously low on battery by now, but there was just enough to pick up the Wi-Fi connection and check his email. There was a terse reply.

PICK UP AT YOUR LOCATION IN FOUR HOURS FROM THIS MARK.

It was time-stamped just five minutes ago. They had until three o’clock in the afternoon to survive.

*

He joined McCally at the window.

“We’ve got backup incoming,” he said. “Four hours. Anything going on out there?”

“All quiet, Cap. I think we put the frighteners on it.”

“Let’s hope so. Either that or yon big cat will keep it busy. As long as it stays outside throwing rocks, it’s not in here causing mayhem, so let’s keep it that way. Keep an eye open, and I’ll spell you in an hour.”

McCally gave a small salute, and went back to looking out over the tundra. Banks saw that much of the view was obscured by fog, and wondered what might be going on in the damp grayness beyond the runway, where animals were meeting each other for the first time since the last ice age. It was hard not to think of these beasts as revenants, hard to remember that they had been grown downstairs in the lab, for once they had been seen in their natural environment, it looked like the only place they had ever been.

Apart from the big orange fuckers; they don’t feel like they belong here at all.

Banks turned away and went back to join the scientists again. At least they had now eschewed the whisky, and were making serious headway in the coffee.

“Four hours, and we’ll be getting out of here,” he said, and Galloway managed a tight smile.

“Well, that’s the best news we’ve had in a while. What’s the plan?”

“Stay cooped-up as long as we can, and then when backup arrives, we get the fuck out of here and home.”

“And the beasts?”

“That’s your domain now. I’m guessing there’ll need to be a round-up and cull, but that’s not my call.”

“No,” the older man, Waterston said grimly. “That’ll be mine. Or rather, the people I report to. But for now, home seems like a great idea.”

- 13 -

For a time, it seemed that McCally had been right and they had put the frighteners on the alma, for everything fell quiet, almost deathly so, with the fog deadening all sound except for the occasional trumpet of a bull mammoth. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted in from the corridor outside and along with it a soft murmur as Hynd and Wiggins chatted, almost casually. The scientists Waterston and Galloway sat at a table, they too talking, heatedly but in lowered voices. Banks guessed they were preparing their story for the brass back home—he’d have one of his own for the colonel in Lossiemouth on their return.

The first hour passed quietly like that, but the silence was not to last. The calm was broken by the crash of splintering glass from outside.

“Cally?” Banks said. The corporal shook his head.

“Not out front, Cap,” he said. “Sounds like it came from ‘round the back somewhere.”

Banks quickly crossed the room, out into the corridor, and into the room opposite. He ignored the dead scientist on the bed and went directly across to the window, which gave the view over the high domes of the complex. He was just in time to see a rock sail in a high arc out of the fog and crash through the tall dome of the aviary. The sound of the crash carried to him even through the window—as did the high hoots of the Alma. It sounded like triumph, and even more like laughter.

Two more crashes sounded, one quickly after the other, as he walked back through to the other room.

“They’re flinging stones at glass houses,” he said, “like a pair of fucking kids.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what they are,” Galloway said softly. “Maybe they don’t know any better.”

“Aye,” Banks replied, “that’s all well and good. But it’s not my job to teach them some manners; they’re hardly likely to let me skelp their arses. As long as they keep amused with the domes and leave us alone, I’ll just leave them be to enjoy themselves.”

“Cap?” McCally said at the window. “There’s something else too.”

Banks went to the window again. The fog had lifted, all across the enclosures beyond the tarmac. Only a hundred yards away, the big cave lion was feeding on the carcass of a dead deer. Four wolves circled it warily, but every time one of them came too close, the lion let out a roar of defiance, and the wolves backed off.

“They got a meal, and the lion stole it,” Galloway said at his side. “Pretty typical behavior.”

One of the wolves took a chance and tried to sneak forward. The lion roared, and stood, imposing its sheer bulk on the smaller wolves. It impressed the pack enough to back off. But something else wasn’t quailed. A rock curved from somewhere to the left, and landed right next to the lion. A second came in, flatter and faster, and smacked the huge beast in the side. It fled with a wail of pain, scattering the wolves that likewise took flight as the two Alma walked forward to the deer carcass and bent to feed.

Now that he saw them together, Banks saw that one was smaller, by about a foot, than the other, and lighter in color, more reddish brown.

“One of each,” Galloway said. “The mad bastard was hoping to mate them.”

Banks didn’t have to ask which mad bastard was being referred to. He watched as the beasts tore meat off the deer carcass and fed it into mouths that looked too full of teeth. At that moment, they looked less human, more ape, but that impression changed in an instant as the lion, crouched down low, crept forward, looking to retake the carcass. The bigger of the Alma moved in one smooth action, like a fielder retrieving a ball, bending, picking up a rock, and throwing it, hard and fast underarm. The rock flew flat and true and hit the lion on the right shoulder.

The big cat fled without a sound—but not quickly, and with a noticeable limp.

The Alma watched it go until they were sure all fight had gone from the lion, then resumed their feeding.

Over to Banks’ right, the mammoths stood, still in their defensive circle, still watchful. Way over to the left, under the distant cliffs, he could just make out a dozen darker, barrel-shaped beasts where the wooly rhino had taken themselves away from conflict. There was no sign of any other elk than the dead one the Alma stood over.

A movement caught his eye and he looked up. The six huge thunderbirds circled in a thermal, hundreds of yards above the tundra, spiraling around what they hoped would be easy pickings once the Alma were done with their feast.

“The gang’s all here. Red in tooth and claw,” he muttered.

“And beak and talon,” Galloway added, following Banks’ gaze. “The mad Russian got his spectacle after all, although he didn’t live to see it.”

*

“I can take the big one, right now,” McCally said. He had his weapon raised, sighting on where the beasts fed.

“Leave it,” Banks replied. “It’s too far, and if you just wounded it, you’d only make it angry. Let them feed. It might slow them down.”

He patted McCally on the arm.

“And talking of feeding, it’s time we had something. I’ll spell you here—go and rustle up what you can from the kitchen. We forgot about it in the excitement earlier. There must still be bread, cheese, and meat around here somewhere. Just no caviar—and definitely no vodka.”

Galloway and Waterston stayed at Banks’ side, all three of them watching the Alma feed out on the tundra.

“You know, it could have been magnificent,” Waterston said. “If only he’d kept his ego in check.”

“Aye. It seems that his ego, dodgy use of materials, overuse of hormones, cloning big hairy orange fuckers and pish-poor security were all that stopped it from being a great success,” Banks said laconically. “That, and getting himself eaten, of course.”

Galloway almost spit out a mouthful of coffee in an attempt not to laugh.

“I do believe I’ll quote you on that in my report.”

“Go right ahead,” Banks replied. “It’s only what I’ll be telling my colonel anyway.”

“Our transport?” Waterston asked. “Will it be big enough for us to take Smithson with us?”

“We don’t leave a man behind if we can help it,” Banks said. “Your man is our man. We’ll get him home.”

Being reminded of the fact made him realize it was time to be thinking about logistics. Their kit was still out in the fuselage of the Lear Jet, and they had a dead man to get down onto the tarmac. At the same time, they’d have to protect themselves from attack, whether it was from thrown rocks or a pack of wolves. He was still milling over that when McCally returned with a tray of bread and cold meats. He let the others eat while he kept watch at the window. At first, he was preoccupied with the logistics of getting everyone down onto the tarmac in safety, so it took him several seconds to notice there was something missing from the scene below.

The Alma still sat on their haunches around the carcass of the deer, the mammoths still stood in their circle, and the rhino were still gathered far off across the plain below the gray cliffs. The lion sulked near a dark pool a hundred yards to the west, licking its wounds; the wolves were nowhere to be seen.

- 14 -

“Sarge,” he shouted. “You all clear out there? I’ve not got eyes on the wolf pack.”

“All clear, Cap,” Hynd called back. “I can walk through the dining area to the big window and have a shufti if you’d like?”

“Do that. Have Wiggo watch your back, and no heroics. I’ll make sure the big orange fuckers don’t fling any rocks at you.”

“Appreciated,” Hynd shouted back, then all went quiet.

Banks did as he’d promised and kept a close eye on the Alma, but they were intent on their feasting. The lion was on the move again, but heading away rather than toward the complex; and not far enough for the mammoths to relax their vigilant circle.

McCally came over with a plate of bread and meat. Banks smelled the strongly cured meat before he turned.

And if I can smell it, then so can the pack.

“Sarge? Any joy out there?” he shouted.

“No sight of the big dogs if that’s what you mean?” Hynd shouted back.

“Okay. Get back into the corridor. If my hunch is right, we’re going to have visitors any minute now.”

McCally raised an eyebrow as Banks made up a basic sandwich. Banks chewed on the dry bread, and swallowed it down before speaking.

“The one thing I know about dogs—any dogs—is that they can smell food from a mile off. They’ll think there’s an easier meal to be had here rather than trying to steal the deer back from the bigger beasties out in the open. They’ll be here somewhere, sniffing around. I’d bet my pension on it.”

“The whole fiver?” McCally said with a smile. “I’d better pay attention then.”

“Watch the window,” Banks said to the corporal. “I’ll be out in the corridor with the sarge and Wiggo. Shout if the hairy orange buggers make a move, or if you see the wolf pack. But if the shooting starts, come and join in—we’re going to need plenty of firepower to take down all four if they come at once.”

*

He was still chewing on stale bread and too-dry meat as he went out into the corridor. Hynd and Wiggins stood immediately outside the room door watching the access points. Hynd faced the open area out to the dining room, while Wiggins watched the door at the opposite end of the corridor.

“Where does that go?” Banks asked.

“Back stairs, down to a big freezer and larder area for the kitchen,” Wiggins replied. “And unless the fuckers can work door handles, there’s nowt coming up that way.”

“I wouldn’t put it past the big hairy buggers though, so keep your eyes peeled.”

He turned to Hynd. The sarge looked out over the empty dining room to the window beyond, where once again thin fog drifted across the view.

“Maybe we should fetch all the kit from the plane?” he said, but Banks shook his head.

“I don’t want to be out in the open any longer than we have to. We’ll pick it up on the way when backup gets here.”

“What do you think? Transport plane or chopper?”

“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.”

“Bloody hell. If they’re the kids, I wouldna want to meet their mammie.”

“Aye. Let’s hope we’re off and away before she comes to call them for their dinner.”

As if in answer, a high wail cut through the fog. At first, Banks thought it might be the mammoths again, but this was definitely higher pitched and almost a scream. It was taken up by a second voice and he knew then it was the Alma, calling out across the tundra. Their voices rose to a high tone that seemed to go on endlessly. From somewhere off to the right, toward the far end of the runway, the big wolf joined in, alone at first then joined by the rest of the pack. Banks had heard wolves call before, under the aurora borealis and arctic night skies in Canada. There it had seemed magical and otherworldly, but here it sent a chill up his spine as the chorus rose and rose until the sharpest tones seemed to lance into his skull.

He felt like prey again.

- 15 -

Despite Banks’ misgivings, the next few hours passed quietly. The bull mammoth trumpeted every five minutes, so regular you could have set your watch by it, and the fog came and went. The mammoths stayed in their protective circle, the hairy rhino remained way across the tundra under the tall cliffs, and there was no sign of lion, wolf, Alma, or any of the elk herd. Banks hoped there was a wild hunt going on, somewhere far enough away to keep them all busy for a while longer yet.

He let his squad spend most of the time smoking in the corridor outside; he trusted Hynd to keep the two younger men in check and ensure their constant vigilance. Banks stayed at the window overlooking the tundra, mainly watching the big birds that had now taken control of the deer carcass and were in the process of picking it clean. The mammoths, meanwhile, had loosened their defense slightly to allow grazing further afield, but the big male kept his head up and his eyes open—Banks wasn’t the only one maintaining vigilance.

He knew the backup was incoming before he heard it, for the bull mammoth’s head rose up quickly, as if alerted by a sudden sound. Seconds later, Banks heard it for himself, the welcome drone of an approaching plane. And it appeared their luck was holding, for there was currently no sign of any fog that might complicate a landing.

“Okay, lads, we’re leaving,” he shouted.

The scientists looked up at the sound of the approaching plane. Galloway spoke first.

“Just get us aboard safely,” he said. “And we’ll be in your debt forever.”

McCally and Wiggins had the thankless task of hefting the dead scientist with them on their way downstairs, with Banks and Hynd leading the way. Banks half-expected to see the wolf at the foot of the stairwell waiting for them, but the reception area was empty, and by the time they walked across to the main doors, the sound of the approaching plane roared down the runway.

Banks looked west to see the heavy-bellied transporter come in for its landing. At the same time, he caught a fluttering movement in the corner of his vision; the thunderbirds, disturbed from their feast by this new arrival, were taking to the air. And they had no thought of fleeing. They were clumsy getting into the air, but within seconds were soaring above the complex, then immediately launching into controlled dives, all six in a wedge formation with the largest of them at the front, heading straight for the approaching plane.

They’re trying to scare it off. They think it’s a bigger bird.

“Pull up. Pull up,” Galloway shouted, and Banks hoped to hell that the pilots had the sense to take notice. At first, he thought they intended to plough on regardless, then, slowly, the nose of the plane came up, and they started to climb.

But it was too late; the thunderbirds matched the climb, and the large one in the lead of their attack met the pilot’s window full on. Everything seemed to slow down. Banks knew with a sinking feeling in his gut that it was all over, even before the plane took a hard bank left. It dived off the runway and plunged, nose down, into the tundra, coming apart in three pieces before the fuel went up with a whump that echoed around the whole valley and brought an answering trumpet from the bull mammoth.

*

Wiggins stepped out onto the runway, as if intending to run toward the burning wreckage, looking for survivors. Banks called him back.

“It’s too late for them, Wiggo. You know that. They’re as dead as this one here.”

The body of the dead scientist lay at their feet where Wiggins and McCally had left him.

“What do we do now?” Waterston asked.

“We take off and nuke the site from orbit,” Wiggins replied. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

“You’re not helping, Wiggo,” Hynd said, then turned to Banks.

“It’s going to be dark soon, Cap,” he said.

“Aye. And it’ll be a while before anybody misses us. We need to find a secure spot to lay low.”

“The Lear? We could hole up in there?”

“No. Yon door wouldn’t hold against a determined attack for long. I’m thinking more of getting some rock between us and any big beasties.”

“The caves out back?”

“Aye. The smell’s rank. But it’s solid, only one point of entry, and defensible.”

“And the Alma know it well,” Galloway said quietly, still watching the smoke rise from the wreckage of the crashed plane. “I’m not sure it’s a great plan.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got,” Banks replied.

A black plume rose from the crash site. Four Thunderbirds circled in the artificial thermal, screeching their victory across the valley as they rose from their kill.

*

Wiggins and McCally bent to the dead man, but Banks stopped them.

“The sarge and I will take him. You two are on scavenger duty back upstairs. Water first, then you know the drill; anything else you can carry without worrying about losing it. And make it fast. We’ll cover you from down in reception, then we’ll move as one through the complex. Back here in three minutes. Don’t get dead.”

The two younger men left at a run. As Banks was about to bend to the body, Galloway and Waterston surprised him.

“We’ll need you watching out for us,” Galloway said. “And he’s our man. We’ll look after him if you look after us.”

Waterston looked like he might struggle with the weight, but between them, they managed to get the dead man hefted in a fireman’s lift across Galloway’s shoulders.

“Lead on,” the man said. Strain showed on his features, but when Banks led them back into the complex, Galloway followed, keeping pace, with Waterston at his back holding as much of the dead weight as he could.

“Sarge, watch the doors. And once Cally and Wiggo get back, we’ll be moving fast. Anything tries to stop us, put it down fast.”

He stood at the foot of the stairs, taking care not to stand where the wolf had marked his territory, and watched. He heard McCally and Wiggins clatter around somewhere above, then heavy footsteps as they made their way back. He breathed a lot easier when the corporal and the private arrived at the top of the stairwell. Wiggins carried two, full, ten-liter water containers, while McCally’s flak jacket bulged where he had packed food into pockets and pouches, making it look like he’d fallen pregnant in the past three minutes.

Once they were all gathered at the foot of the stairs, Banks moved them out. He led, Hynd watched their back, and the rest moved as fast as they could manage with their respective loads.

*

When they reached the main door through to the domed area, Banks didn’t hesitate; he pushed the door open, and stepped through, holding it for the rest to follow before letting it close with a loud clunk at his back.

The ‘zoo’ area lay quiet and still. There was still no sign of the snow hares, and the lion’s enclosure looked empty.

But it had looked empty the first time we were here too.

His memory of the lion’s leap out of hiding was far too strong to let him get sloppy this close to the cage. He eyed it warily as he led the group past it, looking for any sign that the big cat might once again be crouched in the foliage, biding its time.

He was so busy watching the cage he almost leapt in the air in surprise when something brushed past his legs. One of the pale snow hares sat at his feet, looking up at him. They were each as surprised as the other, and neither of them moved for the space of two breaths before the hare slapped a foot against the concrete floor as if in indignation, and bounded away, deeper into the facility. Banks watched it go, then the implication hit him; if the hares could get out of their enclosure and into the domed area, then it was probable that the larger predators would be able to do the same.

“I see your boyish charm is still working, Cap,” Wiggins said as the hare bounded around the side of the aviary and out of sight, then he went quiet when Banks put a finger to his lips.

“Quiet, and double time,” Banks replied. “We could be in trouble.”

He led them into the dome that housed the aviary, and into the covered walkway that ran around the inside of the large dome. The Russian, Volkov, still lay on the trestle in the aviary, splayed open for the world to see. It didn’t appear that anything had been feasting on him since their last walk past that morning; the birds had bigger, tender pickings out on the plain. But something had been here, in the walkway; more than one thing by the look of it. Banks had seen more than enough dog tracks in mud and snow to know what he was looking at, but these were done in red, bloody smears across the concrete, and each print was as big as a man’s hand.

The culprits were easily enough found. Banks walked ‘round the curve of the aviary to where the door led through toward the labs. Three wolves almost filled the doorway and they too had found tender pickings. They were busy chewing down on the dead scientists, their snouts red and dripping, their feet soaked with blood and gore from the bloody feast.

The largest of the three looked up from where it had its jaws deep in the belly of one of the young scientists. Drool ran from its lower lip, and its gaze locked on Banks. It wasn’t the large male; he guessed this was mama wolf. He raised his rifle, at the same time taking slow steps backward the way they had come.

He walked into Galloway. The scientist had dropped his dead companion at his feet, and was staring, not toward the lab doorway, but back toward the aviary. Hynd and McCally were bringing up the rear, but Banks saw enough in the gap between them.

The big male wolf sat on its haunches in the center of the walkway, and it too locked its gaze on Banks, and rolled its lips back in a smile.

- 16 -

“Let me take him, Cap,” McCally said. “I can put two between his eyes from here and wipe that smile off his face.”

“Stand down,” Banks said. “But keep an eye on him, and take him if he moves. We’re not going that way anyway; we need to get through that lab. And we need to do it now.”

He was keenly aware that the light was fading fast now, and fog swirled above the does, making the gloom darker still.

“Wiggo, you’re with me.”

“Lovely,” the private said. “You and me and three dogs; it’ll be like that bar in Dublin all over again.”

Galloway and Waterston stood over their dead friend, as if determined to protect the body. Banks stopped as they were passing.

“We might have to run,” he said.

Galloway understood immediately.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“That’s up to you, but we might be a tad too busy to help.”

“I’ll manage.”

“We’ll manage,” Waterston added.

Banks nodded, and turned his full attention to the task at hand. The three wolves had barely slowed in their feasting in the doorway, seeming to be unconcerned at the presence of the men.

“How do we play this, Cap?” Wiggins whispered.

“Just follow me. The big lad buggered off quickly enough when I got close the last time. I’m hoping these three share his skittishness.”

“That makes two of us,” Wiggins said.

They took three steps toward the doorway.

The big female looked up again, as if to ask ‘Are you still here?’

Banks kept moving, although every part of him felt like jelly, and his hindbrain was yelling at him to run. He showed the wolf his rifle, and took another step forward. He was only ten feet from her now, and the two smaller ones looked up from their feeding, curious.

He’d hoped that they would have turned and run by now, but the promise of easy food had emboldened them, and they were not about to relinquish the meal easily. He pointed his weapon to the roof of the dome and let off two shots, the roar echoing for seconds afterward around them. Glass tinkled where it fell.

The wolves had seen enough. But his shots had the opposite effect from that he had intended. Instead of scaring them off, they leapt into an attack, all three coming directly for him.

*

He couldn’t get his weapon up in time. The female flew into him, knocked him aside like a rag doll, then kept on going. He fired a shot that went wild into the corridor ahead and then had to push back against the wall as the two smaller beasts followed their mother. More shots echoed around the complex, more glass shattered, and one of the younger wolves howled in pain, but kept running.

Banks smelled blood and piss and shite and wet dog, all at the same time, then the beasts were off and away past them, leaving a startled band of men in their wake. Galloway nursed an ankle that was bleeding badly from a bite, but if that was the only casualty, Banks considered they’d got off easily from a bad mistake.

I underestimated them. They weren’t in our way; we were in their way.

He bent to Galloway’s side, and helped put pressure on the wound while McCally applied a tourniquet.

“We need to get that seen to, Cap,” the corporal said.

“Aye. And we’ll do it, once we get to cover. Move it out. Right now.”

His squad moved to comply. Galloway stood, tried to put his weight on his leg, and almost crumpled. Waterston held him up.

“I’ve got you,” the older man said.

Galloway looked down at the body at their feet.

“We can’t leave him,” he said.

Waterston started to drag Galloway away.

“Yes, we can. Better him than us if those bastards get hungry.”

Galloway looked like he might argue, then put his foot down on the floor and had to stifle a cry of pain. This time, when Waterston took another step, he went along with it. Neither of them looked back.

Banks let Hynd and McCally take the lead. Hynd took the water bottles off Wiggins before turning away. Banks stood looking back over the aviary. There was no sign of the wolves.

“They won’t go far,” Wiggins said. “Not with this fresh meat around.”

Banks nodded, and kicked the body at their feet.

“Aye. And if this poor bastard keeps them from bothering us, then he’ll be doing us a favor.”

They waited until the others were deep into the corridor making for the lab before turning to follow them. Wiggins stopped after two steps.

“We cannae leave him, Cap. It’s not right, favor or no favor, he’s one of us, and not dog food.”

“I was hoping you might say that,” Banks replied. “Get an end each, we’ll see if we can get him somewhere safer in the lab.”

By the time they dragged the dead scientist to the lab, the others had gone on ahead toward the exterior door and the cave in the hill. Banks looked around, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to stash a body where it might be safe from predators. His gaze landed on a tall refrigeration unit. It only took a matter of seconds to empty it of its contents and strip out the shelves. They stood the man upright, leaning him against the far wall, and closed the door tight on his dead stare.

“He’s safe in there,” Banks said.

“Safer than us anyway, Cap,” Wiggins said with a whisper. “We’ve got company.”

*

The wolves were back, having followed them along the corridor from the aviary doorway. Now they stood between the two men and their exit to the rear of the lab. The big male was the closest, his mate just behind him. One of the two younger beasts hung farther back; this one breathed hard and heavy, its haunches trembling. Blood ran from a wound in its side; it had definitely caught a bullet in the earlier exchange, but Banks didn’t hold out that much hope of it having slowed the animal down much. The big male’s gaze was once again locked like a laser on Banks’ face.

And now it’s not smiling.

Banks moved, carefully and slowly, to fetch his rifle from over his shoulder. The wolf growled deep in its chest, rumbling like distant thunder. It crouched low, and sidled forward, its gaze never wavering. The others of his small pack came on behind him.

Banks took a step forward toward them, having to tell his legs twice before they agreed to move. He hoped to stop the beast’s advance, but the big male kept inching ahead; two more steps and it would be within range of a single leap, and Banks couldn’t allow that. The momentum of a beast that size would keep it coming, no matter how many bullets he put in it.

I have to put it down. And I have to do it now.

He knew Wiggins was right beside him, but couldn’t afford to take his stare away from the big male; this stand-off wasn’t going to last more than a few seconds, and maybe not even that long. The rifle felt like a natural extension of his hand as he swung it up, already firing before he’d got it aimed straight. Even then, the big male was too fast; it darted, sideward instead of forward, but Banks got lucky in another way, as three shots took the female full in the chest. The thunder of the shots rang in the confines of the lab. Wiggins joined in, spraying a volley into the two younger wolves. They went down in a heap beside their mother.

Banks turned quickly, looking for the big one.

It was already off and away; he only got a glimpse of a bushy tail as it fled, out of sight, back down the corridor toward the aviary.

Banks’ ears rang, and he felt the vibration hum in his wrist, smelled the burn from the barrel as he walked over to where the female wolf lay. She was still alive, barely, and attempting to crawl, not toward him, but heading for the place where her cubs lay, both clearly dead. She whimpered with every movement, leaving a trail of blood and mucus on the lab floor, inching painfully slowly. She let out a howling wail that was so full of pain and misery that Banks could only take it for a second before he stepped quickly over and put a single shot in her brain.

Out on the corridor, somewhere in the aviary, the big male responded with a howl of his own. The high wail of loss followed Banks and Wiggins all the way through the lab and outside to the cave in the hill.

- 17 -

McCally and Hynd stood at the external door, weapons raised. Hynd raised an eyebrow when he saw the three dead wolves.

“You didn’t get the big guy?”

Wiggins answered first.

“Naw, he’s a smart fucker that one, and legged it. But I think he’s got a hard-on for the cap, so he’ll be back.”

Banks looked to McCally.

“How’s Galloway’s ankle?”

“The prof’s helping him clean it. I don’t think it’s as bad as it looked—a lot of blood, but not too deep. I’ll see to the bandaging right now, now that I ken you’re both okay.”

Banks nodded, then turned to Hynd.

“Our job is to secure yon cave for a while, maybe all night. Let’s see if we can get the door back on its hinges and able to be shut?”

“We’re hunkering down?”

“Unless you’ve got a smarter idea? It’s going to be hours—at least—before they can get anybody else here, and there’ll be some debate about whether they should even bother, you know that.”

Hynd nodded, but Wiggins was not happy.

“What do you mean by that?”

“We’re Special Forces, lad, or had you forgotten? We’re supposed to get ourselves out of tight spots, not shout for the cavalry when things get a wee bit ropey. The colonel might decide to leave us to our own devices for a while and see how we get on.”

“How will we know?”

“We won’t. That’s the fun bit.”

“I’ve had more fun with the sarge’s wife,” Wiggins muttered, but none of them laughed this time.

Banks had a last look around the lab before turning away. A wind had got up, whistling through the broken glass of the dome. Discarded paperwork tumbled in the draft, and glassware rattled, but nothing else stirred. The big female wolf lay with her muzzle against the body of her cubs, blood pooled in a wide circle around them, and it was not satisfaction that Banks felt as he turned toward the cave in the hill.

It was disgust.

*

The metal door was so large and cumbersome that it took all three of them to heave it upright into the frame, and Banks and Wiggins had to put their backs to it to hold it in place while Hynd worked on the hinges and lock.

“Will it hold?” Banks asked when Hynd announced the job was done.

“Put it this way, Cap,” the sarge said. “It’ll shut. But if one of yon big orange buggers has a good heave on it, I can’t promise it’ll stay that way.”

“Fair enough,” Banks replied. “But if it keeps lions and wolves out, at least it’s good for something.”

All three of them went through into the cave. The door shut with a satisfying click as they drew it closed.

“Wait a minute, Cap,” Wiggins said. “Won’t we suffocate?”

“The hairy orange guys managed while being locked in,” Banks said. “I think we’ll be fine.”

They moved inside, and found the others in the central chamber. McCally had set his rifle light to shine on where Galloway sat with his back to the wall while the corporal bandaged up his ankle. The scientist smiled thinly, but looked pale and tired, and close to dismay.

“We got your man put away in a safe place,” Wiggins said to him. “Yon beasties won’t be bothering him—or us.”

Galloway perked up a bit at that.

“Thank you. I felt bad leaving him there like that.”

“Aye, you and me both, sir. But as the cap said earlier, he’s one of us, and we don’t leave anybody behind.”

Waterston was sitting against the opposite wall of the chamber.

“That shooting… you got the wolves?”

“Most of them,” Banks replied, but didn’t elaborate. He turned to his men. “We need to take stock. We’ve got water, something to eat, and ammo. I need to know if we have anywhere we can set a fire in here without needing to open the door, but Galloway’s Alma survived in here without extra heating, so we should be fine in either case. I could murder a mug of coffee though.”

McCally smiled as he stood from tending Galloway’s wound.

“Way ahead of you there, Cap. We’ve got a wee stove, a kettle, and some cups, as well as some of the coffee from the plane. One strong brew, coming right up.”

*

They quickly discovered that the Alma sleeping area was the best-ventilated chamber in the structure, and were able to get a fire going using the bedding material and some dry wood they were able to forage from around the outside of the door. The smoke from the fire hung overhead and could be tasted at the back of the throat, but it seemed to be escaping slowly through the small crevasses in the roof, and it also did much to mask the enduring musky stench left by the Alma. A little smoke inhalation was a small price to pay.

“There’s chairs, tables and stuff in the lab that’ll burn nicely, Cap,” Wiggins said. “I’ll go fetch some of it if you want?”

“Nope, we’ve got enough for one night. And I don’t intend being here any longer than that, one way or the other,” Banks replied. “Besides, yon big dog is just waiting for us to make a mistake like that. I’m not going to give it the satisfaction.”

Within half an hour, they had a fire going, coffee brewed, and they were all eating dry meat and hard biscuits. It wasn’t much.

But it’s better than the alternative.

Banks put Wiggins and McCally on first watch at the front door.

“Shoot first, ask questions later, okay?”

McCally nodded and led Wiggins away. Five minutes later, the smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the chamber. Banks began to relax for the first time in many hours.

Galloway had fallen asleep on the far side of the fire. Hynd went out to join the other lads for a smoke, so Banks went over to where Waterston was studying the pictures on the wall, which seemed to achieve a primitive form of animation under the flickering firelight.

“So, prof, do you still believe your man’s theory that these hairy beasties are locals, that Volkov didn’t make them, but found them?”

“I do,” Waterston replied. “Even more so now I have looked at these daubings properly.”

“It’s hard to credit such things could have survived here over such a vast stretch of time,” Banks said.

“Vast? Nonsense, man, it’s but a blink in the eye of eternity. Let me explain it to you the way I do to students who can’t wrap their heads around it.”

The man took out his wallet, and showed Banks a photograph he kept in it. Banks had to tilt it to get a good look in the flickering light and shadow. It showed an old woman in a backyard, holding a barely toddling child’s hand.

“That’s me, in nineteen-sixty,” the prof said. “And that’s my great-grandmother with me. She was born in eighteen eighty. That’s nearly a hundred and forty years in one touch. Now imagine her as a baby, holding her great grandmother’s hand and take that back another eighty years. Two touches of hands, and we’re two centuries away, already back at the start of the nineteenth century. Can you imagine the generations, holding hands, backward into time? Can you see them, Captain?”

Banks nodded. He could picture it all in his mind’s eye, a chain, his family, reaching back with each other into the gloom of the misty past.

“I have a similar photograph of my own, but it’s great-granddad for me though. So, I see your point. Less than a hundred generations gets us back to the Pre-Roman Britain Era, does it not? I’d never thought it so close.”

Waterston nodded in response.

“Add just another couple of hundred generations, and we’re back here in the times of the mammoths, and whatever people originally hunted them across this tundra. The odds of them surviving across time to now don’t seem so steep, do they, Captain?”

“No, you’re right, they don’t.”

“And does it, perhaps, make you think of them as more human, more like relatives than mere mute beasts?”

“You haven’t met some of my relatives,” Banks said with a smile. “But I get your point.”

“I hope you do, Captain,” Waterston said quietly, “for I have a favor to ask. I’d like you to avoid killing them, if that’s at all possible.”

“Even after they killed your friend?”

Waterston nodded.

“I’m not convinced that was intentional,” he said.

“I am,” Banks replied, but the prof was insistent

“This small population could well be the last remaining remnants of the species,” he said. “We have a responsibility to protect them.”

“And I have a responsibility to protect you,” Banks replied.

“I’ll gladly relieve you of that burden of you’ll promise the Alma will come to no harm.”

“Unfortunately, that is not a favor you have the authority to grant to me,” Banks replied. “But I promise not to kill the Alma without undue cause. That’s the best I can do, for now.”

“Then it will have to do,” Waterston replied, and went back to studying the paintings on the walls.

*

Galloway still slept, fitfully, by the fire. Banks left the scientists and walked through to the central chamber, then followed the dim light down the corridor to the main door, where the three men of his squad were gathered having a smoke.

“All quiet, Cap,” McCally said. “No sign of the hairy beasties.”

“The prof says there less like beasts, more like cousins,” Banks replied.

“Aye, well, I’m still not shagging one,” Wiggins replied.

The laughter rang loud in the narrow corridor… and was joined by an answering whuff from the other side of the outer door.

- 18 -

The squad reacted as one; smokes got ground out under heel, and weapons were raised and in position without Banks having to give an order. They all stood, silent and still, listening. The sound outside repeated, a double whuff this time, and Banks knew exactly what it was—he’d seen a chimp been shown a magic trick in a Lagos market years ago, and the laugh it made at the joke had sounded remarkably similar, just not as low pitched.

The bloody thing liked Wiggins’ joke more than we did.

The next whuff came, closer now, just beyond the door. Banks’ hand tightened on his weapon; he expected the door to be pulled open at any moment. But there was only a soft, almost gentle scratching, as if the beast pawed at the door asking to be let in. Then there came another whuff, a softer, more pleading sound, until that too was gone, and silence fell in the corridor.

The squad didn’t relax for more than a minute after the last sound, and finally it was Wiggins who broke the silence.

“What do you reckon, Cap? Has it fucked off?”

Waterston answered, having come along the corridor while they were occupied with looking the other way.

“Would you, if you came home to find somebody was in your house and had locked you out?”

“Come on, Prof,” Wiggins said. “It’s just a fucking animal.”

“It’s a fucking animal that can paint, that can make a flute, and knows where its house is. It’s as smart as you.”

“Smarter,” Hynd said.

When McCally laughed, there was an answering double whuff from outside again before everything went quiet.

*

There were no further noises from beyond the door for several hours. Banks had the men try to get some sleep as the evening wore on, and even managed to snatch a few hours of his own before McCally woke him near midnight.

“Still all quiet, Cap,” the corporal said quietly.

Wiggins was already getting settled down across the fire, and when Banks got to the front doorway again, he found Hynd already there, lighting up a smoke.

“Do you reckon there’s another plane on its way, Cap?” the sergeant said.

“I think it’s probably fifty-fifty, knowing the colonel. Despite the fact that you’re a bunch of wasters, he’s got this idea that we’re a crack unit, big boys that can fend for ourselves. I guess we’ll know by morning whether we need to test that or not.”

“And if there’s no plane?”

“Then we’ve got a yomp ahead of us; fifty miles to the nearest fishing town, if I remember rightly.”

“And with some big hairy beasties chasing our arses all the way?”

“I never said it was going to easy,” Banks replied.

“Actually, you did,” Hynd said, smiling. “A cushy number. Those were your exact words, back in the mess.”

“Don’t remind me,” Banks said with a groan. “I’ll never volunteer us for babysitting duty again.”

“We volunteered?”

“Aye, more fool me. Damn, it’s either the memory of my stupidity, the stink from the beasties, or your bloody fag smoke, but I’m getting a fucker of a headache. Can we crack the door open a tad?”

“The lads said it’s been quiet for hours. Should be okay, as long as we’re careful. I could do with some air myself.”

Banks stood, rifle ready, as Hynd heaved the door open, only by six inches, but enough to let a welcome rush of cool, fresh, air into the corridor. They let something else in too. Outside, distant but clear, two voices were raised in a wail that was almost musical. The wolf wasn’t joining in this time, but the Alma were carrying the tune just fine on their own.

Banks saw a flickering light in the gap in the doorway, and remembered his past experiences in the Yukon.

“Open the door, Sarge,” he said. “You’ll want to see this, I promise.”

The flickering got more pronounced the further open they pushed the door, and the source was obvious as soon as they stood outside.

The sky danced under colored silk that whispered and rustled as it moved in an aurora that covered the stars, shimmering with green and blue and yellow fires. Somewhere to the north beyond the domes, the Alma sang a song to its glory as cascading waterfalls of color lit the heavens.

Banks and Hynd stood in the doorway in silence for long minutes as the Alma song rose and rose, almost operatic in its intensity.

“Cap,” Hynd said quietly. “It was worth your volunteering, just for this. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet, man,” Banks replied. “Hear that?”

There were more than two Alma voices in the night; a chorus, distant, as if far off in a wind, raised to join those nearby. A choir, almost human, sang into the night sky, a discordant melody that was strangely apt for the ever-changing shimmer of the curtain of aurora.

“What does it mean, Cap?” Hynd asked.

Banks hurried them both into the cave system and made sure the door was heaved tightly shut behind them.

“I think we’re in trouble,” he said, and went to wake Galloway.

*

“How many could there be?” Banks asked.

Galloway was still coming awake, groggy and complaining loudly at the stiffness in his muscles and the pain in his ankle.

“How many?” Banks asked again.

“You’re sure of what you heard?” the scientist said finally.

Banks nodded.

“Sure as eggs is eggs.”

Galloway stood, stretching his back, and groaned again before replying.

“There’s really no way of knowing. It depends on how they get their food, how much shelter they might have, how long they’ve been here… there are too many unknown factors.”

“Aye, you’re right there,” Banks replied. “Could there be a dozen of these buggers do you think?”

“If it’s been a viable population all these centuries, then I think, yes, there would have to be.”

“Bloody marvelous,” Wiggins said. “That’s all we need. A whole fucking rugby team of big ginger hairy fuckers.”

Everybody in the chamber was awake now, and it didn’t look like sleep was going to be an option for anybody.

“Wiggo, Cally, get some grub in you, and get a brew going. The sarge and I will be back at the door. Galloway, you and the prof put your heads together—see if you can come up with anything that might help us.”

“Help with what?”

“Getting out of here with all our bits intact would be a start.”

*

Banks and Hynd returned to the doorway. With the metal door fully shut, all sound from outside was dampened, but the song of the Alma was definitely still there, a whispering, ringing quality that was almost dreamlike, almost wistful.

Think of them as relatives.

That’s what the prof had said, but Banks knew that the ethereal singing, however seductive, wasn’t anything he could consider as familial. And he couldn’t afford the luxury of too much reflection on it; he had people in his charge here, and they were his first priority, far and above any qualms of the prof or needs of science.

“We need to be ready to move fast,” he said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Another of your hunches, Cap? Are we betting your pension on this one again?”

“My gut’s playing up,” Banks replied. “You know what that means.”

“Trouble, usually,” Hynd said. “I’ll make sure everybody’s ready to go at short notice.”

“Right. And if I shout, come running.”

Banks was left alone in the corridor, and after Hynd’s footsteps receded, all he could hear was the song of the Alma.

Everything went quiet. He strained to hear, but the hiss in his ears was only his own blood pumping, not the dance of the aurora outside. He moved closer to the door. At the same time, he felt—sensed—a similar movement on the other side, as if something mimicked his movements. Then the silence broke, and he heard a soft scratching on the metal on the outside, then a whimper of longing and loss.

The Alma had come home.

- 19 -

He didn’t get time to call out. Hynd’s repair job on the hinges stood up to one sharp tug from outside, but the second pulled the door away from the frame completely. The huge lump of metal that had taken three men to lift got thrown aside like a discarded piece of card. Banks heard it hit rock and clatter, but by then his whole attention was on the thing that filled the doorway. He felt the heat coming off it, tasted the meaty odor of it in his throat and nostrils, and it seemed like he saw every single one of the wiry orange hairs riffle in the cold breeze coming in with it. He saw that this was a female; pendulous breasts hung among the russet hair at its chest. Above that were shoulders more becoming of a weightlifter, and a head, too large that seemed full of eyes and teeth. The teeth were yellow, the eyes were pale blue; and they stared into Banks’ soul as deep as the wolf had earlier. It took a step forward.

Who’s been sleeping in my bed?

He fought back a laugh at that thought, and swung his rifle up as the Alma came inside.

“Wait,” a voice came at his shoulder. “Remember, you promised.”

Waterston stepped up, right beside Banks although the corridor was only just wide enough to accommodate both of them, and put a hand on Bank’s weapon. Banks saw that he held the bone flute in the other hand. The man put the flute to his lips and blew, three soft notes, almost musical.

The Alma stopped, and cocked its head to the left, listening.

Waterston struck up a tune; Banks even recognized it, a child’s nursery rhyme from back in his own childhood.

Ring a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies.

The Alma whuffed, laughing out loud twice, and its face opened in a huge grin. Waterston, as if encouraged by this, took a step closer to the beast.

“No!” Banks said, but he was already too late. The Alma reached out an arm, fast as a straight jab from a boxer, and grabbed for the flute. The huge hand got what it was after—and also grabbed Waterston’s hand at the same time. It pulled the man directly into a hugging grip at its chest. His rib cage caved in with a crack of bones that echoed in the corridor like gunfire. Banks tried to get a clear shot, but the prof’s body was acting as a shield, even while the beast struggled to prise the flute from Waterston’s hand.

It squeezed again, tighter. A gush of blood ran from the man’s mouth, blood and lung tissue aspirating out onto a caved-in chest. The Alma hooted in triumph, freed the flute from the dead man’s hand and blew a single, high note on it that threatened to take the top of Banks’ head off.

But in doing so, it let the prof’s body fall aside, and gave Banks the opening he needed. He put three quick shots into its face, the last one hitting at the bridge of the huge flat nose and almost taking the top of its head off. It fell, a dead weight in the doorway, the flute giving out one last, querulous, note before everything fell quiet.

Banks’ ears rang, loud bells going off, and he only knew his squad had come up behind him when Hynd put a hand on his shoulder.

“Cap?” Hynd shouted. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, lad,” he said, hearing his words echo in the chasm that seemed to fill his head. “The prof’s had his chips though.”

The corridor stank, of death and pish and shite, but Banks wasn’t about to step outside in search of fresher air. Instead, he moved back and let the team take the doorway. McCally and Wiggins stood guard while Hynd checked on the prof. He turned and gave a thumb down, then bent to investigate the dead beast, heaving it over onto its back, and needing both hands to move its weight.

“Nice shooting, Tex,” Hynd said, without a smile when he looked down at the tight cluster of shots. The ringing in Bank’s ears was starting to subside, slowly. He heard the sarge’s words, and also the wail of misery that carried in with the wind from somewhere among the domes outside.

Banks looked past the sarge but saw no movement outside, but when he looked back, he noticed that the Alma’s belly moved, as if it still breathed.

“What the fuck is this now?” Wiggins said.

Hynd bent back to the beast.

“Careful, Sarge,” Wiggins said.

“I can see its brains, lad. I’m pretty sure it’s dead. This is something else.”

He put his hand on the hairy belly. Banks saw something move again, twice, then go still. When Hynd looked back up again at him, his face was solemn.

“I think she was pregnant, Cap. And I think we didn’t just kill her, we killed the bairn too.”

Banks didn’t answer, but another wail of misery and sorrow from outside echoed his own thoughts almost exactly.

*

Banks got lucky. He happened to be looking directly out of the cave doorway, just at the right time to see something soar, a darker shadow in the black of the night, coming from somewhere inside the lab. It crashed through the glass of the dome and came directly for them.

“Incoming,” he shouted, and trusted his squad to move as he threw himself backwards into the corridor. A metal tabletop, almost as large as the door itself, crashed against the outside of the doorframe, the clang and clatter as loud as any gunshot.

Banks lay on his back, feet pointing at the open doorway, and was looking down the length of his body to the door when he saw what looked like half a tree come flying out of the shadows, not from the lab dome, but from beyond that, from the aviary.

There’s more than one of them left out there.

The tree trunk fell short, but hit the ground with a splintering crash that rocked the corridor.

“Fall back,” Banks shouted. “Move away from the door.”

He shuffled backwards as Wiggins, McCally, and Hynd retreated to his position. It was a tight squeeze, but seconds later, he knelt beside Wiggins, with Hynd and McCally standing upright above them.

He shoved his rubber earplugs deep into both ears.

“Ears in, lads. This is going to get noisy.”

An aerial bombardment got underway. Rocks the size of footballs, three, four, and sometimes five at once, crashed out of the domes and smashed like cannonballs around the doorway. If one ever made a direct hit and pierced the entrance, the team was going to have to move fast to avoid being felled like skittles. For now, the narrowness of the target was saving them from the worst of the attack, although it sounded as loud and life-threatening as any battlefield. One thrown stone came close, coming in flatter and harder than the others, but it smacked hard into poor dead Waterston, causing his body to jerk, a puppet whose strings had just been tugged hard.

“Steady, lads,” Banks shouted, straining to be heard above the din, “they’ll be coming mob-handed any minute now.”

His gut proved to be right again. After a barrage of several dozen rocks and more large branches, a howl of anger rang in the domes, taken up by a chorus of voices until it rang in defiance all through the cave.

A group of Alma, ten at least that Banks could see, and all as large as the male they’d seen already, came out of the dome complex at a run, scattering glass and metal before them as if it was no more than paper to be torn. The squad’s sight-lights lit them up, giving the orange hair a ghostly pallor, pale shadows, stout as weightlifters, fluid as any big cat as they loped forward.

Still roaring, they made straight for the cave doorway.

*

If they’d been caught in the open by such an attack, Banks knew that they might not have the firepower at hand to hold back the onslaught. But here in the narrow confines of the cave, there was only room for one beast to come at them at a time, no matter how many were coming forward in the attack.

The squad knew it too, Banks sensed tension in them, but it was the normal readiness for action he knew they all felt. There was no fear on the faces of the team, and each man held their weapon steady, the light straight ahead as the beasts reached the doorway and the largest of them forced its way past the others to be first inside.

Banks knew the team was waiting for his order, and he was about to give it, thinking that the beast might barrel straight at them, but instead it stopped and bent over the body of the dead one. It ran a huge hand over the dead face, then down, to caress the now-still belly. It let out a wail, a whine of pain, and Banks saw tears glisten in its eyes. It turned towards the team, its pain evident on its features, pain that just as evidently turned to rage.

Its muscles tensed, ready to leap, and that was all the excuse Banks needed.

“Fire!” he shouted.

A volley of shots rang and echoed in the corridor, the cramped space filled with the smell of burning, the rattle of spent ammo and the howls of a raging beast that kept coming even as they put round after round in it. It only fell when Banks raised his sight and, like he had with its mate, put three into its head. It slumped to the floor, tried to come forward, then finally realized it had a bullet in its brain and fell, a huge hairy hand only feet from Banks’ toes.

There was already another standing behind it, coming forward.

- 20 -

The next minute felt like an age. The beasts kept coming, climbing over the bodies of their fallen, and the squad kept pumping rounds into them. Even with the plugs in, Banks’ head felt like a series of bombs were going off in it, his wrists hurt from the weapon’s recoil, and all he tasted was death and burning in a throat that felt like it was being worn down by sandpaper.

But finally the field of fire proved too much, and the remainder of the beasts retreated before it. Banks tried for one last shot on the largest male left standing, but the beast was moving away fast. He only grazed it, raising a bloody furrow along the left side of the huge skull that was the last thing Banks saw before the Alma were once again lost in the shadows of the domed complex.

They left four of their number dead alongside the pregnant female and poor, crushed, Waterston, lying with his head almost in her lap, his guts decorating the front of his shirt.

Banks sensed movement, behind not in front, and turned, weapon raised instinctively. Galloway, his face white, eyes wide, put his hands up as if fearing he too would be shot and left with the other dead.

*

Banks wondered if the Alma were howling outside. It would be minutes yet before he heard anything but the ringing and memory of the gunfire in his head. Galloway spoke to him, but Banks had to use mime and too-loud shouting to make the scientist understand.

Wiggins and McCally walked along the corridor, checking that the fallen beasts were as dead as they looked. The place stank of burnt ammo, blood, and pish; a stench of death that was all too familiar. Banks took Galloway’s arm and led him back into the central chamber of the cave system, looking for clearer air.

“The prof?” Galloway shouted, and Banks heard it, like a far-off whisper in the wind.

“Dead,” he said. “The stupid fucker tried to reason with it.”

“I would have done the same,” Galloway replied, and now Banks heard him much more clearly, although the ringing was still there as an accompaniment. He pulled the plugs from his ears, and when he spoke, he only heard a slight echo and fading memory of the bell ringers.

“Then you would be lying on the floor with your insides on the outside too,” he said. “I’m doing a grand job of looking after you lot so far. Do me a favor and don’t fuck up. I’d like to get one of you home in one piece.”

Galloway was about to reply when a shimmer of dry earth fell from the roof above them. Banks heard two things, one straight after the other; a chorus of enraged howls, muffled as if coming through rock, and the rasp and tumble as stone and earth moved above them.

They couldn’t get in the door, so they’re coming down the fucking chimney.

Galloway looked up.

“They can’t reach us that way, surely? It must be six feet thick up there.”

“I’ve seen the movies,” Banks replied. “In situations like this, they always get in. Fetch anything you need to take with you. And make it quick. We’re leaving, and we won’t be hanging about.”

*

A minute later, the two of them joined the squad in the corridor. Hynd had an eye on the doorway.

“I haven’t seen any movement, Cap,” he said.

Banks laughed bitterly.

“That’s because they’re up on the fucking roof. Are we ready to move?”

Hynd nodded.

“But where, Cap? We thought this was the safest place.”

“Aye, and I was as guilty of that as anyone. Back through into the main buildings, that’s our first port of call. We need to find a place to hide, hole up until daylight, and if that’s a locked larder or fridge, then so be it. We’ll head for the stores under the guestrooms and see what’s what. Cally, Wiggo, you’re on point. Hynd and I will watch Galloway here. And if any big orange fucker turns up, blow its nuts off.”

“What about the prof?” Galloway said. “Can we take him?”

“Nope. We’re running, and we might be too slow even without him. I promise we’ll be back, if we get a chance. That’s all I can do for you right now.”

Galloway didn’t argue. He bent, retrieved the bone flute from the dead Alma’s grasp, and put it away in an inside pocket before turning to Banks.

“Running it is then. Try to keep up with me.”

There was a rumble inside the cavern, and a cloud of dust and dirt came out of the central chamber. The roar of the Alma followed it.

“Leg it,” Banks shouted.

*

They emerged into the open, expecting at any moment to be subject to a fresh barrage of rocks, but they reached the door to the lab without anything getting in their way, and went through quickly into the lab itself. Banks almost fired blindly when a huge black shadow rose up directly in front of him, but a frightened caw, and a flutter of wings showed that the thunderbird they’d come across was as surprised to see them as they to see it. It rose up and, flapping ungainly, went through a huge hole in the side of the dome, leaving its feast, the bodies of the dead wolves from earlier. They didn’t stop to examine the wolves any closer, but kept moving, and only stopped when they reached the corridor that linked the lab and the aviary.

Galloway was already out of breath, but Banks saw his teeth, white in the dim light, as he smiled when asked if he was okay.

“The ankle’s holding up, and nothing’s eaten me,” the scientist replied.

“The night is young yet,” Wiggins replied.

McCally shone his light around the darkness in the aviary.

“What do you think, Cap?” he said.

“Well, we’re not going back, that’s for sure. So it looks fine to me, son. Lead on.”

*

It was darker in the aviary than it had been in the lab; the tall redwoods seemed to suck up all available light, their towering blackness dominating the area. The sky outside had darkened too, the aurora faded to merely a faint green glow, not nearly bright enough to light their way. Shadows lurked and capered around the dome, but there was no sound save their own breathing then the pad of their footsteps as McCally and Wiggins led them out. Banks wondered if the birds had perhaps been at Volkov’s body in the same way they had been at the wolves, but he wasn’t about to slow down enough to stop for a look. They ran, full pelt, around the inner walkway of the aviary.

Something moved, swift in the shadows, and Wiggins fired instinctively, three rounds right at it, and would have kept shooting if Hynd hadn’t put a hand on his shoulder.

“Holster it, cowboy.”

“Did I get it?” Wiggins said.

Hynd stepped over and shone his light at a dead thing on the ground.

“Aye. Congratulations, lad. You fucking killed Bugs Bunny.”

The shots had torn the snow hare to bits, blasting its head and chest asunder and leaving only a bloody mess on the floor.

“Well, at least that’s breakfast sorted,” Wiggins said. McCally and Hynd laughed.

*

The big male wolf chose that moment to launch its attack. It came out of the dark like a sleek gray torpedo, silent running in the shadows, and threw itself straight at Wiggins, who went down under its weight. Its back legs raked at his thighs, front legs at his chest and slavering jaws lunged for his neck. He got his weapon up just in time, and teeth cracked against metal. The wolf growled deep in its throat and launched another frenzied attack, but by now, Hynd had stepped forward. He put his rifle to the beast’s head and fired, twice.

The wolf collapsed on top of Wiggins in a dead weight.

“Fuck me,” Wiggins said.

*

It took two of them to lift the wolf away. Wiggins rolled aside and stood, unsteadily.

“You okay, Wiggo?”

The private was patting himself down.

“My balls are still there, I think I’ve pished myself, and I’m going to need a new pair of troosers. But apart from that, I’m fine.”

Banks checked the man out under the beam of his sight light. The material of Wiggins’ trousers was torn, rent in huge tears, but his legs had been saved serious injury, and had sustained only minor cuts. His flak jacket saved his chest and his rifle his neck, although the weapon was scratched and dented where the wolf had bitten into it.

Wiggins kicked the wolf’s dead body.

“The sneaky fucker knew when we’d be off guard.”

“Aye,” Banks replied. “And the big orange fuckers are sneakier still, so if you’ve finished playing with the dog, we need to get a move on.”

As if to confirm it, a wild howl of rage came from the lab behind them.

It was answered by rising howls high in the huge conifers above, and a snorting whuff of laughter from ahead of them in the pens at the end of the walkway.

The Alma were more than just sneaky; they were already in the dome.

The squad was surrounded.

*

“Leg it,” Banks shouted. “And if anything tries to stop you, put it down hard.”

They moved out, faster than before, Wiggins and McCally in front, Galloway trying to keep up with them, and Banks and Hynd at the rear, trying not to think what might even now be loping at their back and reaching out for them. Their sight-lights flashed and bounced with their running steps, illuminating floor and cage, dome, and vegetation.

“Contact rear!” Hynd shouted, and Banks came to a stop, and whirled, his light joining that of Hynd in lighting up an Alma coming headlong for them in the enclosed walkway. It took six shots to put it down, and by the time the two of them turned back, the other three men were twenty yards away along the walkway, almost at the exit into the enclosures beyond. Two Alma dropped out of the trees into the space between them.

We’re being outflanked.

Hynd and Banks looked at each other, nodded, and headed straight for the Alma at a run, firing as they went, aiming high enough that they wouldn’t miss and hit their own men. One of the two Alma took fright and leapt away, a prodigious jump that took it immediately up and away into the darkness in the trees above. The other one wasn’t so easily swayed, and stood its ground even as bullets whistled around it. Finally, Banks got lucky and a shot hit the beast on the left shoulder, spinning it around and exposing its belly. Hynd didn’t need to be told; he put two bullets in it and by the time they reached it, the Alma had sunk to its knees, holding the wounds as if trying to stem the gush of blood.

Banks barely slowed. He put a bullet between its eyes and kept running.

*

McCally and Wiggins waited at the opening into the domes beyond just long enough for Banks and Hynd to catch up, then they were off again, and now Banks was keenly aware of the empty space around them. They might be safe here from any Alma falling out of trees, but as they ran down the center of the wide concrete walk area, he felt naked and exposed, fearing a fresh barrage of thrown rocks that would tumble them all away like skittled pins in a bowling alley.

Now the only noise was the slap of their feet on the floor, and a soft whistle of a breeze coming through the broken glass of the domes. A fog was rolling in again, cast green by the curtain of aurora and throwing the whole complex under a soft, almost luminescent glow. They sped past the pen that had kept the big cat, and, for the first time in a while, Banks wondered what had become of it; the wolves were dealt with and, he hoped, the Alma would now be wary of mounting any new attacks for a while. But the lion was still an unknown quantity, and he’d be happier if he knew it too wasn’t lurking nearby, waiting for its moment to strike.

Let’s just get to safety. No sense in worrying about something that might never happen.

The snow hare pen was still quiet and empty, and they ran, unimpeded, straight past it and out the double doors, into the main reception area.

And that’s where Banks found his lion.

- 21 -

They surprised it at a meal. It sat, hunched over another of the snow hares, its snout and front paws looking blood-black in the light of Wiggins’ sight light as it played across the beast’s head and flanks. In the gloom, and with the faint green glow hanging everywhere, it looked even larger than before, and almost spectral. When it turned its gaze on them, Banks felt it in his soul, and felt his knees go weak again.

And before the squad even had time to fully react to this new arrival, howls of fury echoed in the dome behind them, and the slap of large, naked, feet on concrete carried in the still of the night.

“A rock and a fucking hard place, right enough,” Hynd muttered.

The cave lion lay between them and the staircase that Banks had been heading for. They might be able to put it down before the Alma arrived, but seeing the size of it, Banks knew that the chances were only fifty-fifty at best.

“Plan B,” he said softly, keeping his voice to a low monotone that wouldn’t startle the beast. “We make for the Lear Jet. At least that’s defensible if it comes to it.”

He sidled to his left, and the team followed quickly, all staying in a tight unit with Galloway in the middle. The lion watched their every move, but as yet showed no sign of being concerned. That abruptly changed when another howl of rage, closer now, came through from the domed complex. The lion’s head came up, its ears pricked, and it dropped a lump of meat, already forgotten, between its paws as it rose, its attention fully on the doorway as three large adult Alma came through at a run.

Banks moved fast, leading the squad around the wall of the room. The Alma saw him, and roared again. The lion roared back at them, and attacked.

The reception area was suddenly full of noise—roaring and snarling, wails of pain and howls of fury. Teeth bit, claws tore, and everything was a blurred tumble of ginger alma and gray cat in a rolling maul across the floor.

The way to the staircase was clear for now, but Banks made a split second decision against it, and headed for the main door out to the runway. Blood sprayed, sending a hot mist in the air, but the fury of the fight was so intense it was hard to tell which of the animals had taken an injury.

And I’m not going to hang about to check.

He led the team out into the fog.

*

Almost immediately, all sound from the raging battle in reception area was muffled, and within three paces, the noise was almost deadened completely. The fog felt thick, wet against their cheeks, glowing softly green but impenetrable; their lights scarcely illuminated anything beyond arm’s length.

Banks pointed his weapon down to light the ground at his feet and walked quickly in a straight line, only stopping when he hit the edge of the tarmac and the start of the boggy ground. Then he followed the edge of the runway, heading northwest, knowing that they’d reach the Lear Jet before anything else.

The fuselage loomed ahead of him seconds later, but when he reached the doorway, his heart sank. The Alma had got here first. The door was gone, pulled off its hinges and thrown God knows where. Inside the plane was a ruin of torn upholstery, scattered luggage, and smeared shite.

“Sarge, you and Wiggo check the hold,” Banks said. “If our kit bags are still there, fetch them. We’re going to need all the help we can get from here on in.”

Galloway stood at Banks’ shoulder. The scientist looked pale, his eyes sunken in dark shadows, and his pallor was gray and waxy.

“How’s the ankle holding up?” Banks asked.

“It isn’t,” Galloway said. “But I can keep up, for now. I don’t know for how long though.”

I don’t either.

Banks didn’t say it. He’d lost two of his three charges already; he wasn’t about to lose the third, wounded or not.

I’ll carry him if I have to.

Hynd and Wiggins came back into view through the fog, each carrying a kit bag.

“Got everything we could salvage, Cap,” Hynd said. “It’s not much.”

“It’s better than nothing, so I’ll take it.”

He gathered the squad around him.

“We can’t go back into the complex; it’s not secure. And we’re not going anywhere far in this fog. But the angry beasties are fighting each other right now, and we can only hope it stays that way. So my plan’s simple; we head out onto the moor, find a hole, and stay in it until the sun comes up. It’s going to be cold, it’s going to be wet…”

“But still better than a maneuver on Rannoch Moor in January,” McCally added, and Banks nodded.

“Aye. Anything’s better than that. So, you all know the drill. Single file, don’t lose sight of the man in front or the man behind you, and follow me until I say stop. Anything that’s not us comes out of the fog, shoot it. Got it?”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked off the tarmac and onto the boggy tundra.

*

Banks wasn’t entirely sure he’d made the right decision; maybe he should have tried for the stairs while the lion and Alma were fighting, and maybe they might be holed up safe in a larder or cellar by now. But his gut told him that this current plan was the lesser of two evils, and it was his gut that had kept them alive so far on this trip; he had to trust it now.

Within a few paces, they reached a wide gap in the enclosure fencing, where metal poles as thick as Banks’ arm had been torn from the ground and bent at almost right angles before being tossed aside. They went through, deeper into the fog. Banks tried to maintain a compass in his head, looking for reference points that might help him retrace his steps if required, but the fog was thicker here, and there was just his light showing him his boots and the mire below him.

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.

- 22 -

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.

Perhaps too close.

“Steady, lads,” he called out. “When it comes down to it, we’re holding all the cards here; they’re not armed. So take them down, but pick your shots. Short, controlled bursts.”

Then it was all done to muscle memory and control. The Alma came on, charging through the boggy ground, and into view, firstly as darker shadows against the background, then close enough that Banks saw their teeth, too white in the darkness. He waited until the first was within twenty yards, then put it down with two shots to the head.

The rest kept coming. Wiggins had overestimated with his ‘hundreds,’ but there were a dozen and more just in Banks’ field of view, and he guessed the same number again coming from each side. Then all of the squad opened fire at once, the crack of rifles echoing loud across the tundra under the stars. Banks put down two more, one big male who took four rounds to stop, and a female with a pendulous belly who only needed one, through the mouth and out the back of her head in a spray of blood and brains.

He looked quickly for another shot to take, but as quickly as they had appeared, the beasts retreated away into the dark, leaving their dead where they lay. Behind Banks, the rifles of the rest of the squad fell silent.

The first rock came out of the dark seconds later.

*

He didn’t see it coming. It dropped out of the sky and landed three feet in front of Banks with a muddy thud that sent black ooze splashing over his head and torso.

“Heads down, lads. We’ve got incoming.”

He slid down the wall of the hollow, so that only his head was above ground level, just enough to see any attack, aware that at any moment a rock might fall out of the sky. More stones fell around them, the patter and thud as they hit the wet ground sounding like the beat of a manic drummer.

I was wrong about them not having any weapons. And right about them being sneaky fuckers.

They couldn’t do anything but crouch down in the hollow as the bombardment continued; waiting and hoping a lucky strike wouldn’t crush a head or break a bone. Two rocks, each the size of rugby balls, landed inside their perimeter, one of either side of Galloway’s legs. The scientist scurried out of the bottom of the hole to lie next to Banks.

“Just in case they’re getting their aim in,” he said. Banks looked over at the man, and realized he could see him much more clearly than just minutes earlier.

Far to the east, dawn was coming, lightening the sky.

He wasn’t sure he welcomed the clarity it would bring, as another rock fell with a wet splash, less than a foot from his nose.

- 23 -

“We can’t just sit here, Cap,” Wiggins said. “We’re sitting ducks.”

“I’m open to suggestions, lad,” Banks said. “I’m not doing the fucking hokey-cokey in and out of the building again. And yon big cat is still out there somewhere too.”

Another rock hit inside the hollow, close to McCally’s feet.

“Wiggo’s got a point, Cap,” the corporal said. “We might be better off on the move.”

“Take a lookout, lads,” Banks said. “We’ve got no cover, and it’s a fucking bog in every direction. At least here we can cower down.”

“Cowering’s never really been our style,” Hynd said. “I’m with the lads on this one, John. I’d rather my number came up on the move than lying in a hole full of hairy elephant shite.”

Banks turned to Galloway, and saw that the scientist was lost in thought.

“Well, everybody else has had their say. What about you? Any bright ideas?”

Galloway wasn’t looking at him, but had turned his gaze to the west. Banks looked that way, and saw the mammoth herd, still gathered together in their tight circle.

The scientist smiled thinly.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Like what?”

He nodded toward the mammoth herd just as another rock splashed down hard right on the rim of their hollow. Somewhere out on the tundra, an Alma hooted and whuffed, its loud laughter ringing across the open ground.

“We get the mammoths to shield us,” the scientist said.

Wiggins laughed.

“I can see that. Please mister hairy ginger elephant, can we join your gang? And by the way, your shite smells lovely. Aye, I can see that working.”

Galloway was still looking over the bog towards the mammoths.

“I haven’t seen it myself, but I’ve heard of it in Africa; people being given shelter in an elephant herd.”

“Aye,” Banks replied. “But these aren’t elephants. And they haven’t seen many people. How do we know they’ll be friendly?”

Another rock, the largest one yet, landed in the middle of the hollow, embedding itself almost completely in the wet ground.

“I think we should try,” Galloway said. “Can we afford not to?”

Banks saw the man’s point, as another rock splashed down close by. It looked like the beasts were finding their range, and any second now, somebody was likely to take a serious injury.

“Okay, we move,” he said. “Stay tight, keep an eye on the hairy men, and make for the mammoths. If they take fright, God help us.”

*

Banks stood up. The Alma hooted and wailed, and two rocks flew at him, but at least he saw them coming and was able to gauge their landing point, both hitting the ground two yards to his left.

“Look sharp, lads,” he said. “Wiggo, take point. I’ll watch your back. Double time.”

They moved out.

At the same time, the Alma made a move, closing in fast. Banks sent a volley of bullets their way. They were too far away for his shots to do any real damage, but the noise alone seemed to be enough to slow the beasts’ advance.

The squad headed at speed for the mammoth herd. Banks was busy watching the rear, trusting his men to make the right decisions depending on what happened in front of them. He heard the bull mammoth trumpet, loud and bellowing, the sound seeming to punctuate a sudden silence across the whole plain.

Then, before he realized it, he was inside a wall of shaggy, orange hair and suddenly felt a lot warmer. The smell was worse than it had been in the foxhole, and they had to stay nimble to avoid being squeezed between the huge flanks of the mammoths. But the squad was completely enclosed inside the mammoth’s defensive circle.

The Alma started to hoot and yell, but they sounded muted and distant, and they had stopped throwing rocks.

Galloway’s plan appeared to have been completely successful.

*

Outside the defensive ring, the Alma seemed confused at this turn of events. They came together in a group, thirty or more of them that Banks saw through the narrow gaps between the mammoths, and they showed no sign of wishing to press any further attacks, as if intimidated by the bulk of the tusked beasts facing them.

“Not bad, for an Englishman,” Wiggins said, and clapped Galloway on the shoulder.

The scientist smiled, then winced when he tried to put his weight on his injured ankle.

“I don’t know how long I can stand,” he said.

“We’ll carry you if we need to,” Banks said. “We’re all getting out of this together, I promise you that.”

“Is that your gut or your head talking, Cap?” McCally asked.

“A bit of both, lad,” Banks said, but he wasn’t looking at his men—his attention was on the big bull mammoth, who had pricked up his ears and lifted his head. Banks had seen the gesture before, and guessed what was coming next. The mammoth lifted its great tusks high, and trumpeted long and loud over the tundra.

Another sound slowly rose to join it, the distinctive whump of an approaching chopper.

*

“Get ready, lads, we’re leaving,” Banks said as the bulky swollen body of a Russian transport helicopter came into view, arriving fast from the north.

“Very good, Cap,” Wiggins said. “But I hardly think these beasties will give us a guard of honor to the runway. How do we get across the open ground?”

Banks laughed.

“The same way we always do things. We run like buggery and shoot the fuck out of anything that gets in our way. Any questions?” The chopper circled high above the domed complex as Banks continued. “We need to let them know we’re here. Let’s make some noise. Move out.”

He squeezed between the flanks of the bull and its nearest neighbor; the big mammoth sidled aside to let them pass through, and trumpeted again; Banks liked to think it was wishing them luck.

We’re going to need it.

- 24 -

The Alma were not slow in taking note that the squad had broken cover, and began to move toward them even as Banks had Wiggins and McCally take point and head for the runway.

“Get the pilot’s attention any way you can,” he said. “The sarge and I have got our backs. Move your lardy arses if you want to get out of here.”

Hynd stood with him as the other three, Galloway limping noticeably, headed off towards the complex. The chopper saw them, and started to come down for a landing. Banks caught a movement in the corner of his eye, and turned to see the four remaining huge thunderbirds swooping down in formation as they had before, intent on seeing off this new intruder as they had done with the last plane.

“Oh no you don’t. Not this time,” he said, and took aim, shooting the lead bird out of the sky. It fell in a flurry of broken wings and feathers, in the space between their position and the Alma. The other three birds broke off and began to circle high above, while the Alma, sensing a meal, surged forward in a rush to be first at the fallen bird. The chance of such an easy meal meant they had lost all interest in the men.

“Fuck me, if I knew it was as simple as just feeding the fuckers, I’d have shot Wiggo long before now,” Hynd said as they backed off, fast, hurrying to catch Wiggins, McCally, and Galloway.

*

The chopper landed on the edge of the runway between the ruin of the Lear Jet and the domed complex. Two armed men got out and covered them as they ran, Banks and McCally having to almost carry Galloway while Wiggins and Hynd lugged what was left of their kit.

“The others,” Galloway shouted in Banks’ ear. “We can’t just leave them.”

“Somebody will be back,” Banks shouted, and bundled the scientist into the chopper. At the same moment, the two armed backup men started to fire out onto the tundra. Banks turned to look.

The dead bird hadn’t lasted long, and the Alma’s attention had once again turned to the men. A score or more of the loping, shaggy humanoids were coming at speed across the boggy ground, heading directly for them. Banks, Hynd, McCally, and Wiggins lined up at the chopper door, ready to lay down a field of fire.

But it wasn’t necessary.

Whether it was the noise of the gunfire, the presence of the chopper, or simply the fact that there was a large tribe of Alma on his territory, the bull mammoth decided that enough was enough.

His trumpeting bellow sounded loud even above the thump of the choppers rotors. The bull raised his huge tusks high, then lumbered into a charge, directly toward the Alma. At the same time, the door of the domed complex burst open and a gray torpedo, the cave lion, bleeding from a dozen wounds, came out at a run, also heading straight for the tribe of Alma.

Faced with the double threat, the Alma faltered, and broke, fleeing before the onslaught. The mammoth herd, all as one, came on in a stampede that shook the ground, the lion threw itself among the hairy humanoids, tearing and biting and sending gouts of blood spraying in a fine mist in the air.

Overhead, the thunderbirds circled, sensing an imminent feast.

Banks turned his back on all of it, and got his men into the chopper.

He had one last look back as they rose up off the tarmac.

The Alma were in flight, loping at speed away across the plain towards the towering cliffs at the edge of the fjord. The lion had given up, settled, crouched, over a large slab of meat. The thunderbirds were already fluttering down onto another body twenty yards distant, and the mammoth were regrouped in a circle, almost in the same position they had been in previously.

As the chopper turned away, the bull raised its tusks and let out a farewell bellow.

Banks raised his hand and waved back as a fog rolled in below him and the chopper took them away to safety.

Read on for a free sample of Prehistoric Beasts And Where To Fight Them

Hugo Navikov

PREHISTORIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIGHT THEM

(An Except)

One of Katherine Muir’s favorite things about taking a panoramic submersible down was watching the bubbling waterline crawl up the viewing windows, letting her see the old, familiar world get replaced by the new, exciting one under the surface. But that was about the only thing she regretted about the design of her new vehicle, this sleek and solid lozenge built with viewports that were much stronger than those of any panoramic-view vessel, but much smaller, too.

Those bubble subs were wonderful for examining coral reefs, fish, and other sea life. Watching the amazing octopus as it changed its color, pattern, everything to make itself completely invisible to predators. The times she had watched them deploy such camouflage, the only way she even knew they were there was because she followed silently behind them and waited until they felt a threat. Then they slapped themselves against whatever surface was nearby… and disappeared. Truly, studying ocean life in the panoramic submersibles was a joy.

But this new vessel, Deep Thoughts, was made not to explore ocean creatures, but the ocean itself. Katherine and her husband, Sean, had designed the submersible, working hand in glove with some of the most innovative subaquatic transport engineers in the world. It had been a difficult decision whether to create a one-person vessel or one more like the bubble subs, with room for two. She and her husband wrestled with how cool it would be to explore together, but a submersible meant to reach the floor of the benthic depths 20,000 feet below the surface couldn’t be very big. So it came down to either giving up the amount of scientific and observational equipment that would allow a second passenger to ride or giving up the fun of doing it as a couple.

They decided in favor of more science. It was to be a research vessel, after all, funded by a variety of philanthropic and academic sources to expand the frontiers of human knowledge about the still little understood landscape and biome at the bottom of some of the deepest water on the planet. Benthic was as far down as one could go and still investigate “normal” undersea terrain. There were deeper fissures and channels, but the deepest average real estate on Earth was benthic, and scientists still knew near to nothing of what went on in the complete darkness at the bottom of this zone.

This wasn’t an expedition, despite the fact that they had a small documentary and communications ship, The Moaning Mermaid, along with their main launch and support vessel, Sea Legs. This was the second of four tests to make sure the submersible—christened D-Plus by the whole smart-aleck crew (because it was “below C level,” har dee har )—could handle the greater pressure and harsher environment it would encounter the farther it descended.

Katherine took the first test run, this to “just” 5,000 feet. Not terribly deep, but deep enough that a major malfunction would force the crew on Sea Legs to get the winch going and haul her back up by D-Plus’s tether, which also included data lines and fiber optics for communications. At a crisis point, however, the high-tech tether would just be a rope everybody needed to yank on immediately if they wanted to rescue the researcher tasked with making sure everybody got their paychecks.

As expected, however, the first test went off without a hitch, and she and Sean were pleased. Any major hiccups would have been obvious—or at least detectable—at 5,000 feet, so each of the next two tests would be to make sure the things they designed on land worked under the stresses of the deep ocean. Also, going to 10,000 feet exposed the submersible to double the pressure of 5,000 feet, and 20,000 feet would double the pressure again. The second test, with Sean at the controls, would venture almost two miles into the black depths; and the third, this time piloted by Katherine, would dive to 15,000. If D-Plus didn’t exhibit any major issues during the third dive, then the final test would touch down on the seafloor at roughly 20,000 feet and come back up almost immediately. If everything worked the way it had been designed to work—or most everything; no exploration went off perfectly—then the first real mission would spend a few hours at the bottom and see what there was to be seen. Take sediment samples, look at creatures that somehow made a life at four tons of pressure on every square inch, and perform a preplanned battery of observations and measurements. This particular area of the ocean bottom had never been explored, and many in the oceanographic community were watching the Muir mission with great interest.

Katherine took the first dive, and they were supposed to take turns, but somehow her klutz of a husband—they named their boat Sea Legs in honor of his many times he almost fell over on any size of watercraft—had managed to run afoul of a line on board the launch ship and dislocated three fingers on his right hand just that morning as they were setting up the winch for the next test. It was 2016, for the love of God! They weren’t sailing with Blackbeard here—who got caught up in rigging anymore?

Nevertheless, there it was: if a second test was to be performed, it would be Katherine Muir, not Sean, who would take D-Plus down. Piloting the submersible, even a deep-sea vessel going on what was essentially a controlled drop, required both hands and all ten of the pilot’s digits. But they told only their crew chief, Mickey Luch, about the change, since professional mariners, like those who worked the boats while scientists did their science-ing, were still a superstitious lot. Changes in plans made them antsy, to say the least. So she and Mickey just secured her in the sub without any announcement. Once she was in place, he told the crew they were making a switch—never you bunch mind why—and Katherine would be executing Test No. 2.

There was a small murmur of protest—the winch greaser (a job title that always elicited snickers but was quite important) and the camera specialist on deck were especially superstitious and vociferous—but Mickey just helped Katherine into D-Plus, and the assistants got it locked up tight and ready to go. This crew had overseen 10,000-foot dives many times, and that’s why they were hired as a team by the Muirs.

“Let’s move ’er out and get ’er down!” their chief shouted, and the A-frame winch structure slowly stretched its long crane out over the water. With a thumbs-up between Katherine and Mickey, the winch whined and the submersible was lowered into the choppy sea.

This would be a very awkward and dangerous point to stop the operation, so it wasn’t until that moment that Sean Muir stepped out onto the deck, his first three fingers wrapped in a splint. The next test dive wouldn’t be for two days, and he’d work through the pain if necessary—he was no stranger to the sea, and he had “played hurt” through worse than this. The crew was preoccupied with the task at hand, but when they saw the researcher on the deck, they took a moment to bust his balls and laugh at his “horrible” accident.

Some of them weren’t laughing, though. Sean knew that this switch—obviously due to the injury they could see with one glance at his right hand—would initiate rituals of touching wood (where they could find it) and prayers to Saint Michael, not to mention whispered oaths and grumblings about the expedition leader at the mariners’ table come chow time. Slipjack and Toro and Vanessa—the winch team—looked especially upset, although obviously trying to hide it so as not to visibly challenge Sean.

He nodded at all of them and released them to work on the dive. He and Katherine exchanged “See you soon! Love you!” through the interior camera feed and monitor as she was lowered into the water. Once in the water, she started testing instrumentation and such while Sean supervised the support crew on the surface.

The winch would be turning for an hour or so, meaning relatively little to do for the boat crew but help the scientists, if needed. Sean took the opportunity to motion for the three shaken-looking members of the winch crew to join him on the lee side of the huge spool, where it made enough noise to render eavesdropping impossible. When they had assembled, Sean said, “So what’s the rumpus here, guys? I know it’s considered bad luck to change things at the last minute, but—”

“It isn’t superstition, Doctor Muir,” Vanessa said, and just from that Sean knew she was trying not to be a nuisance but truly was upset. After their first meeting, he had asked the solid, sun-leathered woman to call him “Sean,” and she always had. But calling him by his title and surname was like her filing an official complaint. “Last-minute changes mean other last-minute changes, and those make for mistakes. We should’ve put off this dive until you were recovered from… did you break your fingers?”

“No, just dislocated them. Should be fine in a day or two.”

“Well, then, what I’m saying is even more true—we’ve had to wait days before because of rough seas, Sean… Doctor Muir. Why risk everything now? That’s your wife down there! How can you tempt fate with her under the water?”

Sean listened intently and respectfully, and she was right about last-minute changes often leading to mistakes, but the words “tempt fate” told him everything he needed to know about her objection. “Fate is what it is, Van, and by definition, we can’t change it. But you know that Kat and I are equally trained to pilot the sub, and we had equal hands in designing it. Really, it barely counts as a change at all. The weather gives us the chance to do things on schedule—we have to take advantage of that.”

Vanessa didn’t look thrilled with what he said, but she nodded and even gave him an “Aye, sir.” Formal, indeed, but he hoped that its vestigial tone of worry would vanish once plans returned to normal and his wife and he got back into the correct rotation. He didn’t like to “pull rank” or tell hard-working people such as these to fall in line or start swimming home. They were professionals upon whom he relied, and he treated them that way. But they had to respect his decisions, too, and he had decided operating D-Plus without the use of three of his favorite fingers was not going to get this expedition where it needed to go, not on schedule.

“Thank you, Vanessa, that’s all.” He said to Slipjack and Toro, “You guys stay here for a second, okay? I need to check on Kat. On the descent, I mean.”

He rushed over to the video feed and radio comm, swept up the transceiver and pushed the black button with his left hand’s thumb. “How are you doing down there, my dear?”

Katherine’s grin on the video was infectious. “I believe you mean ‘How are you doing down there, Professor Muir?’”

“Of course.”

She laughed. “All is well. We’re at almost 2,500 feet. Everything is humming along just right. The next 7,500 should be a breeze. How’re your poor fingers?”

Sean couldn’t help hoping the others on deck didn’t hear. “Um, they’re great. So, seen any new friends down there?” That was a weird and stupid question, he realized, but he was anxious.

“Well, we’re deep in the dysphotic zone, almost to aphotic, so if anything wants to be seen, it has to make the first move and get in front of my lights. All I have is darkness… as you’d well know if you’d been paying attention. What have you been doing up there while I’m down here? Looking for clues?”

Clues? What the shit? He let out a strained exhalation that sounded more like he was choking on something than laughing. “What are you… clues to what?” he said, looking around like a paranoid wino at the crew on deck, a crew of which every single member spontaneously and assiduously looked anywhere else than at him. At charts, maybe, or out to sea, or just moving their eyes off of him and onto something, anything, else. His heart pounded in his ears.

“No, silly, I mean clues about what be around the thermal vents. About your theory. You know, the whole reason we’re doing this thing?”

The crew members laughed, but not very loudly. More of a smiling and shaking-their-heads kind of reaction. Katherine Muir was a firecracker, as the old sea dogs would say. There were other labels that might fit her, too, but Sean wasn’t about to get into it when they were supposed to be running diagnostics and such on the submersible. Besides, she was right. They were here to gather evidence that would either keep his theories afloat or sink them for good. It was a big leap to make on not much evidence, but if they could confirm it or even just find an indication he was on the right track, it would shake up all of oceanography, marine biology, land-based biology, maybe xenobiology, possibly even evolutionary-development biology. There was a lot at stake, and he couldn’t let worries about rumors and loose talk aboard ship distract him from a career-making discovery.

He took in and let out a long breath, getting his mind back in the game. He depressed the button and said to his wife, “Right, the theory, duh. Sorry. So what do you say to giving us some readings and telling us how our little sinker is doing?”

“Ha! Nice. All right, Sea Legs, as we continue the descent, we are now one hundred percent in the aphotic zone. It’s completely pitch-black outside. Running lighting-system test in three… two…”

Sean remained at the monitor until his wife had thoroughly gone down the checklist, told her “Good job, Kat,” and returned to where the two crewmen were to still be waiting for him.

Except they weren’t.

“Goddamnit— Toro! Slipjack! Get back here now, if you please.”

Slipjack was just around the corner, looking at the video feed where Sean himself had been standing just a moment earlier. Sean caught him in the first glance he took to look for his fugitives, then barked at him to find Toro and for both of them to get back to their earlier place of “conversation.” Less than a minute later, the two crewmen stood before him again, Toro looking a bit sulky and Slipjack just nervous.

“Gentlemen, the decision to have my wife take the second test instead of myself was ours, mine and hers, once we knew what had happened to my hand. I couldn’t do it for now, and she knew it needed to be done, knew the job well enough to take the reins and do it herself. Okay? I understand mariners’ beliefs and superstitions; I’ve spent half my life on boats. So, as far as Kat going in place of me, you know I would never let…” He trailed off as everybody’s attention was drawn to the sound at the winch spool. “What the hell is that?”

A tremendous slow ripping sound erupted from the winch, and all hands close enough could see that it was caused by a stripped length of iron-shrouded tether cable on the giant spool, a length that had apparently taken more abuse than it could bear. Their armored support unwoven, the fiber-optic cables were the only part of the tether holding one end to the next, and when that section moved to the top of the wheel in about fifteen seconds, those thin plastic lines would snap at the first pull of the submersible’s weight.

Sean rushed to the controls and tried to figure out which levers and buttons would stop the spool from letting out the damaged length of cable. But it was hopeless. The half of his life he had spent on boats was as an oceanographer, not the operation of this equipment. “Where the hell are my winch men?” he shouted, hoping one of the other crew members would locate—

“Aw, goddamnit,” Sean moaned when he remembered that his winch crew consisted of Vanessa, Toro, and Slipjack, the last two of whom he had just told not to move from their useless positions behind the winch assembly. Vanessa busted her ass to get at the cable and the winch that was slowly feeding it out, although she plainly had no idea what to do except shut it down. Which she did.

The stripped length stopped two feet from where it would have had to bear the full weight of D-Plus. Vanessa let out a huge breath of relief, and so did Sean.

“Toro, Slipjack,” he was able to say in a normal tone now that the loud winch was stopped, “let’s get to work. And if any of the three of you says ‘I told you so’ to me… well, I know where we keep the harpoons.”

The two men hurried to the spool and immediately saw the issue. As long as they didn’t let any more cable out, it was possible that the line wouldn’t break. It still could, and easily, but it was also possible that it would not, and they had to be grateful for that.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that they couldn’t reverse the winch to haul Kat back up, because in its present position, that would put too much strain on the weak area and snap it like a piece of uncooked spaghetti. They were lucky that Vanessa got the winch stopped in time at all, but the next thing to do—if there was anything to be done—was going to prove much more daunting a task.

There was emergency scuba gear on board D-Plus, but Kat was more than 2,800 feet down. That meant over one thousand pounds of pressure per square inch pressed on the sub. Kat had a wetsuit inside the submersible, but her hatch had all that pressure keeping it closed—and besides, she’d freeze to death even as every atom of air in her body was compressed to the point of complete organ failure. She wasn’t getting out, and even if she could, she would die within 30 seconds.

No one could dive down in scuba gear to rescue her, either, and for the same reasons. Another sub could perhaps couple with D-Plus, but they didn’t have another sub and they were too far out to request one before Kat ran out of oxygen or that cable snapped.

However, there was little risk of crushing: the submersible was rated for the entire 20,000 feet down. And there was a chance the whole works could be attached to a new cable and “carried” back to the surface by another submersible device.

Sea Legs carried an old but trustworthy Johnson Sea Link knockoff that could, in an emergency, possibly go that deep. The JSL was essentially human-shaped, with a clear-mask helmet for the human occupant’s head, and then controlled external arms and hooks that could perhaps slip a sturdier cable (one without any communication lines or fiber optics) onto D-Plus, and haul her up.

The problem—and of course there was a problem—was that the JSL had a crush depth of 3,000 feet. It used to be the vehicle for “deep-sea” exploration, but as exploration technology had improved dramatically since the mid-70s, when the university’s robotic-looking spare submersible JSL was built, the definition of “deep-sea” had also changed, or at least what it meant to science and technology.

Two researchers had touched the bottom of Challenger Deep in 1960, but that was funded by the deep, deep pockets of several sovereign governments and wasn’t intended to do any science; it was a Cold War demonstration by the United States and France, just like the race to land on the moon. The Muir expedition could buy only what they could afford with their academic funding—barely enough for the present mission, let alone getting down to the very bottom of the entire ocean. Besides, there were no hydrothermal vents believed to be that deep, so it wouldn’t have fallen under the mission parameters anyway.

The Muirs’ D-Plus could go to 20,000 feet (theoretically, anyway; that was what they were currently trying to test before committing to using the sub for exploration), and they were extremely lucky to have been able to afford that. Although not lucky enough, apparently, to have anticipated the need for a backup cable system.

“Guys?” Katherine called from the radio. “What’s the holdup? Traffic? Is there too much—?”

Sean swept up the mic. “Kat, we have a situation here.”

“Oh. I do not like situations.”

“We read you at about 2,800 feet, sound about right?”

“You guys are letting out the cable, you tell me,” she said with a laugh. “Yeah, looks like 2,840. The descent felt very smooth until we… well, you stopped. I have hours of air left, and I won’t try to go outside, I promise. Can we start up again? What’s the rumpus, like you always say?”

Sean couldn’t help but look at the spool with its almost bare-naked two-foot-long stretch of cable. “We’re having some trouble with the winch—or the cable—actually, it’s both. The winch can’t move it forward or back without, um, complications.”

“Forward or back? Those are pretty much the only options, right?” A note of concern had entered her voice, the playfulness sounding strained now. “Seriously, talk to me, honey. What’s happening?”

“The cable,” he said. “It’s stripped almost bare in one section.”

“I see. Boy am I really glad that’s impossible. But, just for fun, let me ask: one ‘problematic’ section is all you… we… I need to be completely screwed, isn’t it?” She was without levity in her voice now. “Sean, a thick-ass cable like that doesn’t get stripped by… I don’t even know how you could ‘strip’ that accidentally. You’d have to know a lot about how we do things and have a lot of time around the cable.”

Without conscious intention, Sean looked over at Vanessa, Toro, and Slipjack. They were all looking at him the same way, blankly but with uncertainty in their eyes.

Or maybe with certainty in them.

“So, Sean, babe, what’s the plan here? The cable’s magically stripped, fine. What are we going to do about it? Can the bare area be patched?”

Sean shook his head, even though she couldn’t see him, and said flatly, “No.”

“Well, shit.”

“I mean, it could, but that would take equipment, supplies, and room we don’t have. Not to mention time—that’d be a two-hour process before we even moved it onto the spool. If you weren’t attached to the other end of it, we could use the blow torch to just cut the cable off before the break and then reattach it. No worries. If we had all that, and we don’t.”

“So helpful, thanks.”

He loudly mumbled a string of angry-sounding almost-words; then, more clearly not much less loudly, shouted into the comm link with his wife, “These goddamn cables never just get stripped like this! They’re indestructible!”

Kat didn’t say anything.

He calmed himself. He took a big breath in and let it out. Then he could say with honesty, “Honey? We’ve got options. Don’t worry.”

When she spoke, it was clear from her voice that she had gone into shock. It was almost a whisper, as if she were talking to herself: “Someone’s trying to murder me.”

“What? No, that’s not…” He wanted to say it wasn’t possible, but she would give him the same retort as always when he said that: It doesn’t have to be possible anymore. It’s actual. “Listen, let’s just focus on getting this FUBAR situation fixed up, okay?”

Kat had head-mounted headphones with a microphone, so her scarcely audible mumbling of “… murder… someone’s trying to murder me… someone’s trying to murder me…” continued on the radio on deck where everyone could hear it, even though she clearly was no longer conversing with her husband.

He called to Toro: “How long do you need to get the JSL ready to launch?”

The big Hispanic mariner looked up at where the knockoff was secured. “If I bust my ass, it could be in the water in forty-five minutes. And you bet your ass I’m gonna bust my ass, jefe.”

“But what are we supposed to do when we get down there?” Vanessa asked, not as a challenge but as a consequence of her overflowing anxiety. “Okay, yeah, the JSL isn’t a tethered submersible, so we don’t need to use the cable on that. But the whole point would be to pull D-Plus and Kat up to the surface, and that would require the bad cable to be cut or separated, and a new one to be slipped into the place of the bad one.

“But even if we had another three thousand feet of cable—which we don’t, since all our cable for the whole mother-loving mission is on this one useless spool because this cable is practically indestructible unless you’re trying to damage it—how would we attach it? You can’t do detail work like that with those JSL claws, Sean. And God knows it’s too damn deep for an out-of-vessel excursion. Three thousand feet in just a wetsuit isn’t even close to possible, and that means we can’t attach another cable and we can’t just spring Kat out of there and into our sub—her lungs and heart would collapse instantly.”

Sean’s gaze remained on the deck, which is what he did when he was trying to think deeply, or when he was listening intently, or both. He nodded at everything Vanessa was saying, and it wasn’t much different from what he was already thinking. For a moment a hope came to him and he said, “What if we went down in the JSL and clamped onto the cable holding D-Plus and just dragged it back up to where she could get out? That would keep there from being any pull on the compromised cable, and the slack as she was brought up could be used to wrap the exposed cable under several more layers on the spool.”

“That could work, but what’s the operational depth of the JSL? Didn’t it get discontinued because those poor bastards got caught on some sunken ship, and they were stuck there until they ran out of air? How deep was that?” Slipjack asked in his hint of a western-by-way-of-New Jersey drawl that usually seemed homey and ominous in equal measure but seemed neither at the moment, more like on the edge of panic as he tried to run through all the possibilities in his mind. The winch, after all, was his responsibility. Only he and Sean Muir had official access to it around the clock. The others had to be wondering how he’d let this happen right under his nose.

Vanessa said, “That had nothing to do with crush depth, Slip.”

“No, but I’m wondering how deep that was, ’cause obviously that dive must’ve been inside their depth comfort zone, y’know? I think its deepest rating is in the neighborhood of three thousand feet. And she’s at, what’d you say earlier, 2,800 feet? So you’d have some wiggle room to save her, boss!”

Sean nodded. That accident killed two submariners and got the original JSL discontinued, but they lived long enough as the carbon dioxide scrubbers became inoperable that they knew they would die down there. All they could do was wait for the oxygen to run out. Vanessa was right: it was an oxygen thing, not a crush depth thing.

But those memories came and went like vapor. Slipjack’s words barely stuck, although he understood his winch man perfectly. All he could focus on right then was his wife still repeating that she was being murdered, someone was trying to murder her. Only now she was leaving the “trying” part out: “… someone’s murdering me… why are they murdering me?… someone is murdering me…”

“I think you got to go for it, boss,” Slipjack said, looking ill. “You got to save her somehow. She’s in danger because of you—”

“All right. Enough!” Sean snapped at him. “You think I don’t know that, goddamnit? You and Toro break out the JSL—use the launch crane—and make it ready.”

Slipjack and Toro moved as fast as Sean had ever seen them move. Vanessa stayed with Sean, since two deckhands with a hook and Sea Legs’ smaller winch would be enough to get the JSL down where they could prep it for a dive and get the pilot situated. An additional person would only get in the way.

“This could work, boss,” she said as the two men wrestled the hook onto the goddamn museum piece that was their counterfeit JSL. Young oceanographers from the Institute liked to use the thing to spend some time near coral reefs or where they could set down in a couple dozen feet of water and observe turtles and interesting fish do their thing in the light of the euphotic zone. But the Muirs had it on Sea Legs because it was always stowed on Sea Legs, the boat being used currently by the Muirs but actually the property of the Institute and thus used also by their colleagues and students. He was very glad right then that no one had ever thought it necessary to go through the pain in the ass of taking it off the boat and storing it somewhere else, just to have to haul it out and load it on the boat again the next time a grad student or postdoc wanted to use it.

Moving to help them, Vanessa stopped next to Sean and asked quietly, “Listen, Cap—even if they can get it down and prepped in forty-five minutes, how long will it take to get it down three thousand feet? Another forty?”

Sean looked pale but didn’t let his fear get the best of him. No effective mission leader could let anything, even something like this, get that deep under his skin. “Could be an hour.”

Vanessa looked at the green-screen on-deck computer monitor. “She’s been down there an hour and a half, Sean. Those scrubbers work how long? I don’t know this shit, boss, you got to help me here.”

“She’s got five hours in the sub. More than that and her brain dies from lack of oxygen.” He swallowed, shaken from listening to his wife go dissociative with talk of getting “murdered” while sitting in what could soon be her own coffin.

“Shit. So an hour and a half, plus, let’s say, an hour to get the JSL down to D-Plus and get a good hold on her cable. How long’s it gonna take for our little JSL to pull our chunky sub to the point where Kat can get out and free swim to the surface?”

“I have no idea, Van. I’ve never done this before. No one has. These armored cables do not—”

“I know, Sean, I know. But there’s plenty of time for figuring that out once we have your wife back and safe. Give me a ballpark: How long?”

“The JSL isn’t really made for towing, but since we’re pressing it into service, if I had to venture a guess—”

“Which you do.”

“—I’d say at least two hours with that heavy load and the limited thrust of the JSL. Maybe more.”

“That maybe is straddling the line between saving your wife and losing her, Sean. You’ve done, what, a hundred dives in this thing? You have to be the one to go down and get her—you always find a way to keep us going. We haven’t lost a crew member yet, so let’s not start today, all right?”

He allowed himself a very small smirk and said, “When did I promote you to first mate?”

“When you lost your shit listening to Katherine. Besides, who do you want right now? Mickey is a boat chief, not a submersible expert. I’m not saying he can’t learn, but now seems an inopportune time for rookie training.

“Slipjack doesn’t dive, but he could be your right-hand man on the surface once we get the JSL ready to go. And that should be soon, once they get the batteries installed and run through the checklist.”

“Has Toro ever piloted a submersible?”

“No. He’s purely a member of the boat crew, promoted to winch team. And I’ve dived a few times, just not in the pilot’s seat.”

“Vanessa, I know all this. What are you getting at, already?”

“I’m telling you that you need to get suited up, and you need to do this. Not because she’s your wife, but because she’s part of your research crew. Your skills and experience are the only things that can save her.”

Sean took all of this in, sucked in a deep breath, then let it go. He shouted to Toro and Slipjack, “Let’s go, gentlemen! Time is short!”

“Twenty minutes,” Toro said without looking up from his work.

“Screw that. Fifteen at the most and I want this in the water.”

Slipjack muttered under his breath, but it was plenty loud enough for Toro to hear, and laugh.

“It’s a suicide mission, ese. You don’t want it. Like Van said, you don’t dive.”

“No, I don’t. But I could. I want to be the hero for once, save the woman who…”

“Who… who what?”

“Who is really friggin’ important to this expedition! I want to be her hero instead of just a guy on the boat.”

“What, you got a crush on Mrs. Muir? Ha ha, that is muy adorable!” Toro said with a sympathetic smile. “She is easy on the eyes, man, but come on. And you want to be a hero… or a martyr, maybe, you mean? ’Cause that’s what el jefe is gonna be in a few minutes, man. Ain’t no way this thing can drag up a full-size submersible.”

“This ain’t right. The whole thing stinks like rotten fish covered with dog shit,” Slipjack said when they turned back to keep prepping the rickety-ass sub that was less likely to rescue the wonderful Kitty Muir than to send Sean and his wife to the bottom forever.

He just hoped his check got signed before Sean Muir left on his mission to be the center of attention once again. And the Muirs would be at the center, all right. He could see the headlines: OCEAN RESEARCHERS DIE IN ‘ACCIDENT.’

Except this bullshit is no accident, Slipjack thought, but kept it to himself. He had a job to do here, and doing it well and swiftly could mean rescuing Katherine instead of letting her die, even if the whole situation was Sean Muir’s doing, or if not his fault, then at least definitely his responsibility. But he shook that out of his mind and got the JSL ready as quickly as he and Toro could.

“Sean… ?” It was Katherine’s voice, still sounding distant but much more cogent. “Come in, babe…”

Sean spun around from watching them work with the JSL (just far away enough that he couldn’t hear what Slipjack was saying to Toro) and practically hurled himself the six feet to the mic and started talking almost before he had depressed the button: “Kat! Thank God! I thought you had gone off the deep end!” He winced at his own choice of words.

“I’m okay. I’m alive. Had me a little freak-out there.” She sounded more with it, but hardly one hundred percent. “Honey, I’m just hanging in the dark. There’s nothing to see, not even dinosaurs… and directly below, there’s the vents. Maybe the dinos are nearby, maybe they can sense me…”

“Don’t worry about that, honey—you’re not deep enough to give off a heat signature strong enough to attract them, anyway. So just forget about anything except my words, okay?”

“Okay.” With that one-word response, she sounded again like the researcher who had first gone down in the submersible.

“Okay, excellent. The cable is… not operational. We can’t haul you up with the winch, and we can’t even get you any deeper—not that we would—but never mind—I’m coming down to get you.”

“Sean, it’s okay. I know the risks every time I go down.”

“Jesus, honey, no—I said, I’m coming down right now.”

“I’m at three thousand feet, Sean! What are you going to do, put on some swim fins and a snorkel? I can still get some data, even if we can’t find your prehistoric beasts—”

“No! Just hang tight”—again he regretted his turn of phrase—“and I’ll be there in plenty of time. I’m using the JSL.”

“That piece of [buzz]? Don’t you dare, Doctor Muir—we don’t both need to die! Somebody on the ship sabotaged the cable. Don’t give them a chance to mess with the JSL and murder you, too.”

“Don’t say murder, Kat. Number one, you’re not going to die; and number two, I’m coming to get you and bring you up. Just keep your mind on that, okay? You’ve got to have two hours of oxygen left. I’ll make it in plenty of time.”

“I love you, Sean. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. We got this. And I love you, too, so much. And if I have to die to save you, that’s a fair deal to me.”

“Well, it’s not to me!”

“All right, then, we’ll both live. How’s that?”

“Roger that. Okay, fine, go suit up and get down here already.”

“On it.” He motioned for Mickey to come off the bridge. “Mick, you’ve got the comm, all right? Talk to her, keep her calm, and keep reminding her that I’m on my way.”

“You got it, boss. And good luck—we know you can do it.”

Sean nodded at that and got his ass over to the winch crew setting up the submersible, which looked like nothing more than a 1950s science-fiction robot. He squeezed into his wetsuit and stowed his air tank and regulator inside the JSL. There was no real reason he’d need them—or be able to use them—unless and until he got Kat near the surface and opened D-Plus to get her out. The extra equipment was fine, anyway; he’d take a load of anvils on board if it would help him get down there. He froze. Why in God’s name didn’t I think of this earlier?

“Holy shit! Mickey, tell her to jettison her ballast, every bit of it, right away!” He literally couldn’t believe he hadn’t remembered to tell her to do that in the first place. Everybody on board must have thought he was a complete shithead who didn’t care whether his wife lived or died. Not that he cared much about that right now.

Mickey relayed the message, and the last thing Sean heard before Slipjack helped him into the JSL was her response of “Roger that.” It gave him the tiniest peace of mind, which was better than nothing.

Slipjack got him ready and was about to screw the hatch shut but stopped and looked Sean in the eyes. “Go save your wife. Save our Kat.”

Our Kat? But Sean nodded, holding back the desire to say, Why in the hell do you think I’m sitting in this thing? but he could hardly blame the crew for loving her. She was so good to everyone, always smiling and working as hard as anyone else. Sean saw her occasional tantrums and tears, but that was the difference between a husband and a coworker on a research vessel.

Slipjack screwed on the hatch and stepped back. He and Toro and Vanessa exchanged thumbs-ups with Sean and then with one another when each of them took their assigned positions to deploy the A-frame and crane to lower the submersible into the sea.

Excruciatingly slowly, they lowered the JSL. So slowly he would surely never get down in time to Kat, who was breathing the last of her air, waiting for him, so far away.

* * *

Inside D-Plus, Katherine quickly hit the necessary switches and buttons to release the ballast. She’d done it a hundred times in submersibles; the ballast was just seawater, but water actually made for better ballast than any other material, and it didn’t shoot a lot of garbage into the ocean they all loved, like the old-school kind did.

But neither of the hatches on the sides of the submersible opened to release the ballast. D-Plus was still as weighted down as she was at launch, when the hatch worked perfectly to let the seawater in and allow the dive to happen in the first place.

She didn’t panic, though, didn’t enter any kind of fugue state like before. She just went through the steps again, more slowly and carefully this time.

It didn’t make any difference.

The hatch wouldn’t open, and of course there was no way for her to get out at this depth and open them manually with the fail-safe tool. “You’re just going to have to lift me with my ballast,” she said into her headset.

She kept in contact with Mickey up on the surface, but radio waves traveled more slowly the deeper one went—which was why a deep-sea submersible like D-Plus was connected to fiber optics for data and video and lines for voice and other communications. These lines were encased in armored steel and were supposed to be as close to indestructible as possible. That was because fail-proof systems were essential in extreme environments like those Sean and Kat were aiming for with this expedition. Supposed to be indestructible. At least, that was if no one with specialized knowledge—and some kind of motivation, obviously—got to them when no one was looking.

But delay or not, saboteur on the loose or not, Mickey on Piranha II kept the video and other sensors tightly focused on the line that was all that was keeping Kat on D-Plus from sinking, fatally, to the bottom. If she had been able to jettison the ballast—which was done with the push of exactly two buttons and a switch—it would have made Sean’s job of grabbing hold of the cable just above D-Plus with the JSL’s clamp-like “hands” and bringing her up much easier.

Easy wasn’t happening in this FUBAR situation anyway, but trying to bring up D-Plus loaded down with ballast might be impossible for an ancient gadget like the JSL. Sean would jettison his own ballast when he got to her, so at least he would retain some buoyancy.

As was always the case in their line of work, they’d just have to go with what was even infinitesimally possible and make it a dead-certain reality.

It was obvious that rescue of D-Plus—and, more importantly, Katherine—fell into this category. No one could blame him for failing, but everyone still would. He still would. He needed to show everyone that he could do this, save the day. Mariners were an odd lot who might call off the next dive “because of weather,” since they were empowered to make the final decision. Theoretically, this took into consideration the science team’s input, of course; but the professional sailors on board knew that, outside of a storm forcing waves over the deck, the scientists would always choose to dive. Thus, oftentimes the “consideration” of the scientists’ opinions meant “seeming to listen and then doing what real men and women of the sea thought right and proper.” So it was best to avoid discomfort in the sailing crew.

Also, of course, if they lost this submersible—even if it during an unmanned test—it would render funding for of his any further dives highly unlikely. His and Kat’s funding, that was. She wasn’t dead yet. He had to not think like that, Jesus.

Not yet, anyway.

D-Plus and similar research submersibles were designed to be pulled up by the same cable that guided them down. That would make it a hell of a lot easier to drag it back up with the JSL, which was built for exploration mostly in the euphotic zone, not for its gripping or lifting power. Of course, there never would have been a problem like this if the deep-sea sub dived and rose under its own power. But that’s just not how it worked anymore, the cable being needed for heavy data and communications demands if not for lowering and lifting the submersible.

Mickey told him which ways to activate the JSL’s small water jets to keep the vessel the right distance from the cable. Not that this was in any way a “normal” operation, but the usual and much less difficult way of approaching would have been for Sean in the JSL to loop onto the cable itself and just slide down to the research sub. However, that option wasn’t available to them since it was a flaw in the cable itself (Ha! That’s the understatement of the year, Sean scoffed despite himself) that had put the submersible in peril in the first place. One strong tug on that line and it would snap up on the boat and that would be that for his wife; the ballast-weighted D-Plus would be much too heavy for the smaller and lighter JSL to hold.

They had gotten extremely lucky—or less unlucky, he guessed, because this was not a lucky day—that the surface was almost mirror-calm that day. Choppy or “confused” seas, when you couldn’t tell which way the water was going to take you, put a lot more stress on the cable.

And that stress was exactly what the damaged cable couldn’t take.

The JSL’s descent went smoothly, Mickey letting him know how things looked and also relaying any messages from Kat and doing the same for Sean’s messages to his wife.

In fact, it went so smoothly that his mind drifted.

Diving to just three thousand feet wasn’t going to be any help with the expedition’s goals, but they had been on the path to the benthic zone, where they’d found evidence that a line of hydrothermal vents stretched for several thousand miles from just north of Hawaii right up to the Marianas Trench. Maybe continued in the Marianas Trench, so little had those extreme depths been explored in any detail.

Heat was at the center of his theories. When the oceans cooled and put the Permian Extinction into motion, most aquatic dinosaurs died off—actually, 95 percent of everything in the oceans and a huge percentage of things living on land, including dinosaurs. But where the ocean remained warm, even hot, was at the bottom, near the network of hydrothermal sulfur vents.

The idea came to Sean Muir five years earlier, when he was a graduate student in oceanography with a specialty in undersea geology at UCSD. He went on a deep-sea expedition with his advisor and two other grad students the professor was mentoring. It wasn’t some kind of historic outing, diving in a well-explored area just off the California coast, but it was deep enough that there was no light except for the glow around their four-person submersible caused by the sub’s own floods.

Looking at the constant snowy fall of organic material destined for the ocean floor could hold one’s interest for only so long, but they weren’t underwater for an hour when his advisor said, “Do you see that? This is a fount of life, lady and gentlemen!”

The submersible had many viewports, and they all got a look at the odd orange-yellow light coming from the ocean floor. It was only about 1,500 feet down, but it presented a completely alien world. The vent had things all around it, things that looked like those giant inflatable men at car dealerships and such, beckoning buyers just by random movement catching their eyes: tube worms.

It was the same principle at work here—all four of them were mesmerized by the giant sea worms, securely attached to the seafloor but being blown around by the sulfur-rich, superheated water coming from the tectonic rip.

“I wish we could get closer, but that heat would overpower the sub and boil all of us faster than trout in a steam basket,” he said. “But look—it’s an ecosystem like none other. These worms—and amoebas so large they’re visible to the human eye—thrive directly on the chemicals pouring out, and then there are predators even down here ready to eat them, starting a food chain without the slightest thing to do with sunlight.”

“Predators?” Sean asked in a dreamy voice.

“Oh, yes, there are albino squid down here, octopoids, jumbo shrimp relatives, and there are signs of even more complex life. Even vertebrates.”

One of the other grad students spoke up: “Wouldn’t their bones get crushed at this depth?”

“No, indeed. That’s what one would worry about, isn’t it? Your rib cage being flattened and your head caving in? But, in fact, you would die of capillary damage and organ failure at much shallower depths than those required to destroy the calcium in your bones. This is because water is incompressible. Not just the water in the ocean, but the water in the human body! This presses against all of the body’s systems, including the skin, and meets the incompressible water contained in your organs. They reach a stasis rather quickly, but stasis is not how organs keep us alive! A stopped heart may be perfectly balanced with the water pressure outside it, but that doesn’t do its owner much good if all the oxygen has been rendered immobile.”

A chuckle went through the submersible, then the third grad student asked, “Then how can anything with organs live down here? I mean, tube worms are pretty simple, and octopoids are incredibly elastic, I know. But things that would eat them? I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“But you’re working on your doctorate in marine biology! Surely you know that, as Jeff Goldblum so succinctly put it in that dinosaur movie, ‘Life finds a way.’”

“Jurassic Park,” Sean said almost automatically. It and its sequels were favorites of his since he was a kid. But paleontology was a field with precious few positions available, and professors retired very late, if at all; the joke was “Old paleontologists never die. They just turn into fossils.”

“Just so. The way the concept was used in that story was a bit silly, but the statement remains valid in a general sense, and is definitely applicable down here. And Sean, since you’re a dinosaur aficionado, you see how, with the oceans growing colder after the Cretaceous event, some marine lizards could evolve to take advantage of heat sources far deeper than those they had earlier thrived in.”

Sean said lightly but with respect, “That’s pretty speculative.”

His advisor laughed. “Indeed, it is. But something balances the ecosystem down here, and aquatic dinosaurs have had a long time to adapt. I mean, the water didn’t turn cold overnight, and maybe the deeper one went at that point—and remember, there was a lot more going on volcanically and such down here during that period—the warmer it would be. Yes, they’d have had to evolve structures other than bones and organs that would work in ways we probably aren’t even able to conceptualize at this point… unless one were researching it full-time, say.” He gave Sean a meaningful glance. “Also, the giant lizards ruled the earth for 165 million years—you think they’d all just give up without a fight?”

They laughed, but Sean was struck by the idea. Being a graduate student was a time for learning what could be reasonably speculated upon and what was better not to waste one’s time with, because the thesis and dissertation were what mattered most. The fortunate few, however, were able to develop something new, something at least different, about which they could publish, and publish papers on every change of nuance as their research developed. Sean and every other student in any graduate program anywhere needed something real, and possibly dramatic, upon which to create a reputation and thus become very attractive to those seeking to fill empty tenure-track lines at Carnegie I research institutions.

However, he also had heard many cautionary tales of grad students who went awry trying to prove some pet theory of their advisors’—drinking the academic Kool-Aid, as it were. Embarrassment and wasted time were the least of it. No, the worst was a career up in smoke, one’s world-changing dissertation given up for something mundane, something just to get the degree so he could accept the first community-college job offered to him. If any were offered. Life as an adjunct earth sciences “professor” was worse than embarrassing to someone like Sean; it would be humiliating and would remain humiliating until the day he retired. Or killed himself. Which would be preferable was a coin toss.

In other words, Sean Muir needed to find something attractive and unusual, maybe even slightly groundbreaking, but nothing so off the wall that it would come crashing down around him and ruin his life. (Any advisor he had would be tenured already and thus wouldn’t be affected professionally in the slightest by such a disaster. If he or she were a human being, the professor in question might feel terrible about the whole thing, but pity or even heartfelt regret didn’t open doors to academic careers.)

But God, dinosaurs still existing near the ocean floor! Evolved and adapted, of course, just like every other living thing, but perhaps in the same way that sharks and alligators had evolved—almost unchanged through the millennia, so what you had now was almost identical to what you would have had 300 million years ago. And even if it weren’t dinosaurs, finding whatever was at the top of the sea-vent chemosynthesis food chain would attract a lot of welcome attention.

It was a risk; but no risk, no reward. Sean had a long talk with his advisor the day after their undersea excursion, during which each argued for and against the idea of building on this speculation as a real program of research. Finally, they agreed the best course of action would be for Sean to change his concentration from oceanography and tectonic geology to marine biology and—thank God he was at San Diego, where this wouldn’t get him laughed out of the room—paleoichthyology. Even if he didn’t find the predators that just had to be there (life finds a way), he would certainly discover enough about deep-sea hydrothermal vents to write a dissertation that still broke new ground, so to speak.

A voice snapped him back to reality, the present, where he was in the rickety JSL submersible surrounded by black water.

“Sean? Copy? Sean.” It was crew chief Mickey’s voice, and he must have been calling for a while. “Sean, tell me you’re not dead. Sean, do you copy?”

He said into the comm, a bit sheepishly, “Copy here, Sea Legs. Sorry, I was having trouble with something.”

“Sure, okay,” Mickey said in the tone Sean would have used himself if he had been on the other end. “Listen, do you still have the sub’s cable in view?”

Fortunately, despite his sudden mental walkabout, he did.

“You’ve got about twenty feet to go, by your instruments. Can you get a visual on D-Plus? She should be just below you, dead cen—right in the middle.”

He leaned against the viewport and saw the lights that adorned the submersible. “Affirmative, I see it. If I can get down to Kat—”

“No, Sean, there’s no time. You need to extend the JSL claw in front of you and open the claw, then ease yourself forward until you can get a tight grasp on the cable. Keep descending, too—get as close as you can to the sub, but stay above her. Nobody blames you for wanting to see your lovely bride after all this, but first we need to get her out of danger by you clamping on. You copy that?”

“Roger. Moving toward the cable—”

“Did you extend the arm and open the claw?”

Dammit. A few seconds later, he called up, “Affirmative. Centering JSL to position the claw around the cable… got it.” He could hear a small background cheer from Mickey’s microphone.

Prehistoric Beasts And Where To Fight Them is available from Amazon here!

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Copyright 2018 by William Meikle

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William Meikle
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Hugo Navikov PREHISTORIC BEASTS AND WHERE TO FIGHT THEM (An Except)

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