William Meikle

OPERATION: NORWAY

- 1 -

“Well, this is fucking great, isn’t it? What wanker told the brass that we’re pining for the fjords?”

Corporal Wiggins wasn’t taking the S-Squad’s latest assignment well. Captain Banks couldn’t really blame him; they’d all been promised an extended period of leave after the double-whammy of losing men on their last two missions on Loch Ness and in Syria.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Captain. I know you’re due some respite. But this is a matter of national security,” the colonel had said that morning when he called Banks in to his office. The room was too warm despite the chill and damp in the air outside. The colonel had done several tours of duty in far hotter climes and liked to be reminded of the fact now that he was working a desk in the North of Scotland. Two electric heaters, four bars each, ran full time and Banks was hot under his heavy sweater and already starting to sweat. The colonel, in shirtsleeves, looked like a man about to go for a summer stroll.

“We wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” Banks’ superior officer continued, “although this might prove to be a diplomatic matter rather than anything more serious. Just after the war, we entered into a joint scientific experiment with Norway in a remote station way up on their northwest coast. It was all very hush-hush and the details have been redacted.”

“So why now?” Banks asked. Normally, he wouldn’t dare to interrupt the colonel in full flow but the heat was making him prickly and uncomfortable and coupled with the thought of telling the squad that their leave was cancelled, he wasn’t in the best of moods. The colonel, on the other hand, merely smiled grimly.

“All we know that the bloody show went tits up in its second year and the place was abandoned overnight, left to the elements and frozen over in the course of a series of bad winters. Anybody that ever worked there is long dead and it’s only come up now because a fishing vessel passing close by at the weekend reported that the site is nearly thawed out — something to do with global warming I’m guessing. We were the dominant partners in the arrangement and the Norwegians have given us first look at the place. So it’s get in there, make sure there’s nothing embarrassing lying about, sanitize the site, and get out with the minimum of fuss. You know the drill. Shouldn’t be a problem for the squad.”

Which was all fine and dandy for the colonel to say from the warmth of his office in Lossiemouth. And his promise of an extended period of leave followed by warmer assignments to come didn’t hold too much water either; Banks remembered all too well similar promises, all too easily broken in the past. The here and now was always what mattered most in the armed forces and the current reality had them bouncing through freezing swell on a dinghy in heavy seas off Norway in early winter. They headed face first into a storm of wind and biting sleet and it was the cause of much grumbling among the men, with Wiggins as usual to the forefront of any complaints.

“I mean, come on, Cap,” he shouted against the wind. “Did we really have to come out in this? We cannae even have a fag. Can’t we wait for it to blow over?”

“It’s Northern Norway in December,” Banks replied. “This isn’t blowing over until at least March.”

Wiggins had a point though. They’d arrived via chopper to a North Sea oil rig and then onto a supply boat that had brought them north up the Norwegian coast. The boat had been warm, dry, and even almost comfortable, three things that couldn’t be applied to their situation now on the last leg of the trip in a dinghy to take them up into the narrows at the head of the fjord and their final destination. As the sleet stung his cheeks and threatened to ice his eyelashes, it was the colonel’s warm office back in Lossiemouth rather than the mission that was uppermost in Captain John Banks’ mind.

* * *

The sleet didn’t abate and if anything was blowing even stronger by the time they arrived at the head of the fjord and saw the small clutter of prefabricated huts on the shore by a long rock and wood jetty. The huts were basic, like his great grandmother’s prefab that Banks remembered from childhood. The old woman had moved into social housing in the early fifties in Glasgow when she was widowed and lived there until she died in the eighties. These squat metal boxes with green tin roofs could have come from the same factory. He hoped they weren’t going to be as cold as he remembered from those long-ago visits.

Sergeant Hynd brought them alongside to port to tie up sheltered from the brunt of the weather and they quickly heaved their kit onto the jetty and climbed up, having to lean into the wind.

“Wiggo, take Davies and Wilkins,” Banks said. “Priority is securing a hut that’ll be our base of operations. Get inside one of these and if it’s in decent shape, get a fire going and see if we can get some heat into us. After that, get a brew on and we’ll have a cuppa and a fag. Sarge, secure the dinghy. If we’re lucky, there’ll be fuck all to see here and we’ll be back and heading for the boat before sunset.”

Banks turned his back to the wind to look back along the length of the fjord. He knew the supply boat was still out there in open water beyond the high cliffs but it was hidden from view by the sleet and spray the storm had whipped up. He wasn’t relishing the journey back.

He waited for Hynd to get the dinghy tied up then turned, hefted the kit bags, and followed the rest of the squad quickly along the jetty to the squat, low huts. Wilkins stood at the door of the nearest, beckoning them onward. Inside, Wiggins was already bent at a fireplace, setting a fire from a pile of logs at one side and a sheaf of old magazines that appeared to have been stacked for the purpose.

They were in one of the nine huts arranged in a semicircle around the jetty; this one had obviously been a radio room and makeshift storeroom at one time but it had not been abandoned cleanly. Rusting cans of foodstuffs lay strewn on the floor, some flattened and bashed as if they’d been stomped on, the contents splattered and then frozen on the wooden floorboards. Long wooden boxes that had once contained test tubes, beakers, and various pieces of glass piping had been tossed to the floor, smashed open, and scattered in glittering pieces all across the left-hand side of the room. The radio set, which had taken up the whole rear wall, had been roughly torn from its fixing and lay in bent and crushed pieces of torn metal and exposed wiring. The whole place felt damp, the walls running wet where ice was melting, faster now that the fire was spreading warmth through the room. The spilled food wasn’t going to stay frozen for long.

But we’ll be long gone before it’ll start to stink.

Wiggins saw Banks looking at the carnage.

“That’s not all, Cap,” he said and rose away from where he’d got the fire started to point at the wall above the mantel and to one side of the red brickwork that denoted the rudimentary chimney. The heavy-duty plasterboard had five holes punched in it and Banks had too much experience not to recognize them as bullet holes.

There was no sign of any blood spatter and no bodies.

“Might just have been high-jinks?” Hynd said.

“The colonel said the operation went tits-up fast,” Banks replied. “Let’s wait to see what’s what in the rest of the place before we jump to conclusions.”

* * *

Banks had them break out the camp stove and get a pot of coffee going and allowed them a smoke break before attempting a foray to the rest of the huts; he knew they’d all be grateful as him for a chance to get some heat into their bones. While the coffee brewed, he checked the kit bags; he’d ordered full cold weather gear and was relieved to see that they’d have everything they needed at hand should they need to spend any extended time outdoors. Not that he was expecting to; the site appeared to be dead and long abandoned. Sanitize, that’s what the colonel had said. One of the kit bags contained enough C4 to sanitize the whole place off the map.

“So what was this place then, Cap?” Wiggins asked as he handed Banks a mug of coffee.

“Some kind of scientific research station I was told,” Banks replied. “Our lads and the Norwegians had a joint operation sometime in the late ‘40s, early ‘50s.”

“Researching what?”

“I didn’t ask,” he replied.

Wiggins grinned.

“Smart move, Cap. So why are we here?”

“To see if they left anything incriminating behind and to blow the place to buggery.”

“Oh, I do like a big bang.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Hynd said at the corporal’s back.

“You shouldn’t believe everything your wife tells you, Sarge,”

- 2 -

Banks only allowed them ten minutes respite then he had the squad gear up ready for moving out. Each man wore stout boots, a white heavy-duty hooded jacket, and white, fleece-lined waterproof trousers over their standard gear. They all had polarizing snow goggles and each had a handgun holstered at their hip. He eschewed any heavier weaponry for now — there didn’t appear to be any immediate danger and he didn’t intend to be more than fifty yards from the kit bags at any time; everything they had to see appeared to be in the line of huts around the jetty.

“This is a reccy and clean-up mission,” he said. “I’m not expecting any action this time out but the sarge and Wiggo especially know that this squad has a bad habit of stepping in unexpected shite so keep your eyes peeled and shout if you see — or even smell — anything hinky, anything out of place. If you find any records or any kind of documentation, fetch it to me. Wiggo, you and Davies are with me, we’ll take the other four huts on this side of the jetty. Sarge, you and Wilkins go to the other side. Meet back here in twenty. If there are no problems, then we rig the place to blow, Wiggo gets his big bang, and we get the flock out of here.”

He opened the door into sleet that threatened to turn to snow and a wind that had ramped up to little short of a gale. He turned back for one last command.

“Nobody wanders off alone, everybody watches out for the man next to him. You know the drill,” he said and pushed his way into the wind heading for the next building. Wiggins and Davies followed. When he reached the next hut door, he turned to look back. The sarge and Wilkins were on the other side of the jetty, mere blurred figures in a shaken snow dome.

The door opened when he turned the handle and he led the other two inside. There was no lighting and the gathering gloom outside made the interior even darker but he saw clearly enough that this hut had once been a dormitory of sorts. Four bunk beds lined the walls and the bedding was neatly folded up at the base of each bed, frozen solid in place. There were eight tall metal lockers but apart from frozen nightclothes, there was nothing else of note inside them. A small cold stove heater and two dry oil lamps were the only other items in the room. Banks had a last look around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything then headed out into the storm again to the next hut in the row along the shore.

This one was as empty and cold as the first. It had been a rec room rigged up as a makeshift mess with a cooking stove, a small bar area stocked with whisky and vodka in a pair of optics on the wall, and a table tennis table in the middle of the room. But this room too looked like it had survived untouched since the day the base was abandoned, the only indication of the passage of time being the layer of frost that covered everything.

Wiggins nodded towards the bar area.

“Anybody fancy a dram? It’s my shout.”

Banks laughed.

“I’ll tell you what, Wiggo, find me something interesting to take back to the colonel and we’ll all have one before we go.”

He hadn’t expected the corporal to actually find anything and their third hut proved to be a double-doored storeroom for a dinghy, its rubber long since perished, its outboard motor little more than rusted metal. But as if the thought of booze had worked some magic, the last hut in the row, with the best view overlooking the fjord, had them hitting the jackpot. It had obviously been an administrator’s office containing a heavy mahogany desk, a leather chair that might have been very comfortable at one time, and three tall metal filing cabinets.

The cabinets proved to be full of little more than gray mush, having suffered an influx of ice that had subsequently melted, rotting down the paperwork in the process but the treasure proved to be something that had survived snug and dry in one of the desk drawers. And as chance would have it, it was Wiggins who found it.

“Looks like we’ll be having that dram after all, Cap,” the corporal said with a smile and handed Banks a stout leather-bound book. It opened with a crisp rasp of frost but the interior was dry and the print clear; it was a handwritten journal in a neat, readable hand, started in 1949 and with the last entry in January 1951. His gaze fell on a page near the end.

Jan 11th 1951

The bars are holding for now but his strength is growing daily. He cannot, will not, be controlled and I have had to post more guards, for even under the heaviest sedatives we have at hand he continually tests the limits of his imprisonment. The top brass in London have been informed of the success of the experiment but for my own part I worry. If this is a success, I do not wish to see failure.

It did not tell him anything apart from the fact that it appeared that the commander of this base had a premonition of sorts of disaster to come. He closed the journal and stowed it away inside his jacket for later perusal.

What the hell happened here?

* * *

Wiggins stopped expectantly at the door of the rec room and Banks knew he was hoping that the promise of a dram would be made good but before Banks could give the okay, Sergeant Hynd came through in the headset radio.

“Best get over this way, Cap,” Hynd said. “There’s some things you need to see. Last hut at the far edge of the harbor.”

The weather had turned even worse, with thick squalls of wind-whipped snow almost blinding them. The snow goggles only helped in as much as it protected their eyes. They had to navigate by staying close to the walls of each hut as they passed it and it took five minutes of hard pushing against the wind before they reached the last of the huts on the shoreline. Hynd and Wilkins stood just inside the doorway but they weren’t getting much protection from the elements for the whole back wall of the hut had collapsed.

Hynd spoke first.

“The other huts are empty — some kind of laboratories but all smashed up now. This is what you need to see though.”

The sergeant stood aside to let Banks into the hut.

The room had at one time been the most sturdy of any of the huts in the group, not prefabricated like the others but being built mainly in red brick with double thickness walls. It had one simple purpose, reminding Banks of the old Westerns he’d watched as a lad and the town jail, a square box with an inner wall of iron bars enclosing a basic cell. Whatever had been imprisoned here, it had not been contained.

Something had torn the place apart and Banks didn’t think it had been the weather, for the iron bars that lay strewn on the ice were bent and mangled and the back wall looked to have been pushed outward rather than blown inward.

“There’s more,” Hynd said, almost shouting now to be heard above the wind. The sergeant led Banks over to the tumbled back wall and pointed at the ground. At first, Banks was unsure what he was meant to be looking at then details began to become clear amid the rubble. The remains of at least two men lay amid the bricks, remains being the appropriate word for the limbs looked to have been roughly removed from the bodies and the torsos had been brutally torn open, rib cages splayed wide like skeletal wings. It had obviously happened many years since for there was little meat left on the bones, little clothing left but tattered rags, and what blood had been spilled was frozen solid in a black, ink-like stain on the icy ground.

A check showed there were enough body parts for two men but only one head, with most of the skin stripped from the face, eyes long since gone leaving an ice-blackened skull smiling up at Banks in a thin-lipped rictus grin.

A rough track led away from the rear of the huts, away from the water and rising steeply up the wall of the fjord. The path was partially snow covered and there were no fresh tracks in it. Whatever had happened here, it certainly wasn’t recent.

But it is a mystery. And the colonel doesn’t like mysteries.

He had the squad do a quick survey of the whole area looking for clues but there was only the cold ground and the scattered remains of the dead, and they weren’t talking.

- 3 -

He gave the order to head back for the hut where they’d got the fire going; the weather had become a fully fledged storm. The sky had gone so dark he had to check his watch to make sure he hadn’t misjudged the time and that night wasn’t in fact falling early. He let the squad go first and brought up the rear, being almost blown back along the shore now that the swirling wind was mostly at his back. He got inside the hut and had to push to close the door against the force of the breeze outside. He shook snow off himself like a wet dog.

Wiggins was already at the fire, stoking it up with fresh logs, and Davies was at the camp stove getting more coffee brewed. Banks retrieved the sat phone from his inside pocket and put a call through to the skipper of the supply vessel offshore.

“The weather has closed in. Any idea how long this storm will last?”

“The rest of the day and most of the night, Captain. I’m afraid you’re stuck there for the duration. It’s not safe to try to take the dinghy out in these waters in this.”

“I’m not about to try it,” Banks replied. “We’ve got plenty of comforts and we’ve seen out storms in much worse places than this.”

“Stay warm,” the skipper replied. “We’ve got a run to make to one of our rigs overnight. We’ll swing by in the morning and I’ll give you a call back then.”

“Willco,” Banks replied and closed the call just as the door opened at his back and Wiggins turned to smile.

“Be right back, Cap,” he said. “Just going to get my round in.”

Before Banks could stop him, the corporal stepped out into the storm.

Fortunately, Wiggins wasn’t gone long enough for Banks to start to worry. He arrived back a few minutes later carrying a bottle in each hand — one half-full of vodka, the other almost full of a popular Scottish blended whisky.

“I thought we might as well get comfortable if we’re staying the night,” Wiggins said with a grin. Hynd cuffed him around the ear but in truth, Banks thought they might all be glad of the liquor in the long hours of the night to come.

* * *

They found two oil lamps in the debris that were still functional, broke out the ration packs from their kit, and had a meal with their coffee. Banks’ was some kind of chicken curry that tasted too sharply of pepper but it did its job in putting some heat in his belly. After coffee, the other four members of the squad settled around the fire with a smoke and a pack of cards, drinking liquor in their coffee cups. Banks added a generous splash of Scotch to his own coffee then went to sit below one of the lamps. He took the journal they’d found from inside his jacket and started looking for the cause of the carnage they’d seen at that last hut.

Although the light was dim, the writing was in a good-quality black ink and was perfectly legible.

The first entry appeared to be for the first days of the site.

* * *

September 23rd 1949

The weather held up for our trip in and we arrived only a day later than planned. The Norwegians have been as good as their word and the jetty, if not pretty, is perfectly functional and we were able to unload our cargo in double-quick time. I write this in a tent while work continues apace around me and hope that by tonight we might all be able to bed down in shelter and comfort.

The huts are going up fast around us and we are all looking forward to getting some warmth back into our bones. I for one will be glad of it, for my bad knee is giving me gip constantly in this damp cold and has me hobbling around the site like an old man.

The Norwegians are proving most accommodating and generous hosts and have kept us all supplied with plenty of food and drink. I cannot take to the herring but the vodka is most welcome. The only dark spot so far has been the glowers and black looks from the crew of the boat that brought us here. I am led to believe that this stretch of coast has long been shunned by the locals but as to why that should be and why they are so against our presence here, I have yet to uncover.

It is not a new feeling to me on this outing for I have been in the dark ever since leaving Edinburgh. When I opened my orders this morning, I was glad of finally getting some clue as to why I’d been sent away from my warm desk to these frozen northern climes.

I must say it sounds like something out of an H. G. Wells book or one of those awful Yank movies with its talk of chimeras and its hopes of creating a modern weapon from ancient samples. But orders are orders. I do what I’m told and Jensen our lead scientist assures me that it is not some wild goose chase and that the material is indeed there in the hills waiting to be gathered.

If I am to believe what I have been told, the map we have came from a sixteenth-century Scottish fishing captain who undertook an investigation in this area and got more, far more, than he bargained for. His supposed encounter read to me like a prolonged attempt at an excuse by a man who had tarried too long at sea for the liking of his wife in Aberdeen but the brass appear to put at least some credence by it. As for myself, I cannot put any faith in the specifics of the old tale as it was told, full as it is of superstitious claptrap about bogles and bloody carnage. But I am assured that the cave itself most certainly exists and its position has been confirmed in several aerial flyovers. My superiors seem to agree with the Norwegian scientists that there is something there worth investigating, something that might prove valuable in our efforts to keep the Russians from gaining too much influence in these northern climes now that the Jerries have been sent packing.

I will send Jensen and a small team into the mountains and to the cave as soon as all of the huts are up, the laboratories prepared, and all the equipment unpacked, which at the current rate of progress should be by this coming Saturday.

* * *

The next page of the journal was given over to a rudimentary map showing a route from the shoreline of the fjord, taking the same path he’d seen at the rear of the demolished hut, up the cliffs, and across a high plateau to a mountain valley. A group of a dozen buildings was depicted at the head of a river and above that a round black hole that was marked simply, CAVE. Banks’ heart sank.

I have a feeling I’m not going to like this.

The temptation was to skip ahead in the narrative but he needed every scrap of information available to him; as soon as the colonel saw this journal, he’d have questions.

And I need to have answers.

* * *

Oct 5th 1949

Jensen has returned from the cave some 24 hours late and just as I was about to lead a second team to check nothing untoward had occurred. I am glad of his return for this dashed gammy knee of mine would have made clambering about in the hills a tricky business indeed.

The delay was due, so Jensen has told me, to the fact that the specimens proved to be difficult to extract from the rock, as if they had become fused there over time and necessitating a degree of brute force in their removal. There has also been some trouble with the small group of villagers, shepherds of the caribou herds that roam those high plateaus in some numbers. Apparently, there was a skirmish that led to shots being fired by our men.

Jensen assures me that no one was badly hurt although relations with the people of the high valley will henceforth be strained should we need to retrieve anything more from the cave site. But it was worth it, for Jensen succeeded in his quest for samples that will allow our work to proceed from this point onward.

The specimens, while still straining my credulity somewhat given that on initial sighting they look merely like chunks of rock, are most impressive when under close inspection. They certainly give me pause for thought about my earlier skepticism regarding the tales told of the cave and the Scot’s fisherman’s adventures therein. Jensen assures me that he has more than enough material and that even if that were not the case, more of the same remains are embedded in the rock in the cave and can be retrieved should it be required. And while I am loath to cause any harm to come to the caribou herdsmen in the mountains, I will have no qualms in sending another team into the hills if necessary.

The huts on the shoreline are all up and functional, the laboratory gear is unpacked, and the test subjects will arrive by supply boat on the morrow. So begins the part of this show that I might have moral disagreement with should I give myself enough time to think on the matter, for I fear what the poor men will have in store for them.

But they have been told, as loudly and as often as I have been told myself, that it is for the common good. Having seen the samples collected in the cave, I cannot in all conscience deny that I am as eager as Jensen to see the experiment get underway. The sooner we get things moving, the sooner I can see my way back to the warmth of my office back home in Edinburgh and a decent cup of tea.

* * *

“Coffee and a dram, Cap?” Wiggins said, breaking Banks’ concentration. He closed the journal with a sigh and took it with him over to the fireplace. The temptation was to toss it into the flames and pretend he’d never read it. But duty was stronger than that and he knew the colonel was adept at spotting any lies. No, he’d read it now and what had been seen couldn’t be unseen.

Now that he knew that part of the work here had involved the cave in the hills, he only had one option left to him. He let the men enjoy their coffee, smokes, and liquor here in the warmth. For in the morning, weather permitting, he knew they’d be moving out, not back to the supply boat but into the hills, up to the high valley in search of a cave and something that remained.

- 4 -

The wind continued to howl outside and wet snow spattered on the windows and rattled the old frames. They all sat up till eleven o’clock playing cards, smoking, drinking coffee and booze, and listening, mainly to Wiggins regaling Davies and Wilkins, the newest recruits to the squad, with details of their adventures and misadventures in previous missions.

“And then there was the time,” he was saying, “when our captain here was bollock naked climbing the walls of a temple in the Amazon in the middle of the night, three hundred feet up with his arse hanging in the wind.”

Banks laughed.

“Aye and if I hadn’t, you’d still be there yet rotting in a cell and wondering when a big fucker of a snake was going to have you for breakfast. And just for reminding me of that, Wiggo, you get first watch. Wake the sarge at one, I’ll take three to five and the younger lads can see us through ‘til breakfast. Let’s get our heads down, lads. We’ve got work to do in the morning.”

He hadn’t told them what he’d found in the journal — the morning would be soon enough for that. He had the book on the floor beside his sleeping bag, intending to read more when his turn for watch came around, but he already knew more than enough to know that this mission wasn’t going to be quite as simple as the colonel had intimated back at the start.

* * *

Hynd woke him with a mug of coffee at three o’ clock.

“Nowt to report, Cap,” the sergeant said. “Although I think it’s stopped snowing and the wind’s dropped a tad.”

He waited until Hynd was settled and snoring in his sleeping bag before taking his coffee, the journal, and a smoke over to sit under the oil lamp again. He took up the narrative immediately where he’d left off.

* * *

October 12th 1949

I had a long chat with the privates, McCallum and Boyd, today, two chaps from Leuchars who answered the call. They have assured me that they have indeed volunteered for these procedures in return for their families being well looked after should things go bad for them. Why a man would subject himself to such unknown medical terrors is beyond my comprehension even given that they have been told it is for King and Country. I saw enough in France in ‘44 to know that King and Country don’t give two hoots about the men they put in harm’s way. I have resolved to do all that I can to ensure that these two chaps are treated with all the respect and dignity that their bravery deserves — it is the least I can do for them.

We cannot, however, start immediately. Jensen tells me that the process of taking shavings from the specimens collected in the cave will be the most laborious part of the process and may on its own take several months given the density of the material and the need for delicate extraction. At least it will give our volunteers a period of grace before the impregnation begins; indeed, they may well find this waiting time to be a cushy number given that the rest of their regiment is even now on the way to Malaya to quell the insurgency there. To further ease their wait, I have placed an order with Whitehall for several crates of liquor. If we are all to spend the winter here, we may as well get some enjoyment out of it.

As for the specimens themselves, I find myself strangely drawn to the laboratory where they lie on the long reinforced trestles and I have spent many an hour merely standing there looking at them. And I am not the only one so afflicted; several of the men can be found alongside me at any given point, all of us lost in wonder. The very idea that such things ever existed to walk these frozen lands boggles the mind and it is easy to see how the legends grew, for even having been encased in rock for God knows how long, they still hold this terrible fascination and, yes, terror.

The Aberdonian fisherman’s talk of bogles in that expedition to the cave so long ago no longer seems so farfetched and unbelievable. Not content with taking hold of my attention by day, they have begun to haunt my dreams.

* * *

Dec 25th 1949

A Merry Christmas to my family back in Blighty who I am missing sorely on this bleak, cold, miserable day, my only solace being a bottle of scotch I managed to purloin from the mess. I intend to sit here in the office, wallow in self-pity and drink myself senseless in an attempt to forget the last few days. I doubt it will be that simple.

The experiments are not off to an auspicious start. Jensen announced that he had collected enough material from the specimens to begin. Private Boyd volunteered to go first. Having become steadfast friends with both he and McCallum these past weeks, I stood by his side for support as the first injection was made, the dark fluid seeming almost to have a life of its own, eager to be inside a warm body as Jensen pushed the plunger.

We did not have to wait long for results. The poor bugger’s veins went black, spreading in thick branches from the pinpoint needle mark, the inky darkness roaring like wildfire the length of his arm within minutes. And whatever else it was doing to him, Boyd was in agony as if it was indeed fire that burned through his veins. I ordered Jensen to provide the man with relief but the scientist was loath to prescribe sedatives for fear that they might adversely influence results. But as poor Boyd’s screams echoed around our small camp, I had to pull rank, override the scientist, and give the order, for the frightful wails were apt to spread their own terror to everyone here.

Even after enough sedative to floor a horse, Boyd still writhed and moaned as the blackness took him. Jensen seemed immune to the man’s suffering, taking blood samples every hour on the hour as Boyd slowly succumbed to the thing we’d put inside him. His skin took on a gray sheen and thickened, hardening in rough ridges run through with moist, pink cracks where what was left of his own tissue showed through.

Jensen tried to get me to leave, seeing my distress, but I had made my vow to these men, had befriended them and found good companions, and I was determined to stay with Boyd through his crisis, although his eyes had long since ceased to acknowledge my presence. By the time the roughness and hardening spread to his neck then his face, he had lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.

He never woke again. When he finally gave up the ghost two terrible days later, his whole body was a single mass of rough, thickened flesh as hard as stone and as alike to the specimens from the cave that they could not be told apart.

It took eight of us to lift him off the chair and when we buried him, it was like burying a box of rocks.

* * *

Jan 5th 1950

After the terrible failure with Boyd, Jensen has been quiet for a time and throws himself into a frenzy of work in the lab, sweating over bubbling retorts and causing the release of all manner of noxious vapors. The rest of us keep our distance and content ourselves with making inroads into the liquor supply. I have made a request to Whitehall to wind up the operation and am waiting for a reply.

But this morning the scientist unexpectedly arrived in my office, a wide grin on his face and led, almost dragged, me back to the laboratory, muttering some gobbledygook about solution strength and natural inhibition factors that I neither understood nor cared to understand.

At first, I was not sure what he was showing me when he led me to a small cage on a trestle. It looked like a lump of rock lying on the straw floor but then he poked it with a ruler and the thing moved fast, scurrying quickly away and throwing its body violently against the cage walls, which bent but held.

I had to bend closer to see that although it did indeed look like stone, the outline was definitely mouse-like and I understood that this was one of the white mice kept for experimental purposes, a mouse now transformed, a mouse that was most definitely still alive and seemingly thriving. It was almost twice the size it should be and continued to throw itself viciously at the walls of its cage as if desperate for an escape, but there was no doubt of the fact that it was most definitely alive.

I still have misgivings but Jensen wishes to push ahead, taking things very slowly with a series of weaker injections that will take a period of months to administer and Private McCallum, although given pause by what happened to poor Boyd, is still willing to do his part. As for me, I have my original orders and while I may not like them, that has never been accepted as an excuse for disobedience.

I have given Jensen permission to begin. May God have mercy on me.

* * *

May 12th 1950

Will we ever be free from this place?

Jensen’s experiment continues apace. McCallum survived the early injections despite twice almost succumbing to Boyd’s fate. His skin has taken on the now familiar gray, ridged look, and he is so strong that we have to restrain him during procedures for fear he might lash out in his pain and hurt someone unduly. There has been a noticeable increase in his size both in height and girth and he sleeps in the last hut to the north in an iron-barred cell that we were forced to ship in at no inconsiderable cost to my budget. It is necessary though, for in the nights he is often mightily disturbed, bellowing curses and threats that only become defused after his breakfast. He only takes red meat now and we lace it with heavy sedatives. As of now, they are enough to keep him calm, but Jensen tells me he still has more than half a dozen courses of injections to administer.

What manner of thing will we have brought into being by the time we are done here?

* * *

Banks was asking himself the same question as he closed the journal and went to fetch another coffee and light up a fresh smoke. The wind had fallen and there was no patter of snow on the window so he took his coffee outside, pulled the hood of his jacket up against the cold, and stared over at the ruined hut at the end of the row.

What manner of thing, indeed?

- 5 -

In the morning, he had the squad up early for a quick breakfast of coffee and hard biscuits then got everyone kitted up for a tramp into the hills. Over the coffee and a smoke, he told them what he’d found in the journal.

“Specimens? Samples? What are we into this time, Cap?” Wiggins said. “More mad scientist shite? For I can tell you now I had my lifetime share of that crap in Siberia. I thought this was supposed to be a cushy number?”

“So did we all, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “But you know what the colonel’s like. If we didn’t at least investigate yon cave up in the hills, we’d get a bollocking and you might well find yourself back in Siberia on our next shift. So buckle up, lads. We’re going for a walk and the sooner we get going, the sooner we’ll be back and heading for our lift home.”

Davies looked at his rucksack warily.

“How far do we need to lug this lot, Cap?”

“Ten miles by the looks of things. All of it upward.”

To a man the squad groaned, but Banks knew they were more than up to the task; they’d trained on worse terrain than this, in worse weather, and with heavier packs. It wasn’t going to be much fun. But it was going to be manageable.

This time out, he had each man also carry a rifle and spare magazines. He also had Hynd and Wiggins pack several blocks of C4 in their rucksacks while he took some detonators and a remote in his inner jacket pocket. It was extra weight but he’d rather have the weaponry and not need it than meet something unexpected and not have the firepower at hand. Besides, if anything needed ‘sanitizing,’ then C4 was usually the right tool for the job. A final inspection and, satisfied they had all they might need, he had Hynd lead the squad out, heading for the track at the rear of the tumbledown hut at the end of the row.

The wind had dropped to merely a light breeze, the sky an azure blue spotted with wispy strands of cloud and the fresh snow crackled crisply underfoot; it was as good a day for a walk as they were likely to get here at this time of year.

As they passed the ruined hut, Banks saw young Wilkins pause and cast a worried glance at the frozen skeletal remains underfoot.

“Whatever happened here, it was nearly sixty years ago, lad,” he said. “So don’t fash about it. We’re after information today, that’s all. Try to enjoy the walk.”

He followed the rest of them as they strode onto the track behind the hut and immediately began to climb.

* * *

The track wound in a long upward trail, climbing up the high walls at the farthest northeastern extent of the fjord. The path obviously predated the facility on the shore below, having been hacked into the cliff in some long distant past, possibly as a livestock trail given its width and the relative gentleness of the incline. Not that Banks was complaining, for it made for an easier climb than he had been expecting, although the amount of crisscrossing on the face of the cliff meant that it was going to be a longer distance than he’d bargained for.

At least the view was worth the effort, for they had an uninterrupted vista the full length of the fjord all the way to where it opened out to the hazy blue Atlantic at the horizon. The supply vessel was nowhere in sight, presumably still off visiting the rig, but Banks wasn’t worried about that; he had the sat phone if the captain needed to get in touch. It was even warming up now that the sun had begun to climb above the cliff overhead.

Banks refused to look up, knowing that would only dismay him at the heights yet to be scaled but settled into a rhythm, one foot after the other, loping along and letting the rucksack move with rather than against him. His attention drifted often back to thoughts of his overnight reading, trying to reach some kind of conclusion as to what end result the experiment might have been meant to reach. But he hadn’t got enough information; there were many pages still unread.

But I might not have to go through them if we get to the cave and clean up anything that’s been left behind.

It was thoughts of an early opportunity to head home that were foremost in his mind as he climbed.

* * *

They crested the cliff after an hour’s climb and Banks called a halt.

“Time for a breather. Smoke them if you’ve got them, lads.”

Wiggins and the two younger privates sat on a flat rock looking out over the fjord, while Hynd joined Banks in looking the other way. Banks pointed out a high, wooded valley two miles away to the northeast. The trial they’d been following headed off across a rocky plateau in that direction.

“If the map’s right, we go up through yon valley then follow a river up to a higher valley beyond. And that’s where we find our cave.”

“Samples and specimens, you said,” Hynd replied, passing Banks a cigarette.

Banks took the smoke and got it lit with his Zippo before replying.

“Aye. It sounds like they were trying to… infect, for want of a better word… a man with whatever it was they found in yon cave. To what purpose I’ve got no idea. Maybe there’s more explanation to come in the parts of the journal I haven’t read yet. But one thing I do know, I don’t think they liked the result very much.”

“You think the ruined hut and the bodies were the result of some kind of fuck up?”

“Aye. Whatever they were doing, they lost control of it then they had to bugger off fast.”

“Well, thank fuck it was seventy years ago and we don’t have to deal with it.”

“Aye. All we get to do is clean up the shite afterwards.”

At least I hope that’s all we have to do.

* * *

The plateau proved as flat and boring as it had looked to be from the clifftop; two miles of gently upward slope. There was little to see but fresh snow, rock, some hardy low to the ground shrubs, and the tips of tough grasses that were all that could hold on when the winter winds whipped across this exposed space. But the trail was clear enough, a dip in the snow that snaked away ahead of them, heading almost straight for the wooded valley to the northeast.

They stopped for another smoke at the edge of the plateau where the trail ahead wound up the wooded valley alongside a tumbling stream. A solitary white-tailed eagle took fright at their arrival and launched itself out of the highest tree, catching a thermal and soaring in wide circles overhead but apart from that, they were the only things moving in the landscape.

Aware that they had a way to go yet and a long way back at the end of it, Banks moved the squad out quickly, taking the lead now as the trail grew narrower and steeper as it went up by the side of a heavily wooded slope. The trees blocked much of the sun here and the colder air meant slippery conditions underfoot so the going was slower as they made sure to avoid turning their ankles on the rough, stony ground under the thin layer of snow. The stream tumbled in a series of small waterfalls that sent cold spray into the air that was bitterly cold on the lips and cheeks. Banks pulled down his goggles when it began to sting at his eyes.

He upped the pace, eager for sun, and was rewarded half an hour later when they climbed up out of the wooded valley onto the lip of an inland glacier that stretched away for several miles after taking a turn to the north. Halfway up this glacial valley, some three miles or more from their current position, there was a wall of ice shimmering brilliant blue in the sun and just below it in what looked to be a dry river bed was a circular collection of around a dozen domed huts. On the western hill above the settlement, Banks could just make out a darker hole high up on the valley slopes.

They had their first sight of their destination.

* * *

For the next two miles, they lost sight of the settlement above them as they ascended and descended through a series of dips and hollows in the terrain, the bottoms of which were icy cold where they lay in dark shadows sheltered from the sun. Banks was pleased to climb up out of the last one and look up a scree slope toward their goal. He was looking for smoke, hoping to see a fire or signs of life and maybe find someone they could quiz about the events of nearly seventy years ago, but now that they were closer, he saw the circle of domed huts was in a state of some ruin.

As they scrambled up the scree and got closer, the extent of the damage became apparent; half of the huts were roofless, looking as if they had been caved in by some tremendous force. Of the rest, two were blackened and burned-out shells. Banks steeled himself as they finally approached up a narrow trail through the scree. He realized he was expecting to see more bodies, more carnage like that they’d seen outside the hut on the fjord shore.

But from the outside, there was only the ruined huts and a deathly quiet; no bodies, neither human nor livestock — just an air of emptiness and long-unused dwellings.

“Another fucking mystery,” he muttered.

“Arthur C. Clarke’s Mysterious World,” Wiggins said with a cackle until Hynd shut him up with a glance.

“Wiggo, take Davies and do a reccy of the site. See if there’s any clues as to what happened here. Sarge, Wilkins, you’re with me.”

“Where are we going, Cap?” Hynd asked.

Banks pointed up the slope to the dark cave mouth a hundred meters or more above them.

“We’re going for a wee climb.”

- 6 -

It was a stiff clamber up half-frozen rocks using a trail no more than a foot wide, with several precipitous drops at cornering points that had Banks making sure to keep his gaze ahead rather than behind. The higher they got, the colder they became, and Banks was glad he’d enforced the cold weather gear. He was also wishing he’d thought to leave his pack down at the settlement for it tugged hard at his shoulders with every step and the rough terrain meant he wasn’t able to slip into his earlier comfortable lope. The climb seemed endless and they were all breathing heavily, steam showing thickly at their mouths and nostrils by the time they reached the wider ledge in front of the cave entrance.

Only then did he turn and look back down on the settlement. The only movement was Wiggins and Davies far below, coming out of one of the huts that was still roofed. Nothing else stirred the whole length of the glacial valley apart from the lone eagle that now circled silently in a high thermal overhead as if keeping a wary eye on them. It screeched as if annoyed at being noticed. Banks looked west, retracing their route. Far off to the south and west, a thin line of sea could be seen shimmering on the horizon. There were no jet trails in the sky, no boats out in the ocean, and no sign of civilization at all, as if the squad had been dropped several hundred, if not thousand, years back in time.

Banks was still looking at the view when he heard Hynd’s Zippo clatter and click as the sergeant lit a smoke. Banks turned towards him and caught a whiff, not of tobacco but of something putrid. It was only a faint tang but he’d smelled death often enough to recognize it immediately.

“It’s coming from inside, Cap,” Wilkins said, the color having suddenly gone from his cheeks.

“Don’t worry yourself, lad. Nobody’s been here for years; if there’s anything dead in there, it’s long past being able to do us any harm.”

He’d spoken with more confidence than he felt as he switched on the light on the barrel of his rifle and headed into the cave.

* * *

The smell got worse fast and Banks tried to breathe shallowly as the cave narrowed, concentrating the odor further.

The cave walls were rough and unworked, leading him to believe this might be a natural formation worked into the stone by weathering, ice, and water over the years since the last ice age. But worked or not, it quickly became clear that someone had lived here; someone, or something. White, bleached bones lay strewn in alcoves. Some were obviously animal, large deer in the main, but others were all-too-clearly human.

Hynd came up behind Banks and knelt, focusing his light beam on a pile and pointed at several grooves along the length of a long, all-too-human thighbone.

“Teeth marks?”

“Looks like it, Sarge,” Banks replied. “But as I’ve said already, these are old, more than sixty, nearly seventy years if I had to hazard a guess. Whatever happened here, we’ve missed it.”

Hynd didn’t look convinced but followed at Banks’ back with young Wilkins bringing up the rear as they went in deeper, now in darkness, having left the light from the cave mouth behind.

After ten paces, the passageway opened out into a larger area. Banks expected to see a rudimentary hearth, maybe a bed, or at least some sign of habitation, but there was only an empty space, a rough stone floor, and rock walls. The chamber was approximately cubical with smooth walls in the main apart from the one directly opposite their entranceway that looked strangely rounded and ridged, furrowed and almost organic in texture. The hackles rose at the back of Banks’ neck and his guts roiled; it didn’t matter that his senses were telling him that there was no danger here — his battle-hardened hunches were telling him otherwise.

“Looks like we’ve come on a wild-goose chase,” he said, already backing away. “There’s nowt for us here. Let’s head back and see if Wiggo’s got anything.”

“Hold on, Cap,” Hynd said. “What the fuck is this?”

He held his light beam fixed on the ridged and furrowed section of the wall and stepped forward closer, targeting the beam on one particular spot. He pointed at the area, the light wavering slightly as if the sergeant’s hand was trembling.

“Tell me that’s not a fucking hand.”

Banks stepped up alongside the sergeant and added his own light to the area. He had to agree with the sergeant’s assessment. It looked like a hand, a heavily lined palm and five stubby fingers hewn in rock rather than flesh and more than twice the size of a normal man’s hand. And now that he’d seen it, he stepped back, moved the light slightly to one sight, and saw the rest of a wrist, arm, and shoulder.

“There’s more,” Wilkins said quietly from their back. “Come back here; once you see it, you can see the whole thing.”

The two men stepped back to Wilkins’ position and all three of them shone their beams on the far wall.

There were four distinct figures in the stone, crowded together as if they had all crawled up into the rock and fallen asleep in a huddle, and Banks couldn’t say whether they were carved by some crazed sculptor or were once living creatures, now somehow embedded in the rock. Three of them looked to be truly ancient, scarred and riven by time, cracked and run through with pencil-thick fault lines where pale moss and lichen clung precariously to life.

The fourth and by far the largest of the figures was different again. It was the one they’d seen the hand of and by contrast, it looked to have been put into the rock far more recently.

Banks saw a shinier patch of rock reflecting light back from his beam and stepped forward again for a closer look. A large part of the leg, from thigh to ankle, of one of the older figures had been chiseled away — up close, you could see the tool marks. He remembered his reading of the journal.

“Fucking specimens and samples,” he muttered.

“What’s that, Cap?” Hynd said.

Banks turned to the sergeant.

“This is where their troubles all started. They should have left well enough alone. Break out the C4, Sarge. We’ve got some sanitizing to do.”

* * *

They set charges both inside the main cavern and in the corridor that led to the outside then Banks had the three of them retreat almost a third of the way back down the slope, stopping under a slight overhang that should give them shelter from any falling debris.

“Fire in the hole,” he said and triggered the remote.

A muffled whump echoed around the glacial valley, followed quickly by a shower of fine gravel. Scree loosened, shifted, and ran away from just below them in a shotgun spatter, setting off a small avalanche that raised a cloud of gray dust and took more debris almost all the way to where Wiggins and Davies stood on the valley floor below. The eagle overhead screeched twice in a high-pitched yelp of concern. Finally, the dust settled and the glacier fell quiet.

“Should I hop back up for a look, Cap?” Hynd asked. “Check that we got it all?”

Banks stood back as far as he dared on the ledge and looked up. All that he could see of the cave mouth was a pile of fresh rubble.

“Nah, fuck it. Job’s done. If anybody wants to come all the way up here to check on our workmanship, they’re welcome to it. Let’s see what Wiggo’s got to say, have a fag, and a cup of coffee, then double-time it back to the shore. We’ll use the rest of the C4 on the huts, finish off that whisky, then bugger off home sharpish. Yon supply boat should be waiting for us by the time we get back.”

They descended the narrow trail gingerly, aware that some of the ground underfoot may have been loosened by the blast and subsequent avalanche, and Banks was relieved when they all got safely to the valley floor without any sprained ankles. His relief was short-lived, for the look on Wiggins’ face when they walked over to the tumbled huts told him that something was amiss.

* * *

The thing that had Wiggins concerned was in the largest hut of the small settlement and one of the few not to be either caved in or ravaged by fire. Banks found the reason why it had been spared as soon as he ducked inside the domed building.

It was a circular structure some twenty feet in diameter and twelve feet high at the tallest point in the center; Banks guessed it must have been a communal meeting or eating place for the people who lived here. Deer and wolf hides lined the walls from floor all the way up to the hole at the apex where smoke from the huge hearth in the center would have escaped. It would have been a warm shelter against the ravages of winter in these highlands, and Banks imagined the small community gathered in shared warmth and companionship while storms raged at their door.

All of that was long gone. Now the place was a charnel house. Or rather, he guessed, it had been nearly seventy years before when whatever had gone down in the labs at the fjord had spread its madness to these shepherds. Now it was a mass grave for the score or so bodies that had been torn to pieces and scattered, discarded like broken dolls across all available floor space.

The bodies — or rather, torsos, for few had any limbs still attached — were dried out, almost mummified in the cold dry air of the glacial valley. Internal organs and guts had been ripped roughly from torsos and draped, as if in some manic impression of artistry, up and through the roof joists above so that the desiccated remnants of them now dangled like obscene party ribbons. The heads had all been brutally separated from the bodies and were stacked like cannonballs in a frozen pyramid in the hut’s center hearth, empty eye sockets staring from gray, dried faces set in screams of horror.

“There’s not enough bits,” Private Davies said, his face almost as gray as one of those frozen stares. It took Banks several seconds to realize the import and then he remembered the gnawed bones they’d found up in the cave.

“What are we into this time, Cap?” Wiggins said. “This is fucking Sawney Bean fucking cannibal territory, isn’t it?”

Banks forced his gaze away from the staring, frozen heads before replying.

“Whatever it was that did it, it’s long dead. We’re just here to clean up its mess. Burn this fucking place to the ground; it’s as much of a funeral as these poor buggers here are going to get.”

* * *

They stood at the edge of the settlement and watched the place burn while having a mug of coffee and a smoke; it hadn’t taken much to get the fires going, just their Zippo lighters and a few dried sticks. The huts took to the fire as if eager to be finally gone from this place. Banks thought someone should say some words over the dead but no one else spoke up and he couldn’t bring anything to mind that wouldn’t sound trite and glib. So they watched in silence as plumes of black smoke drifted upward in the still cold air, the eagle weaving in and out of sight high above them screeching a funereal dirge.

Hynd was the first to turn away and so the first to take note of the weather at the north end of the valley above the glacier.

“That doesn’t look like fun, Cap,” he said and Banks turned to see a black wall of clouds gathering and rolling slowly in their direction. He looked from that back to the huts that were now all almost completely burned to the ground.

“Okay, lads,” he said. “I’d call this place well and truly sanitized. Fun time’s over. Back down to the shore, as quick as you like. We might even have time for a dram before we head for the boat.”

As they turned away, there was a rumble from high up the slope. A small avalanche of debris tumbled down from where the cave had been but when Banks had a last look back before following the squad, he saw only a small cloud of dust rising and that quickly settled, leaving the valley still and quiet at their back.

- 7 -

It didn’t take them long to realize it was more than a bit of bad weather at their backs; the wall of clouds was coming on faster now, bringing with it a biting wind that forced them all to raise their hoods. It wasn’t long before sleet and hail drummed against the material around their heads. Banks could only be thankful for the small mercy that the weather was at their backs, for this wasn’t anything they’d be able to easily plough through face on.

The sleet turned to snow while they were still traversing the dips and hollows of the lower glacial valley. It accumulated fast, filling their footmarks almost as soon as they made them. They quickly lost sight of the trail and had to stay close together to avoid losing each other in the growing gloom and blowing snow. Banks realized with dismay that they had several hours of walking still ahead of them.

We’re not going to be able to keep ahead of it.

Banks made a decision when they climbed out of yet another hollow and felt the wind tug hard at his jacket and hood. He looked up to see that they’d reached the high end of the long wooded valley beside the river.

“We need to hole up ‘til this passes,” he shouted. “Head for the trees. Find us somewhere we can hunker down.”

* * *

They got lucky and found a rocky crevice not far inside the tree line that was already well overhung with trees. They were able to quickly cover it with snapped off branches and foliage to make a rudimentary shelter with an opening downwind so that they were safe from all but the strongest of gusts. Wiggins got the camp stove running near the open entrance and they hunkered around, taking turns in stirring a pot of field-ration dried soup mixed with snow while they had a smoke.

While the soup was thickening, Banks stood at the entrance and put a call through on the sat phone to the supply boat.

“We’ll be offshore in a couple of hours,” the skipper said.

“We won’t,” Banks replied and laid out their situation to the man on the other end of the line, having to shout to be heard above the wind that had risen to a howl in the past five minutes.

“Well then, you’re not going to like the weather forecast,” the skipper said. “The storm’s coming all the way from the polar region and it’s going to blow hard for most of the rest of the day. Find somewhere you can ride it out.”

“Way ahead of you there. Looks like it’ll be tomorrow before we’ll get back to the shore. Can you wait?”

“I’m not about to leave you there for the rest of the winter,” the skipper said and his laughter came loud and clear down the line. “We’ll find a secluded harbor in the lee of the wind for ourselves for the night and be ready for you sometime in the morning, Captain. Get in touch if anything changes; I’ll have someone monitor this line.”

Banks put the phone away as Wiggins passed him a mug of steaming hot soup.

“Settle in, lads,” he said. “We could be here for a while.”

* * *

Snow piled up fast outside their makeshift shelter but they’d made sure they had enough interlaced branches above them to prevent any snow getting down to where they sat huddled around the camp stove. The wind whistled in a wild howl outside and kept conversation to a minimum. It felt like night already; the gloom had deepened so much that the tips of their cigarettes shone like fiery red stars under their canopy.

Banks spent his time mulling over the scene inside the cave and at the settlement below it, trying to square it away with what he’d learned in the journal. The only theory he came up with, impossible as it might seem, was that almost seventy years ago the scientists had succeeded in turning the man McCallum into some kind of monstrous hybrid, part man, part… whatever the things were that they’d seen fused in the rock.

Then they had lost control of him. He’d broken out of the cell, gone on a rampage down by the fjord, then headed for the hills. While the site on the shore was being given up as a lost cause, McCallum, or what he’d now become, had by some unfathomable instinct found his way up to the high settlement where he’d, presumably, killed the villagers in a murderous, cannibalistic rampage.

And then he somehow got merged into the rock in the wall? I’m having trouble believing that part.

Then again, he’d had trouble believing many things on their recent missions. That hadn’t stopped them being real, hadn’t stopped the unbelievable things from killing his men. As he sat in the gloom finishing his smoke, he resolved to be open to any and all possibilities.

They had sanitized the cave and the settlement — they only had the huts on the shore to do and they could go home. But his gut still remembered the feeling of imminent danger he’d felt before they’d blown the cave to buggery and it still hadn’t settled. He fought the premonition down and concentrated on trying to peer out the entrance into the snow.

Nobody dies on this trip.

* * *

The storm showed no sign of abating and the gloom deepened further, almost as dark as night under their canopy. The cold crept through their heavy snow gear and even with hoods up and goggles on, ice cracked at their lips. Banks kept them moving, rotating them around the tiny camp stove; he knew Wiggins had several spare fuel canisters in his pack but whether they would be enough to get them through a night wasn’t clear.

It’s going to have to be. There’s no way we can go out in this.

They were lost, a tiny dark bubble inside a sea of swirling howling white. Wind gusts tugged at their roof but the weight of new snow on top was holding it down for now. If that weight got too heavy, they would be in danger of it collapsing in on them — just one more thing to worry about as the storm continued to rage.

Time seemed to pass infinitely slowly; several times, Banks checked his watch only to find mere minutes had crawled by. They smoked too many cigarettes and drank so much coffee that after a while they were forced to take turns venturing to the open end of the shelter to take some bladder relief. Banks heard Wiggins shout something about the dangers of getting ‘your knob frosty’ but that was about the extent of any conversation as the hours crept along.

Finally around ten o’clock at night, the wind dropped several notches and although snow continued to fall, it wasn’t coming down with so much force and the howling abated enough that they were able to talk. Sergeant Hynd joined Banks at the entrance for a smoke and a coffee as they looked out at the weather.

“Good enough for a walk?” Hynd asked.

Banks shook his head.

“Not yet. I think it best to wait out the night if we can. We’ll be able to make good time once the sun is up.”

“More coffee and Wiggo’s farts it is then,” Hynd replied. “But you’ve been awfy quiet, Cap. What’s on your mind?”

Banks shared his theory of earlier, as to the nature of the thing they’d found in the cave.

“You think yon was a man, a soldier — one of us? And the scientists did that to him?”

“I think so. I don’t have another explanation that fits what we’ve seen, do you?”

“You mean they went and got themselves a fucking cave troll?”

Banks smiled, felt fresh ice crack at his lips that he melted away with coffee before replying.

“It certainly seems that way.”

“I can see why they wanted it hushed up; we can hardly get all high and mighty about the Nazis experimenting on folk when we were doing the same ourselves just a few years later. What were they trying to achieve?”

“Beats me. Some kind of super-soldier if I’m reading the clues in the journal right — something that would have put us out of business and have us retiring early to our pipes and slippers.”

Hynd laughed and waved a hand out at the weather.

“Right now that doesn’t seem like a bad idea, Cap.”

* * *

Wiggins made up another pot of the dried soup — Banks noticed that he had to replace the fuel canister in the stove. The corporal saw him looking.

“Three cans left, Cap,” he said. “Should see us through ‘til breakfast then that’ll be that.”

Banks had Davies and Wilkins check the canopy for any dry wood that they might use for a fire but he already knew, having checked earlier, that all the branches and foliage were too damp to burn; his order was more to keep them moving about than anything else.

Now that the wind had dropped more of the heat from the stove was being trapped inside their shelter and for the first time since taking refuge he started to feel, if not comfortable, at least not in danger of freezing solid.

He was on the point of relaxing when the attack came out of the night.

- 8 -

They heard it before they saw it, a roar like rocks clashing together somewhere out in the storm. Banks had enough time to unsling his rifle off his back, swing it ‘round, and point it towards the entrance before a looming shape filled the opening, plunging them into almost complete darkness. Instinct took over and Banks fired three quick shots into the thickest part of the shadows, the noise almost deafening as he hadn’t had time to put his plugs in. The thing in the entrance howled, a gravelly, rasping screech, and reached inside under the canopy. The next thing Banks knew, he was flying through the air, having been pulled out of the shelter, gripped by the left arm by something that felt like cold iron, and tossed aside. He was lucky to hit a snow bank; if there had been any rock at all when he landed hard, he’d have broken his neck and most of the small bones in his body. Even then he was badly winded, having to take a few seconds to catch a breath he thought would never come.

He managed to roll, amazed to find he still had his weapon in his right hand, and looked back to their shelter from a distance of almost ten yards. The snow obscured his view. The darkness made it more difficult still. Wavering dancing beams from three rifles was the only light but Banks saw enough to know that whatever the attacking thing was, it was huge. It loomed high above their makeshift canopy, tearing the foliage and branches apart, strewing them far and wide as it attempted to get at the men underneath.

Gunfire cut through the wind, muzzle flashes showing up bright in the gloom directly ahead. Banks ducked and rolled quickly as several rounds blew up puffs of snow just in front of him and kept rolling to his left until he was sure he was out of the line of fire.

That took long seconds and by the time he got himself up into a kneeling position to provide supporting fire, the attacker, still little more than a looming, dark, roughly human-shaped figure in the night, had torn most of their canopy apart. It reached inside, pulling one of the squad up and out, dangling the man by a left leg, shaking him around like a rag doll. Banks switched on his rifle light, hoping to illuminate a target he could aim for but the light had little effect against the swirling snow. He got to his feet and moved forward as fast as he was able through snow that reached up towards his knees, stopping only when he was sure of a clean shot that wouldn’t hit one of his men.

Even then he couldn’t risk a headshot, for the thing had the dangling man held up in front of it. Banks put three rounds into the attacker’s back in a line down the length of the spine. It didn’t even flinch. Banks saw more muzzle flashes, heard the crack of more gunfire, more concentrated now as if the defenders had got themselves organized.

And finally, the weight of fire had an effect. The captured man was tossed aside as unceremoniously as Banks had been seconds earlier and the attacker lumbered away, quickly lost in the swirling storm.

* * *

Banks quickly made his way over to where the discarded man lay sprawled in a snow bank. It was young Wilkins and he hadn’t landed as lucky as Banks had; the lad’s left leg lay at an impossible angle below the knee. Davies was over quickly, kneeling at the private’s side, and he quickly confirmed what Banks already knew.

“The leg’s broken, Cap,” Davies said. “The skin’s not pierced thankfully but it’s a bad one nonetheless. We need to get him off this hill and somewhere warm fast.”

Hynd and Davies set to getting a makeshift splint on the leg; Wilkins was awake, pale-faced and haggard with pain but he gave Banks a thumbs-up when asked how he was doing.

“Wiggo,” Banks said. “You’re with me. We need to make a litter for the lad; we can’t carry him all the way back to the shore from here.”

They used the remnants of their shelter, using long strips of bark to patch together two long straight branches and a thick bed of foliage. While working, they covered each other, the lights on their rifles trying vainly to pierce the snow, straining to hear anything beyond their own shouts in the wind.

“What the fuck was that?” Wiggins shouted. “They don’t have fucking huge bears here, do they?”

“That wasn’t a bear,” Banks replied but said no more, concentrating on the work at hand.

By the time they’d got the litter built, Davies had finished strapping up Wilkins’ leg as best as could be managed and every man was showing signs of being affected by the cold, the skin on their cheeks taking on a bluish tinge. Banks knew how they felt; he couldn’t feel his fingers and ice crackled at his lips and nostrils with every breath.

“No faffing around,” he said. “We need a stiff walk to warm us up. Kit up, we’re getting out of here. Sarge, you and Davies break the ground; Wiggo and I will take first shift on the pulling. If that fucker comes back, put it down hard and fast. Let’s get this lad to safety.”

It took them no more than a minute to retrieve the camp stove and the rest of their kit then they were ready to move. Despite the wind and snow, Sergeant Hynd had a cigarette stuck firmly between his teeth as Banks gave out the orders.

“You all remember the way. We go down the side of the tree line here for a few miles so we shouldn’t get lost on this stretch. Yon plateau is going to be another thing entirely but we’ll worry about that when we get there. Lead us out, Sarge.”

He was thankful that nobody had any questions; he wasn’t sure he had any answers.

* * *

The hastily built litter worked about as well as could be expected; the two long branches dug grooves into the snow as they pulled and poor Wilkins, facing the rear, was getting a face full of snow with every step. But at least Banks and Wiggins had the wind at their backs while pulling, because otherwise the task might have been beyond them.

Banks walked, head down, following the steps in the snow made by Davies some six feet ahead. The snow was almost up to their knees but luckily it was powdery and dry at this altitude. It still proved to be heavy going and his back and shoulders were already complaining both from the weight of his rucksack and the effort of pulling the litter along. At some points, the slope helped them out and made things easier; at other points, the slope made things worse as they had to work hard to stop the litter careering downhill of its own volition.

Despite his gloves and heavy-duty boots, Banks couldn’t feel either hands or feet. Ice crystals formed on the inside of his snow goggles, obscuring his sight further. He fell into a rhythm, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, one step at a time, down what felt like an endless trail lost in a whiteout of wind and snow. The tree line was merely a darker looming shadow up an incline to their left and he knew, although he couldn’t see it, that the small river ran down a slope somewhere to his right. He focussed on staying inside that track.

He lost all sense of time. He knew he needed to stay alert; whatever had attacked them was still out there somewhere in the storm. But pulling the litter needed all of his effort and soon he was so weary all he could do was keep his head down and trudge.

He only stopped when he walked into Davies who had come to a halt ahead of him.

They had reached the foot of the valley and were faced with a long, exposed walk across a featureless plateau. There was no sign of their trail ahead of them; the snow had rendered everything into a flat whiteness.

- 9 -

They stopped only long enough to check on Wilkins — they got another thumbs-up although the lad looked gray in the face, his eyes sunken deep in their sockets. They switched pulling duty. Davies and Hynd took over the litter. Banks took the opportunity to light up a cigarette; the smoke felt warm in his throat and chest and he was welcome of it. If there had been any sign of shelter, he might have stopped and got Wiggins to break out the camp stove for coffee. But there was only the plateau, with not even a large enough bush to huddle behind.

And besides, that fucker might be right behind us for all we know.

He looked out into the snow, hoping for the sight of a landmark, a reminder of the paths they’d taken to get here, but visibility, although improving, was still little more than ten yards in any direction. He knew the wind was coming mainly from the north and that they needed to head west so he made a turn slightly right of where he was facing. The snow whipped into the side of his head now, spattering against the outer fabric of his hood. Hynd and Davies were going to be pulling the litter into a crosswind coming straight at them across the flat terrain.

But it can’t be helped. The situation is what it is and the sooner we get across this, the sooner we’ll get back to some warmth.

He led the squad out onto the plateau.

* * *

Walking was easier now that he wasn’t pulling Wilkins along behind him but the earlier effort had taken its toll and he felt weary down to his bones. He tried to pick a point twenty yards ahead of him, keeping the wind coming from his right and hoping that they were going in as straight a line as possible. At one point, he retrieved the sat phone from his pocket, hoping to check the GPS… and that’s when he found that it hadn’t survived his rough treatment in the earlier attack. Something had got jumbled in its works; the power refused to come on, giving him only a dark, blank screen. He had no time to stop and fiddle with it; that would have to wait until they got back to sea level and shelter. If he couldn’t get it working, they were going to be reliant on the supply vessel skipper getting concerned and sending somebody looking for them; Banks knew that wasn’t a given.

But worrying about it now isn’t going to get me anywhere.

They trudged on through the storm.

* * *

He judged they must be almost halfway across the plateau when they came across tracks running from his right and across the front of their chosen route. They’d only recently been made, just beginning to fill with snow; large, eighteen-inch-long footprints, spatulate with no visible toes and pressed deeply down as if they’d been made with great weight.

The fucker’s got in front of us.

Banks had them up their speed to almost a trot and now he wasn’t looking straight ahead but tracking his gaze from side to side. The range of his vision still wasn’t much more than ten yards and he knew if an attack came, they’d get little warning.

When it came, it came, not from in front but from behind, and their first indication was a startled yell from young Wilkins and the rat-a-tat of three shots as the private fired at something to the rear. Hynd and Davies reacted immediately, dropping their hold on the litter and Banks and Wiggins joined them in wheeling, weapons already raised, as a huge lumbering figure came out of the snow.

They got their first clear look at it even as they pumped a rapid volley, three shots each, into it, shots that sent it turning away with a roar that was soon lost along with it in the snow. Banks was left with the impression of something nearly ten feet tall, almost gorilla-like — barrel-chested and heavy-bellied, with short legs and wide, muscled shoulders. But instead of black or silver hair, the thing was gray and grainy, almost rock-like, what passed for skin riven with lighter-colored fissures.

“What’s this now, the fucking Incredible Hulk?” Hynd said as the ringing in their ears from the shooting started to fade.

“Wrong comic, Sarge,” Wiggins replied. “We’re in Fantastic Four territory here; it’s the fucking Thing.”

“Whatever the fuck it is, we know we can keep it at bay,” Banks said, peering in the direction where the thing had gone and seeing only more snow. “So eyes peeled and move out, lads. We need to be somewhere we can defend.”

Hynd and Wiggins took up the litter this time and Banks and Davies ploughed the road, all of them fully alert now, the adrenaline from the attack masking their tiredness as they headed as fast as they could muster for the clifftop and their path down to shelter.

* * *

They found the path more by luck than judgement only twenty feet to the left of where they ended up at the cliff edge. Banks used his rifle light to check ahead; there were no fresh tracks on the trail but just looking at it made him weak at the knees. Although it had a gentle gradient in the main, there had been steep portions in places coming up, especially at tight corners, and now it was covered with more fresh snow. It was still blowing a gale and they were going to have to get the injured Wilkins safely down without the litter and the private on it careering off and away down to the harbor far below.

And that’s even before we worry about the fucking rock gorilla at our back.

“Easy does it on the way down, lads,” he said. “There’s coffee and a dram waiting for us down there. Let’s make sure we all get there in one piece.”

They took it slowly. Where they were able, all four of them took a corner of the litter but at some corners the trail was only wide enough for single file and those spots they took even slower still. The wind threatened to toss them off the path at every exposed point and twice they had to hug the cliff face and get Wilkins up on his feet to negotiate particularly sharp, windswept corners. On the second of these, a gust of wind caught the private, setting him off balance and by instinct he put his weight on the broken leg.

His wail of pain was answered by a roar, like clashing rocks, from high above them.

Banks turned to the others.

“Sarge, Davies, get Wilkins down off this fucking cliff ASAP. See what you can do to make one of yon huts defensible for the rest of the night. Wiggo, you’re with me. We’ll hold here, give the others time to get down.”

It was only a minute before Banks and Wiggins were alone on the track, the others having become lost to sight in the storm. The angry roar came again from above them.

“I think somebody needs a Snickers,” Wiggins said.

“It’s a boot up the arse he’s needing,” Banks replied. He pushed in his earplugs and Wiggins followed suit then Banks knelt on the path, with Wiggins standing above him, both aiming up the trail towards the clifftop.

* * *

“Will it come?” Wiggins said.

“We pissed it off. It’ll come,” Banks said and as if in reply, the huge gray figure came down the trail at a run towards them.

Wiggins shouted, even as Banks was taking aim.

“Stop. Why don’t you just fucking stop.”

To their amazement the thing came to a halt, standing still in the wind some ten feet up the slope above them. Banks saw that its eyes were little more than deep black pits in a craggy face but there was nothing unrecognizable about the way it cocked its head to one side, listening. Wiggins didn’t waste any time, putting three shots into its face as Banks put three in its belly. They didn’t to do any discernible damage, although Banks thought he saw something slough off the body where his bullets struck it.

And there was also no mistaking the look the thing gave as it roared again and wheeled away at speed, heading away into the storm; it was a look of confusion — that and betrayal.

* * *

They waited for several minutes but there was no sign that the thing might return.

“Cover me, Wiggo,” Banks said. “I think I saw something.”

He went back up the slope to where the beast had been standing. There, in a hollow made by its giant footprint, he found a lump of tissue the size of his thumb. One end of it felt hard, like cold stone but the other end was soft and when he touched it, the fingers of his glove came away bloody.

He showed Wiggins his fingertips and the corporal smiled grimly.

“Well, at least it bleeds. That’s a start.”

- 10 -

They waited on the path for five minutes, both to ensure the beast wouldn’t return and to give the others below time to find shelter and make it safe. Wiggins even relaxed enough to have a cigarette but Banks couldn’t bring himself to drop his guard; the memory of being tossed aside like a discarded coffee cup was still large in his mind — it would be a while yet before he got over the wound to his dignity.

But after a while, with the wind showing no sign of getting any less — or any warmer — he called time on their vigil.

“Let’s go, Wiggo. With any luck, the sarge will have a brew on.”

They descended quickly to the shore and neither of them gave a look to the ruined hut and the strewn body parts, now almost obscured again in snow. The lights were on in the hut where they’d spent the night before and they found Davies working on Wilkins and Hynd getting a fire going in the grate. There was already a pot of water boiling up on the camp stove.

Banks’ first thought wasn’t for heat but for the wounded man. He went quickly to Davies’ side, initially dismayed to see that Wilkins was unconscious. Davies put him right.

“I put him out, Cap,” the private said. “We found enough sedatives in yon lab next door to keep him pain-free all the way home; I think that’s for the best.” He showed Banks several tall jars filled with a milky fluid. “An opiate of some kind. Which one I’m not sure, but it’s strong stuff.”

“Talking of strong stuff,” Wiggins said as he got some coffee going on the stove. “What was that all about out there, Cap? If I’d known it was going to obey me, I’d have told it to fuck off. Why did it stop?”

Banks didn’t have an answer for that. He put a hand in his pocket and took out the sat phone. His fingers touched the old journal that was still sitting inside his jacket.

“I don’t know, Wiggo. But maybe the answer’s in this book. In the meantime,” he said, tossing the phone to the corporal, “see if you can get this bugger of a thing working, will you? Yon supply boat skipper’s expecting a call in the morning. I’d hate to disappoint him.”

Hynd had got the fire going and had now set up guard by the door. He banged on the wall beside the doorway.

“This is the strongest of the huts, Cap,” the sergeant said. “But seeing as how our boy survived a shitload of C4 and a cave falling on his head, I don’t ken what good it’s going to do us.”

Banks removed the lump of tissue from his pocket and showed it to Hynd.

“It bleeds. As Wiggo said, that’s a start. We might have bought ourselves some time.”

“Time for what?”

“Coffee and a fag for one thing,” Banks replied and took the journal from out of his pocket. “And a look for some answers in here for another.”

* * *

Wiggins dispensed coffee and smokes and slowly they all felt some warmth creep back into their bones. Wilkins was still out for the count but they put him down close to the fire, ensuring he’d stay warm. Wiggins set to fiddling — dismantling — the sat phone and Banks took the chance of a quiet moment to do a rapid search of the journal for more clues.

The bulk of the part he hadn’t already read was more of the writer’s misgivings as to the nature of their experiment and details of the scientists’ increasing frustration at not being able to control the thing they’d made. The very last entry was a longer one. Banks lit himself another smoke and started reading.

* * *

Jan 15th 1951

We buried Johnson today, a naval funeral out in the fjord — there was precious little left of him to do the right thing with after McCallum had finished eating. Jensen had the temerity to try to condone the act of brutal barbarism.

“It’s in his nature,” the scientist said, as if McCallum’s nature is not now merely that which we have endowed him with. Jensen tried to fob me off with some old drivel about racial memory being embedded in the specimens we took from the cave up in the high valley. He says that the process has created a chemical soup in what passes for McCallum’s brain these days and that drives only his most base instincts, but I will have none of it. I know exactly what it is we have wrought here between these cold cliffs.

We have created a monster and I for one will have to live with that for as long as God gives me breath. If this is the future of warfare, I am glad I will be too old — or too dead — to have any further part of it.

I wish now that I had listened to Johnson when he came to me all those months ago to ask for McCallum’s termination.

“It would be for the best if we used all the sedative we have at our disposal in one fell swoop,” he said.

“On what grounds?” I had asked.

“For mercy’s sake,” had been the simple reply.

And at that, Johnson took me that very hour to the brick and iron cage to see what we had made together. Even then, more than six long months ago, Private McCallum was a painful thing to look upon, being gray and riddled with pink fissures that wept blood and fluid with every movement. He had become a thing not fully rock yet not entirely man, a thing that moaned and wailed most piteously day and night when not sedated.

I had to naysay Johnson and I refused to countenance any slowdown of the work at that time. Back then, in the height of summer and with glowing testimonials from Jensen to pass on to my superiors in London and Edinburgh, I still thought the experiment, if not entirely moral, was yet a minor success. Yes, Jensen was having difficulties controlling the thing — I can no longer think of it as a man worthy of the name — it continued to resist all form of discipline, whether it be in pain or in removal of food for long periods. It refused to comply with even the simplest commands and its very intransigence threatened to negate any goodwill the results so far had brought us from the people who pay the bills — and my salary.

The orders that came through in the late autumn suggested that the matter was dragging out too long and that our budget might not be forthcoming for the following year if more encouraging results could not be achieved. I knew exactly what they meant by ‘encouraging’—they required the final product of what we did here to be obedient to a fault, with no questions, no complaints. They wanted an attack dog they could send into battle with no qualms, one that would put the fear of God into the enemy. They did not expect it to have put the fear of God into those of us tasked with creating it.

Jensen, for his part, took the new orders to heart and began a stricter regime of discipline, treating his patient more like a prisoner with no rights, no privileges. When discipline, drugs, beatings, and electric shocks failed to inspire obedience, Jensen turned to his last resort.

From October to the start of the new year, he starved it. Johnson came to me several times over that period, once again pleading for mercy for the man.

“That’s no man,” Jensen had said when I passed Johnson’s qualms on. “Not anymore.”

“If not man, then what?” I asked.

“He is what we made him, a product of the materials from the cave samples; he is one with his building blocks — he is a mountain troll and he is the very last of his kind. He is a legend.”

In passing, I would like to state here for the record that I doubt whether Jensen is fully sane. The pressure of work, the long hours, and a constant proximity to the beast has unhinged him in some fundamental fashion that is hard to pin down but perfectly obvious to anyone who knows the man. My recommendation is that once we are done, he be placed on administrative leave and in no way should be allowed access to any of the materials we have gathered here.

As for his statement of McCallum being ‘the last of his kind’; I knew, of course, that if our experiment were eventually proved to be a success, then the poor creature in our cell would not be the last of anything, merely the first of a new army. And having seen far too much of one war already, I was not keen to see another, particularly one fought with beasts such as this.

But, mindful of my salary, my position, God help me, my reputation, I’m afraid I let it drag on far too long. My main reason, the only thing I have to plead with, is that Jensen finally got some results, although it did not come from the starvation or any other deprivation.

It is the simplest things that you neglect to consider.

Jensen was with his ‘patient’ administrating a sedative when the thing woke unexpectedly and threatened to crush the scientist’s windpipe with a single hand. Sergeant Wicks was in the room standing guard at the time and his training and instincts led him to call out an order.

“Private McCallum, put that man down. That’s an order.”

And to everyone’s great surprise, the thing took pause and stood still, as if confused. That gave Jensen time to administer his sedative.

He came to me that very afternoon.

“We should have seen it before. He still has a soldier’s training, a soldier’s loyalties. All we have to do to make him comply is play to that.”

Johnson obviously felt that it was all too little too late — or maybe he just did not wish to see any further torture. Whatever the case, he entered the cell alone late at night, having bribed the guard with scotch and cigarettes for passage. His purpose is unclear but if asked to speculate, I’d say he was intent on administering the excess dosage of sedative he mentioned to me in the summer. He may even have made an attempt but it seems he got too close to the reaching arms of the “troll.” The first we all knew of it in the camp was the high screams that echoed around the fjord but Johnson was long gone before anyone could come to his aid.

The starving had obviously brought on a great hunger. I saw the results of that red feast; it is a sight that will be with me for as long as I live.

And that is it for me. I have had enough and despite Jensen’s long and loud protestations, I have given the order.

This experiment is over.

The thing dies tonight.

* * *

That was it; there were no more pages to read. Banks could only surmise that some calamity befell the attempt to bring the experiment to an end, the result of which was the tumbled walls and bent iron of the cell and the dead men at the foot of the cliff.

But the main thing he took from the reading was the reason the thing on the cliff path had stopped its attack at Wiggins’ shout.

It’s a soldier. Somewhere down there, somewhere deep, it’s one of us.

- 11 -

“What do you mean, it’s one of us?” Wiggins said when Banks told the squad what he’d read. “It’s a fucking monster.”

“And it wasn’t always one. The poor bugger volunteered for experimentation. He thought he was doing his bit for King and Country and look where it got him.”

“Aye, well, one of us or not, the bastard broke Wilkins’ leg and tried its best to get the rest of us. And you say it likes long pork? If it gets in here, it’s going down; I’m not having that wanker munching on my leg.”

Banks didn’t reply. He was starting to get another idea, an inkling of a plan.

“Davies, you said you’d found high-grade sedatives in the lab?”

“Aye, Cap. Enough to put an elephant to sleep.”

“How about a ten-foot-tall rock gorilla?”

Davies laughed.

“Aye, maybe one of them too.”

“What are you thinking, Cap?” Hynd said.

“I’m thinking, Sarge, that we don’t leave a man behind; we’ve been doing that too often recently to my mind. Yon thing out there is — was — one of our own. We owe it to him to try to put things right. We should at least try to sedate him and get him home to where the boffins can have a look at him. It might be reversible.”

“Have you gone soft in the head, Cap?” Wiggins said.

“That’s enough, Corporal,” Hynd replied sharply.

Wiggins didn’t look contrite.

“Aye, okay then. But here’s some other good news; the phone’s FUBAB, totally fucked. Looks like we’re waiting for the supply boat to notice we haven’t phoned home.”

“How about the old radio here?”

“Too far gone,” Hynd replied. “It was a crystal valve set and there’s not a one left intact.”

Banks turned to Davies.

“Will Wilkins be okay with a wait?”

“As long as we keep him warm, sedated, and off his feet, he’ll be as fine as can be expected, Cap. The leg needs reset though and soon, or he’ll have a limp for the rest of his life. The sooner we can get him to a hospital the better.”

* * *

More coffee, more smokes, and growing warmth in the room from the fire soon had them forgetting the rigors of their yomp across the snowy hills above the fjord. Banks quizzed Davies further about the sedatives.

“How would we dose the thing up, if we can get him up close?” he asked.

“Injection would be the best way. But you saw how little effect our bullets had; it looks like his skin’s like rock.”

“Not everywhere,” Banks replied, taking out the nub of tissue again and tapping it against the journal. “I saw fissures when I got a good look on the path out there; like cracks and with a lighter color in the deeper parts. The book says at one time the cracks wept, blood and fluid. Could be a soft spot? One we could get a needle into?”

“Aye,” Wiggins piped up. “A soft spot, seventy years ago maybe. The bloody thing’s been sleeping in stone since then if your theory’s right, Cap. We might be better off packing the cracked bits with C4 and standing well back.”

It might come to that yet, Banks thought but didn’t say out loud.

* * *

Banks had Davies prepare a long syringe full of sedative for each of them.

“I want to be ready if an attack comes. I’m sure it — he — is out there somewhere watching even now. When he comes, don’t shoot until I give the order. Is that clear?”

He was looking directly at Wiggins when he spoke and the corporal gave him a nod in return; Wiggins could be insubordinate at times but he was a good soldier when it mattered and that was all Banks could ask of anyone.

Even McCallum?

That was a question he was hoping he wasn’t going to have to answer.

He allowed each of the men another dram from what was left of the whisky and took his own mixed with more coffee. Young Wilkins looked to be out and far from any pain, and the rest of them were warm. It beat being huddled under a makeshift shelter back up top on the hill and by rights, he should be more relaxed, but Banks’ guts roiled with tension. They’d had their flight. Now every instinct told him that it wouldn’t be long before the fight.

* * *

Banks ordered Davies and Wiggins to bed down for a couple of hours. It was just after three o’clock in the morning; last night’s sleep seemed a long way away and it had been a long, wearying trek out on the hill. What with that and the wearing off of the earlier adrenaline rush, Banks felt tired to his bones. He asked Hynd to take watch with him; fearing that he might fall into sleep if left on his own.

“Did you mean that, John?” Hynd said as they had a smoke by the doorway once the others had settled down to sleep. “About him being one of us?”

“That I did,” Banks replied. “We lost McCally on Loch Ness, Brock in the desert, and we never got to bury either one. I’ll be buggered if I let another soldier go into the dark alone without trying to help.”

Hynd spoke softly, as if taking care with his words.

“Yon thing out on the hill didn’t look or act like any soldier I’ve known,” the sergeant said.

“That’s what I thought… until I saw how he reacted when Wiggins gave him an order. The soldier’s still there. Just like it’ll be in us, long after we hang up our boots and settle down to that pipe, those slippers, and a warm fire.”

“You and I both ken that our chances of making it that far get slimmer every time we come out. How many old retired lags do you know in this game?”

“Damn few and they’re all dead,” Banks replied, agreeing. “But I’ve got to try and save this one. He must be 90 if he’s a day and well overdue his pension. Will you help me at least try?”

“You know I go where you go, John, same as it ever was.”

Banks smiled thinly.

“I’ll remind you of that the next time things get hairy.”

* * *

The night wore on. The wind dropped away completely and snow stopped spattering against the windows but Banks didn’t feel like venturing outside in the dark. He stood with Hynd at the doorway, their conversation turning to old campaigns, battles long since fought but not forgotten but even that made him wonder.

Does McCallum remember his own soldiering days? How much of the Army man can be left in him after all this time… and am I just deluding myself to think I can save him?

“Penny for them, John?” Hynd said, noticing that the captain had gone quiet.

“Just remembering the men we’ve lost,” Banks said.

Hynd smiled sadly.

“Aye, it’s that time in the morning, isn’t it… the hour when they come back to ask why.”

“And I still don’t have an answer for them.”

“Aye, you do. We all do. We did it, do it, all of us living and dead, for duty, comradeship and the squad, for the man next to us. Same as it ever was. And they all knew that as much as we do. As much as you do.”

Banks smiled back.

“It never hurts to hear it said though. The first round’s on me when we get back.”

“Hell, if your plan works and we actually capture yon big brute, you’re on the bell all night.”

This time, they both laughed in unison — and were answered by a roar of rage from out in the night.

- 12 -

“Lights out, Sarge,” Banks whispered.

While Hynd moved to comply, Banks went over to wake up Wiggins and Davies. In a matter of seconds, all four of them stood in darkness, syringes, not rifles, poised for use, listening for any sign of attack. Something crashed, a rattle and tumble of stone outside, and Banks guessed that the last remnants of the red brick cell were now finally reduced to rubble.

No attack came. Twice they heard heavy footsteps beyond the door but they passed by each time.

He’s not daft.

Banks moved towards the door, putting a hand on the handle.

“Cap?” Hynd said softly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Bringing him to us. Follow my lead and only make a move if I do. And remember,” he said, showing them the syringe. “Into the cracks. And pray we’ve got enough of this crap to keep him down.”

He opened the door and stepped out into what was now a still, cold night.

* * *

A full moon hung over the fjord, sliver glistening off both water and cliff faces. The snow underfoot looked almost blue and the carpet of stars twinkled like fairy lights overhead. The troll stood in the ruins of the red brick cell, staring up at the sky as if in wonder.

Banks took a step forward and spoke just loud enough that he knew he would be heard.

“Private McCallum?”

The response was immediate. The thing dropped its gaze from the stars and looked straight at him, its eyes lost in shadows under heavy rugged brows. It broke into a lumbering run, coming fast.

The rest of the squad was still coming through the door and the troll was already almost on top of them when Banks raised his voice, shouting now, putting all of his authority into it. He was playing a hunch here, aware that he was risking his life on it but to back off in the face of this rush would be equally as fatal.

“McCallum, stand down. That’s an order, Private.”

As before, the response was immediate although it took a while for the thing to come to a halt for it had worked up quite a head of steam. It stopped only six feet in front of Banks and once again cocked its head to one side in an all-too-human gesture that showed it was listening.

“I’m Captain Banks,” Banks said, clipped and official in manner, “and I’m here to help you.”

Then he made the mistake that could have cost him his life; he raised the syringe, showed it to the beast.

The troll moved first, letting out a roar of rage that echoed all around the walls of the fjord then swiping at the syringe as if to knock it away. Banks didn’t have time to avoid the blow and his left hand was struck by what felt like a lump of cold stone, sending the syringe flying into the night to clatter off rocks on the shore. His whole arm went numb at the weight of the hit and he tumbled off balance, just having enough presence of mind to let himself fall and not get entangled with the rest of the men.

As he rolled to one side, he saw Wiggins jump up onto the troll’s back, getting it in a half nelson. The beast, enraged at this affront, moved to grab for the corporal. At the same time, Davies stepped inside its reach and plunged his syringe down on its chest — he missed his mark and the needle — and the glass itself shattered against the hard skin. The private couldn’t get out the way in time and a huge arm brushed him away with a swatting blow that threw Davies across the quayside to land heavily, sliding for ten feet in the fresh snowfall and coming to a halt just above the drop into the icy waters of the fjord.

Banks was still trying to get to his feet and Wiggins was still hanging grimly to the beast’s neck when Hynd, calm as you like, ducked, rolled forward in a wrestler’s move, and came up between the thing’s legs. He took his time, looking for the right place to strike and slid the syringe into a crack in the skin at the thing’s groin, pushing the plunger in quickly before rolling again, through the thing’s legs and free.

“Ha, got you in the bollocks, you bastard,” Wiggins shouted and finally had enough of a grip to be able to swing his other hand ‘round and plunge the syringe into the troll’s neck. “This is for Wilkins,” he said and pushed the plunger before dropping away and tumbling out of the thing’s reach.

* * *

It took a while to go down and it went down hard. First its legs went weak, sending it rolling like a drunk to one side then the other. It hit the hut wall, leaving a massive dent. It tried to reach for Wiggins, who dodged it easily. The corporal danced like a boxer, fists up, taunting the thing.

“Come on then, big man. Have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”

Wiggins threw a punch at the thing’s belly then danced away holding his fist.

“Fuck me, it’s like punching a wall.”

“Don’t try kicking it in the nuts then,” Hynd said, laughing grimly.

The sergeant stepped forward and, using the outside of his heavy boot, kicked the troll hard on the inside of its left knee. The beast tottered and finally fell, even while it roared in rage, reaching for Hynd with huge grasping hands. It hit the quay with a crash, another echo ringing around the cliffs then finally lay still.

“That went well,” Wiggins said with a smile and went to help Davies up. The young private was shaken and stiff.

“Nothing broken except my dignity,” he said.

“Good lad,” Banks replied. “Fetch as much of that sedative as you’ve found,” he said. “I think we’re going to need it.”

Hynd lit two smokes and passed one to Banks while they both stood over the prone figure of the troll.

“What now, Cap?” Hynd asked.

- 13 -

“I don’t have a fucking clue, Sarge,”

The troll had fallen, face down, full length along the quay. The resemblance to a gorilla was even more marked close up and Banks was reminded of Kong, after his fall from the Empire State building. Hynd seemed to pick up the same thought.

“It wasn’t beauty that felled the beast… but a big needle in its bollocks. Should we try to move him, get him somewhere warm?”

“Given where he’s spent the last seventy years, I don’t think he gives a fuck about the cold, Sarge. And besides, it will take a fucking crane. All I can think of is keeping him under with the dope and hoping the skipper of that supply vessel has a bright idea.”

“Speaking of which,” Hynd replied. “I’ve been thinking too. We don’t have a phone but maybe we could get a beacon going? We’ve got enough crap to burn here and at least it would let anybody passing know we were here?”

“Sounds like a plan to me. Get Wiggo to help you. I’ll need Davies to keep an eye both on Wilkins and this big galoot here.”

Hynd had one last question before he turned away.

“You really think this can be reversed? I mean, I get it, he’s a soldier and we all saw how he reacted to your order. But how can anybody come back from something like this?”

Banks didn’t reply but the same answer he’d already given came immediately to mind.

I don’t have a fucking clue.

* * *

He let Hynd and Wiggins get on with the job of building a beacon fire on the quayside and went into the hut to find Davies checking on Wilkins.

“The lad’s still out cold, Cap,” Davies said. “He slept through the whole bloody thing.”

“Let’s hope we can keep yon big bugger out there in the same condition.”

“I’m not sure how to go about that, Cap,” the private said. “There’s a formula for sedatives based on body weight, blood pressure, several other factors. But I’m not even sure how yon thing’s alive. There’s no discernible pulse, no sound of a heartbeat, and he’s only just breathing. For all I know, all we’re doing is killing him slowly.”

“Just do your best, lad,” Banks said. “We’ll get an expert onto him as soon as we can.”

“There’s experts in this shit?”

“Well, there used to be. All we can do is hope there’s still some bugger back home that knows how to deal with him.”

Banks didn’t say it but he was already second-guessing his own decision; he could hear the colonel’s admonition even now.

“I said bloody sanitize, not babysit.”

The only comeback he’d have at his disposal is that he didn’t have a clue how to sanitize the thing out on the quay; dumping a cave load of rock on it hadn’t done the trick, nor had a volley of rapid fire from five guns. If the troll woke up, Banks might get a chance to try something else, maybe Wiggins’ idea of using a load of C4 to blow it to buggery. As he walked back out to help with the building of the beacon fire, he was hoping that decision might be taken out of his hands.

* * *

They built a huge pyre at the end of the small jetty, piling on anything that looked like it would burn; chairs, tables, bedding, cots, and cupboards, and used what little paper they could salvage from the old filing cabinets to get the fire started. The only thing they kept back was a hospital-style folding bed that they had Wilkins — still unconscious — laid out on by the fire inside.

Banks kept a close eye at all times on the fallen troll but it showed no sign of movement, no sign of life at all apart from a thin, wheezing breathing you could only spot if you got right up close; that wasn’t particularly advisable as its breath stank. Banks wondered if it was dying, if they had not indeed inadvertently killed it with the dose of sedatives but didn’t feel any particular urge to try to test the theory.

Let sleeping trolls lie.

They all had a simple breakfast from their field rations then stood around the pyre while having a smoke and coffee. Then there was nothing more to do but stoke the flames and wait.

Wiggins looked back at the prone troll.

“That’s no kind of fate at all for an old soldier,” he said softly.

“I thought you were all for blowing it to hell and back with C4?” Hynd replied.

“Aye, but that was before I saw it react to the cap’s orders. It’s a soldier, right enough… or at least it used to be. Do me a favor, lads, don’t let any daft bugger experiment on me.”

“The only reason anybody would want to is to find out how so much bullshit could be concentrated in one man,” Hynd replied.

“Aye, that and how that same one man manages to shag your wife so much without you noticing.”

That earned Wiggins a cuff around the ear but the exchange had lifted the mood and Banks felt something relax inside him that he hadn’t realized was tight. They weren’t home and clear yet, but he’d got the team down alive off the hills and they’d trapped and caught the beast that had threatened them. He was finally started to feel better about the mission.

“So, what do we know about trolls?” Davies asked.

“Not a lot,” Banks admitted. “And that’s all from fairy stories, Billy Goat Gruff and things lurking under old bridges.”

“Do you think there’s more of them?” Hynd asked. “We saw yon older ones embedded in the rock; did our blast free them? Are they roaming about out here too?”

Banks’ good feelings evaporated as quickly as they had come.

“I hadn’t thought about that; I thought they were too old, too cold… too dead.”

“Aye,” Wiggins said, looking back at the prone troll, “and I thought this was fucking impossible. Are you a monster magnet like us, Davies? Well then, welcome to the S-Squad.”

They all stood guard for the rest of the night, watching the cliff path, expecting at any moment for a fresh attack to hit them. But all stayed quiet.

When dawn rose, it showed the supply vessel lying offshore at the mouth of the fjord.

* * *

Banks took the dinghy back down the fjord with Davies looking after Wilkins in the back. It was a careful job, maneuvering the cot down off the jetty to lay it across the rear seats. It took all four of them to keep the wounded private in a horizontal position. The lad started to come ‘round just as they were getting ready to depart.

“Are we there yet?” he said with a thin smile. “I need a pish.”

“Aye, well, you should have thought of that before we left,” Wiggins said with a laugh. “Just go where you’re lying. It’ll keep you warm on the trip.”

Banks left Hynd and Wiggins on the jetty with the prone troll and instructions not to do anything daft then headed at full speed for the supply vessel.

The skipper looked over the gunwales as they came alongside and took in the situation immediately. He motioned Banks to steer ‘round to the rear of the boat, where the supply vessel’s crew was able to quickly winch the dinghy aboard onto the roll-on, roll-off deck.

The boat’s medic was immediately on hand and the crew moved quickly to carefully lift Wilkins up and out, whisking him away across the deck to the living quarters.

“Davies,” Banks said, “you go with the lad and see he’s looked after. Be back here in ten.”

He turned to the skipper.

“I’ve got a story for you and a favor to ask. A bloody big, bloody heavy favor.”

* * *

“There’s no such thing as trolls,” the skipper kept saying but Banks saw the doubt dancing in the man’s eyes. He showed the man the journal, pointing out pertinent passages, and taking out the nub of flesh he’d shot off the thing the night before; it had all gone hard as stone now but it was also, clearly, something that had come from a living being.

The skipper still wasn’t convinced. In the end, it took a trip back to the quayside in the dinghy with the man to persuade him that Banks’ story wasn’t some elaborate joke at his expense.

The skipper took one look at the prone troll on the ground, got close enough to look in its face, then had to quickly stand away from the stench of its breath. He muttered to himself.

“It’s a fucking troll.”

“Aye,” Banks replied. “And it’s also a British soldier that needs our help. Will you help me?”

The skipper looked at the troll again then back to Banks before he nodded grimly and they headed back to the boat. Over several mugs of coffee laced with vodka, they made calls both to the Norwegian authorities and the colonel back in Lossiemouth.

As Banks had anticipated, “I sent you over there to sanitize, not to capture a fucking troll,” was the gist of the colonel’s remarks but like Banks, he was a soldier first and foremost and finally agreed that all that could be done for McCallum should be done.

“Maybe the eggheads can do something, maybe they can’t. But it’s the Norwegians’ call — you’re on their patch.”

Then it was the skipper’s turn and his call for help in the matter met with what Banks imagined would be a flurry of activity at the other end, followed by orders and directions.

The skipper finally turned away from the phone to Banks after almost an hour.

“I finally persuaded them that we are on the level. We are to make for Tromsø,” he said. “The university there will be expecting our delivery, although it was only your colonel that persuaded them that they were not being pranked. And I have the colonel on the line for you again.”

Banks took the call, expecting the mission to be over and to be ordered home, so he was surprised to get an assignment.

“Take the squad and go with McCallum — you’re on babysitting duty. We’ll get Wilkins home from Tromsø—there’ll be someone waiting at the harbor to take him to a plane. The rest of you are to go to the university — just to make sure an old soldier gets the care he is due and isn’t treated like some kind of freak.”

* * *

They had to wait for high tide to allow the supply boat to get up the fjord into the small harbor at the base and then everybody had to work fast. They wrapped the troll in stout chains; it took eight of them to turn the thing over to get the chains underneath then attached a hook to the boat’s crane, which creaked and squealed with the effort, threatening to collapse under the strain. In the end, they had used the largest winch on the boat to drag McCallum across the quay then onto the roll-on deck with a great screech as of stone on metal. Banks saw two of the vessel’s crew cross themselves at the sight of the troll and another gave a flick of the fingers, an old protection against evil he’d only seen once before in a remote village in the Scottish Highlands.

But finally, after more screeching and leaving more than a few deep scratch marks on the deck, they had the troll’s body aboard and could close up the gangway. And they had proof it wasn’t all that near death, for while moving it onto the boat it stirred, straining against the chains. Its eyes opened, deep black pits under its heavy brows, and Banks might have been wrong but he thought that he saw anger there and confusion.

“Put him under again, Davies,” he said to the private and watched as the drug was administered, the rage went out of its eyes, and it settled back into its previous slumbering state.

Banks went back ashore, just long enough to help Hynd and Wiggins place the last of their C4 strategically around the camp. The squad all returned to the supply vessel and Banks waited until the vessel had left the quay and was well out into the fjord.

“Fire in the hole,” he said and pressed the remote trigger.

A series of flashes burst among the huts, followed quickly by a booming roar that echoed for long seconds around the cliffs. When the smoke cleared, all that was left of the base was piles of dust and smoking rubble.

- 14 -

It took most of the day to reach their destination and the squad spent much of it either catching up on sleep, eating mounds of stodgy food in the ship’s small mess, or visiting with Wilkins. The lad was sitting up in bed, proclaiming himself more than happy with the high-grade painkillers on offer.

“We got the leg set, Cap,” Davies said. “He’ll have some pain once the happy juice wears off but a few months rest and he’ll be right as rain.”

Banks spent most of his waking time up on the bridge with the boat’s skipper, sharing his dark cheroots, drinking strong black coffee, and mostly fighting off the offer of vodka to wash the smoke down.

They spoke of trolls.

“I heard your man Wiggins has been making fun, comparing our passenger to something from American comic books. Many of my crew are not laughing. You should let him know that trolls are a serious matter in these parts.”

“That’s just Wiggo’s way,” Banks said. “He’s not serious about much of anything except cigarettes, booze, and lassies, and I’m not sure how seriously he takes women.”

“All the same, some of the crew are from fishing stock born and bred along this coastline. You know what such folk are like — their stories go back far into the mists of time and men who live by the sea are all too aware that most of the legends told on winter nights have at least some basis in reality. They tell me that the fjord has long had a dark reputation, going back many centuries. They even call it the Troll coast and say it has long been shunned. I asked around the crew about the camp you just blew up. It too was known of and it was seen as a great mistake, bringing fear that something might be woken that has long been asleep. People were happy when it was abandoned and less happy when they heard you were making investigations in the ruins.”

“They won’t like having yon thing laid out on the deck then?”

The skipper smiled thinly.

“I had to promise extended shore leave in the Tromsø bars; otherwise, I’d have a mutiny on my hands.”

They were cruising as fast as they could manage through an archipelago of wooded, snow-capped islands on a glass-flat sea under azure skies, all trace of the night’s storm long gone and once again, Banks felt the knots of tension in him ease and unravel.

It felt like the job was, for all intents and purposes, over.

* * *

The only incident of note on the journey came when the sun was at its highest. A shout of alarm echoed from the roll-on deck. It was Wiggins, who was currently assigned guard.

“Cap, get your arse down here. The big bugger’s not happy.”

Banks arrived at the same time as Hynd and Davies, with the skipper and his crew standing well back behind them. The troll moaned piteously and writhed on the deck as if in agony. As Banks got closer, he saw that the thick skin, which looked more like crocodile than human, was dry and flaking, and the fissures between the thickest ridges were weeping a watery fluid. The troll tried to raise its arms to cover its face but was prevented from doing so by the heavy binding chains. Banks saw its gaze look up towards the sun and it moaned again then, a wail that spoke of pain and fear. The chains creaked and strained under the pressure of its struggles. They were holding.

But for how long?

“I don’t ken what his problem is,” Wiggins said. “He’s on a cruise, kicking back and getting a tan. All he needs now is to get laid and have a few drinks. He’s got it cozier than us.”

“It’s the sun,” Banks said. “He’s afraid of the sun; more than that, he’s being hurt. Sarge, get the skipper to find something to cover him up — a big tarpaulin maybe? Davies, see if another shot of sedative will calm him.”

Both orders were followed within the next few minutes and they did the trick; as soon as the beast was covered by two sheets of thick tarpaulin and another dose of sedative kicked in, it fell quiet and silent again and stayed that way for the rest of the trip.

The sun was going down behind a chain of islands in the west as the skipper brought the supply vessel into Tromsø harbor.

* * *

Tromsø proved to be a picturesque city of wooden, almost medieval in aspect, buildings, gaudily painted in primary colors and in the red of the sunset appearing to glow warm and golden. Old church towers shone in the last rays of the sun even while the harbor itself succumbed to darker shadows. That suited Banks just fine as they were able to strip off the covering of tarpaulin and get a dockside crane hooked onto the troll’s chains without any problems and without the beast stirring from its slumber.

There was an ambulance waiting for Wilkins as soon as they docked.

“I’ll have a round of beers in waiting for you when you all get home,” the private said as they lifted him aboard.

“Make it two,” Wiggins said. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll need them.”

Overhead, the dockside crane squealed and creaked as the troll was lifted slowly and carefully off the deck. As Wilkins’ ambulance departed, the quayside was left empty save for a large flatbed truck, a score of heavily armed men and an officious, thin, little weasel of a man who Banks took against immediately.

The little man barely looked up from where he was ticking off items on a list as he spoke.

“My name is Doctor Larsen,” he said in heavily accented English, “and I am in charge here now. You may all take your leave as soon as the cargo is unloaded.”

Banks walked off the vessel and over to the man and stood up close; he had four inches of height and more than that in breadth on the small man and he made sure it was noticed.

“We are not going anywhere except to accompany your ‘cargo’ which, I would remind you, is a British soldier. My orders are to ensure his well-being.”

“Your British orders mean nothing here,” the man began but Banks had seen his eyes, seen the doubt growing, so he kept pushing.

“I think you will find that they do,” he said. “Shall you make the phone call or shall I? I’m sure our respective governments would love to hear from you.”

The small man reddened and looked flustered. He seemed to be about to argue then looked in Banks’ eyes and quickly away.

“Very well then, but you will not be armed and you will have a watching brief only. I have been told that the study of this find is my responsibility and my responsibility only.”

“And again, I remind you that your ‘find’ is a British officer. Any harm comes to him and your responsibility will be to answer to me. Best you take it seriously.”

The obvious leader of the armed men on the quay came over to defuse the situation and looked Banks in the eye.

“Captain Banks?” he said in a clipped precise English. “Captain Olsen. He’s right about the weaponry — I can’t sanction you running around with assault rifles in the city. You and your men may, however, keep your handguns as long as they are holstered.”

Banks nodded; he hadn’t expected to be allowed the rifles anyway.

“Where are we headed?” he said, addressing the captain rather than the other man.

“The university. We have a trailer ready for you and your men and passes will be provided for the laboratory areas. I assure you all due care will be taken with your man.”

Banks saw a different message in the small doctor’s eyes but now wasn’t the time to push it any further.

The squad fetched their kit, and Banks thanked the skipper for all his help — and his vodka. As soon as the beast was loaded onto the flatbed — once again covered in tarpaulin to hide it from prying eyes — they piled into a succession of SUVs and followed it in a winding trail through the city.

- 15 -

“So what’s with the wee crabbit guy?” Wiggins asked. Banks was in the back of the first of three SUVs with Wiggins alongside him and Captain Olsen and his driver up front. Hynd and Davies were in the vehicle just behind them.

“What is crabbit?” Olsen asked. “That is not a word I have come across before.”

“It’s Scottish,” Wiggins said, “and it means many things in different circumstances but it looks like all of them fit yon doctor.”

Banks laughed and addressed Olsen.

“How about dour, unsmiling, bad-tempered, an itchy pole up his arse… any of them ring a bell?”

Olsen laughed.

“All of them and all when applied to our doctor. I am afraid he is not a very good advertisement for our city but he is regarded as the expert in this particular field, having studied under Professor Jensen in his youth.”

“Jensen from the original experiment?”

“Yes, the very same. He lived here in the city and died an old man sometime in the 1980s.”

“I thought no one got out of the base alive,” Banks said.

“I do not know the story,” Olsen replied.

But Larsen might, Banks thought. There were holes in the story as told in the journal he’d read. Perhaps Larsen would be able to fill in the blanks.

* * *

The first sight of the university surprised him, for after seeing the city center on the way through, he’d been expecting an imposing old World European-style edifice. Instead, they drove around the outside of a tall, modern structure. Yes, there was plenty of polished wood in evidence in its construction, but the main thing on show was a high, wide, and handsome expanse of glass frontage, glowing red in the very last of the sun. They followed the flatbed down into a cavernous underground garage and while the bed of the truck was being unhitched from the front cab, Olsen showed them to a long, plush trailer.

“Are we going camping?” Wiggins said.

“This will be your home for the duration,” Olsen replied. “It is fully stocked, has hot water and power, no TV reception down here I’m afraid, but there is a DVD player and some movies. There is beer and vodka in the fridge and frozen pizza for the microwave.”

“Everything a growing lad needs,” Wiggins replied, looking ‘round. “Could do with a better view though. And maybe some dancing girls.”

The squad got their kit stowed inside the trailer; Banks had just enough time to note that it was far more luxurious than they would have been able to offer in Lossiemouth had roles been reversed.

“Wiggo, you and the sarge get settled in. Davies and I will go with the big hard man to make sure he’s looked after. Just don’t snaffle all the booze and pizza before we get back.”

With Davies at his side, they followed Olsen back out into the main garage then walked behind the flatbed as it was towed away by two forklift trucks.

* * *

The convoy of forklifts, flatbed, and men walked the length of the garage to the far-east end, into a descending tunnel that was obviously of older vintage. Olsen saw Banks looking around.

“This was a nuclear bunker in the bad old days,” he said. “Professor Jensen saw a use for it while the new university was going up and was instrumental in it being reconfigured and incorporated into the building works.”

They passed through a thick, circular iron vault door that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a bullion depository.

“What do you keep down here that needs so much security?” Davies asked but didn’t get an answer, although they didn’t have to wait too long to find out. The slope evened out as they entered a wide, circular underground chamber almost a hundred yards in diameter. The central area consisted of a wide circle of computer servers, gas chromatograms, and numerous long tables festooned with laboratory equipment. The forklift trucks unhooked the flatbed directly in the center of the facility. All around the outside walls were more of the large steel doors like the one they’d entered through.

“What do you keep down here?” Davies asked again. Captain Olsen waved a hand towards one of the doors.

“Have a look.”

Banks and Davies both walked over and peered through an eye-level window. The glass was almost opaque due to its thickness and at first, they thought there was nothing inside but an empty cell with roughhewn walls. Then Banks’ perspective shifted and he saw what he thought might be the outline of a moss-covered arm. Once he’d seen that, the rest clicked into place like one of those fancy holographic images you had to stare at the right way to see. It helped that he’d seen the same thing before, in the high cave above the fjord; one of the rock-encrusted figures was bound — perhaps asleep — embedded in the stony walls inside.

He turned away and counted the doorways — there were twenty-four of them equally spaced around the central area.

* * *

“Jensen’s experiment wasn’t confined to the base in the fjord, was it?” Banks asked and Olsen smiled grimly.

“Not after you Brits decided to give up on it. The professor was not ready to quit. He brought his samples here and, with the aid of volunteers from the local prison population, he continued his work. What we have here is the result. But they have all been asleep and immovable for more than fifty years now.”

Larsen, the doctor, arrived as Olsen was speaking.

“And as the heir to the great professor’s legacy, I am, of course, very excited to get to work on discovering why this new specimen is up and moving about.”

Banks decided not to mention the fact that they’d dropped a cave on the ‘specimen’… he didn’t want to give Larsen any daft ideas.

Davies went over to the flatbed to check on the prone figure still lying there in chains.

“He’s out for the count, Cap,” the private said on his return. “None the worse for the trip but he’ll be out for a good few hours now that he’s out of the sun.”

Banks was still looking around the chamber at the heavy, sealed doors and the armed guards stationed at every fourth door around the perimeter.

“How many have you got in the rock?” he asked, addressing Olsen.

“Thirty-two — some are doubled up and—”

Larsen broke in.

“And that is all the information you need. You are merely observers here, not inspectors. I will want to start experimentation as soon as the sedative wears off — probably in the morning. I want you gone by then. You have no authority over me.”

“You’re right there,” Banks said, keeping his voice low and calm. “What I do have is authority over the wellbeing of a British soldier. I’ve told you already — if he comes to any harm whatsoever, then you will answer to me. And I will be here to ensure it one way or the other. Your job here is to try to reverse the process, am I right?”

“That is what my superiors have requested but…”

“No buts. You do your job, I’ll do mine, and we’ll all get along just fine.”

Larsen was clearly a man to turn to bluster when intimidation didn’t work but Banks wasn’t about to listen to any of it. He turned back to Olsen.

“I’d like to be here when any of this man’s experiments are done on McCallum. Is it within your remit to grant me and my men access?”

Olsen smiled.

“Indeed it is, Captain. And you have my permission. Indeed, you may feel free to visit the laboratory at any time — we have nothing to hide from friends.”

Larsen looked like he was going to bust several blood vessels, more so when Banks laughed in his face.

“I’ll be in my trailer when you’re ready to begin, doctor,” he said. “Don’t start without me, if you know what’s good for you.”

- 16 -

Banks and Davies got back to the trailer to find Hynd and Wiggins in front of a large TV watching a dinosaur movie, eating pizza and drinking lager.

“It’s all right for some,” Davies said and Wiggins laughed.

“There’s a wee oven in the back, the pizza’s in the freezer, the fridge is full of booze, and this film is fucking crazy. Best babysitting mission ever.”

Once Banks and Davies got their pizza and a round of beers for all four of them, they settled down over the movie but Banks found his attention drifting, especially when it came to daft scientists giving daft excuses for their failed experiments. Larsen reminded him all too much of the men in the movie.

And I’ve got a feeling he still knows more than he’s telling.

While the others shouted at the sillier bits of the movie, Banks went back to perusing the old journal. He didn’t know what he was looking for.

But I’ll know it when I see it.

On his earlier readings of the journals, he’d skipped over where the writer had pasted in some of Jensen’s daily reports; the ones he’d skimmed had been too dense and full of chemical formula and statistical analyses to be of interest. But this time through, one page in particular caught his eye, obviously written by Jensen, for it was in a much tighter, fussier, hand than the main body of the journal.

* * *

Daily report, June 9th

We have been making progress with the analysis of the samples taken from the cave at Target Site One, and I believe I can now speculate with some confidence as to the nature of the infection that causes such marked changes in the test subjects.

We have been laboring under the assumption that we are dealing with something out of myth and legend, a thing that might even be supernatural in origin but I am too much of a scientist to entertain such folly. And now I have been vindicated, in some small part.

The rock samples have proved impervious to our drills but I believe I have succeeded with a judicious usage of acids and essential salts in breaking the material down to its constituent parts. My breakthrough came, not when I thought of earthly rock strata and geology but of somewhere else, somewhere out in the dark that seems to be the preferred habitat of our nascent beasts.

I can now say with certainty that the rock in our samples most closely resembles that found in recent meteorite finds in Russia and some of it might even be considered at least proto-organic. I have a suspicion that once our technology advances to a state where we might investigate the depths of the rock structure properly, we will find there to be complex hydrocarbons present, perhaps amino acids and, who knows, perhaps even bacteria or viruses of some kind.

We are certainly dealing with an extraterrestrial biological infection. It does not kill but confers considerable size and strength to the infected, which perfectly fits our purposes and orders in the matter. The apparent tendency of the infected to prefer to slumber, lost to the rock, is regrettable but it is, I believe, one we can overcome with the right mixture of chemical dosage and psychological control.

By tomorrow, I shall have a detailed plan of action worked out for the way ahead from here but I think we can see light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

Banks was mulling over what he’d read and hadn’t looked up for a while. When he finally put the journal aside, it was to see both Wiggins and Davies sound asleep in front of the TV; Wiggins had a half-eaten slice of pizza on a plate on his belly.

“Let sleeping dogs lie,” Hynd said at his left. “It means more vodka for us old-timers.”

Banks took a shot of vodka and a cigarette when offered, and Hynd turned off the TV and sat down opposite him.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, John,” Hynd said. “You’re taking this business a bit personally, aren’t you?”

Their friendship over the years allowed Hynd a degree of familiarity, especially with a drink and a smoke in their hands. It had become an unwritten rule between them — booze and a fag was a safe time when orders could be questioned and questions could be asked, even if Banks didn’t particularly feel like answering. But at least he had a response for this one straight in his head.

“Aye, I suppose I am,” he replied after sending half his vodka down to chase a lungful of smoke. “And I know that after all these years there’s little chance of saving anything of McCallum. But we’ve lost a few recently — it would be nice to get a win.”

“You’re thinking of young Brock out in Syria again?”

“Him and Cally and all the others. It’s getting to be a long line, Sarge. Too bloody long.”

“We all know the job coming in, John,” Hynd said, leaning forward and pouring them each another drink. “You’re the boss but the deaths aren’t on you; they’re on the job. And the squad knows that; they trust you to do right by us and to my mind you’ve never made a wrong decision.”

“Thanks for that, anyway,” Banks replied. “But it doesn’t make the dark nights any shorter.”

Hynd clicked his glass against Banks’ one.

“Aye, well, we’ve got the booze for that, haven’t we?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Banks replied, knocked the vodka back in one and reached for the bottle.

* * *

The hangover in the morning was one of those skull-pounding, light-avoiding ones that Banks had been trying to minimize in recent years. A shower, coffee, and some fried eggs helped but he was still feeling fragile and the first smoke of the day left him queasy. Hynd looked no better off and they grinned ruefully at each other as Wiggins waved the empty vodka bottle in their faces.

“You greedy sods snaffled the whole lot? Well, I hope you’re suffering this morning.”

“We have hangovers so you don’t have to,” Hynd replied with a smile. “But never mind — if there’s any heavy lifting to do today, you’ll get to do it.”

They were finishing off what they could manage of breakfast when one of Olsen’s men knocked on the trailer door.

“The captain wishes to inform you that Doctor Larsen has started his experiments.”

- 17 -

All four of them made their way quickly through the garage and down into the bunker. Banks felt twitchy, his gut instinct telling him that there was trouble ahead and he felt almost naked without the rifle over his shoulder. The fact that the Norwegian soldiers around the main chamber appeared to be armed to the teeth didn’t do much to reassure him.

Then the sight of Larsen bent over the troll’s body drove all other worries from his mind. The doctor held something that looked like a heavy-duty ice-fishing auger and was preparing to drill.

Banks strode over.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking samples,” Larsen replied calmly. “It is standard procedure.”

“Standard procedure, my arse. That drill bit’s as thick as my thumb.”

As he closed on the prone body, he saw that its eyes were open and that it was straining at its chains, the individual links creaking as pressure was brought to bear. Larsen didn’t show any sign of stopping and had the auger lowered, touching the stony skin. Banks knocked it out of his hand. The drill clattered away across the floor. Banks’ gaze was fixed on Larsen but he was aware that several of the Norwegian guards had raised their weapons, taking aim at him.

He laughed at the shock on Larsen’s face.

“I told you,” he said. “I won’t allow you to harm a British soldier.”

“But I need samples,” Larsen said, reverting to bluster again.

“Find another way; a more humane way. Or is doctor just another word to you?”

By this time, Captain Olsen had come over to Banks’ side.

“Captain, perhaps you should let the doctor get on with his work.”

“I’m not stopping him,” Banks replied. “But if he tries to use yon implement of torture again, I’ll just knock it out of his hand again. Then, if you want to shoot me, you can shoot me, but I don’t think either of us wants to make an international incident out of this. It can be settled easily by the doctor here realizing he’s working with a patient, not a sample.”

“There is nothing of the man left in him,” Larsen spluttered.

“And I’m telling you I know differently.”

The chained figure struggled harder in its chains, the rattling and creaking echoing loudly around the chamber.

“Private McCallum, be still. That’s an order,” Banks said, putting his authority into it. McCallum became still and the chamber fell quiet. Larsen looked, wide-eyed, from Banks to the troll and back again.

“Good man,” Banks said and turned to Larsen.

“You can take small samples now, Doctor. Your patient is calm.”

Larsen looked to Olsen for support but the Norwegian captain had already nodded to Banks and walked back towards the door. Larsen moved towards where the auger lay on the floor but Banks stopped him.

“Nope, it’s not going to happen so don’t even think about it. Besides, here’s something I made earlier,” he said, taking the nub of tissue from his pocket and handing it to the man. It was even rougher to the touch than before now and felt more like cold stone than flesh; Banks was glad to be rid of it. “This should be enough of a ‘sample’ for you to be getting on with, don’t you think?”

* * *

The remainder of the morning passed quietly. The squad stood around while centrifuges spun, chromatograms ran tests, and computer screens flickered. Mid-morning, Banks let Hynd and Wiggins return to the trailer for a coffee and a smoke while Davies went to check on the chained figure.

“He’s going to be coming ‘round soon, Cap,” the private said. “I should give him another shot.”

“You will do no such thing,” Larsen bellowed from where he sat at a computer. “You outsiders have tried to usurp my authority since you got here but this is far enough. You have made it clear that I am to treat this… thing… as my patient. Very well, I accept. He is a patient… my patient… and I shall be the one to make decisions on his medication.”

“I cannot be responsible for what happens if he comes around fully,” Davies said.

“The responsibility is mine,” Larsen said. The statement was punctuated by a restart of the straining against the chains and the creaks and squeals echoed around the chamber, whiles Banks’ guts seethed and roiled. It might have been the hangover but he didn’t think so. Old soldiers knew instinctively when things were about to turn hinky.

There was trouble in the air.

* * *

That trouble came while the squad, having returned to the trailer for a lunch of pizza and coffee, were enjoying a smoke. Their relative calm was punctured by the wailing howl, like a clashing of rocks, and Banks’ immediately knew, just knew, that Larsen had made a bad decision in their absence. The noise was all too familiar; they’d last heard it out on the hill in the snowstorm — the patient was awake and he wasn’t happy.

They arrived at a run in the central compound in time to see Larsen withdraw a bloodied auger from the prone figure’s belly. The troll writhed and strained against its chains, its pained howling echoing and setting the whole chamber ringing like a bell.

“Larsen, what the fuck are you playing at?” Banks shouted and made directly for the doctor. The man dropped the auger and stepped back in the face of Banks’ obvious anger and was spluttering as he backed off.

“I’m doing my job,” he said. “He’s my patient now.”

“You’re no kind of doctor at all, are you?” Banks said. “Well, I promised you a beating and I’m a man of my word.”

He didn’t get to throw a punch. McCallum let out one final yell, louder than the rest, then the chamber fell quiet and still… but only for the space of two heartbeats. Then the call was answered, from the sealed rooms around the perimeter.

Thumping, like the pounding of great drums, set the place vibrating; Banks felt the beat through the soles of his feet and in his gut, like standing too close to a bass loudspeaker. He happened to be looking at the nearest of the cells as the viewing window split with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Farther ‘round the circle, one of the circular doors threatened to dislodge from the wall as it was hit with great force from the other side.

Larsen ran past Banks, heading for the main exit. Several of the Norwegian guards were also heading in that direction, while a handful still stood their ground, weapons raised pointing towards the cells, where the pounding was louder now, more insistent.

Up on the flatbed, McCallum howled and with a great roar strained and split the twin chains around his chest, sending the iron skittering and clattering across the floor.

“Marines, we are leaving,” Banks shouted and, making sure the rest of the squad were following, headed for the main entrance.

They were halfway there when the first of the cell doors collapsed inwards and a troll forced its way out into the chamber. This one was similar in size to McCallum but its skin, if the word even applied, was rough moss- and lichen-encrusted rock and it was squat, almost barrel-shaped. It came across the chamber fast on legs as thick as tree trunks. One of the guards made the mistake of trying to get in its path. He managed to let off three rounds but the troll didn’t even register the blows. A fist as big as a basketball caved in the guard’s chest, sending a gout of blood, too red against the white walls and sending the man sprawling thirty yards away to come up in a crumpled heap against one of the computers.

* * *

Then it was all panic and running. Banks was aware of multiple clanging vibrations running through the facility as cell doors burst open. There was more roaring as the escaped trolls joined their voices with McCallum. The squad fled up the corridor and arrived at the main doorway to find it starting to close against them; they only managed to slip through at the last instant before the huge vault entrance slammed shut with a clang.

Larsen was standing in the corridor by the keypad that operated the door and Banks turned on him again.

“You bastard; you’ve left some of your own men in there. Get this door open again, right now.”

A siren began to wail and the white lights in the corridor turned to pulsing red. Captain Olsen, white-faced and grim, put a hand on Banks’ shoulder.

“It’s too late, Captain,” he said as there was a whoosh, a sound of escaping gas, and all-too-human screams came faintly from the other side of the door. “He’s enacted the wildfire protocol — Halon gas. Nothing’s getting out of there now.”

- 18 -

At first, it seemed the Norwegian captain was right, for a grim quiet fell over the facility, the only sound the wailing of the siren until Olsen stepped forward and cut it off using the keypad. They stood there under the red throbbing light, the adrenaline rush of their flight starting to dwindle.

“It is done,” Larsen said.

As if in answer, the vault door shook in its, frame sending dust falling from the roof. The drums pounded again on the other side and Banks imagined the basketball-sized fists of stone, many of them, battering away in unison.

“That’s not possible,” Larsen whispered.

“Not probable, more likely,” Banks replied. He ignored Larsen and spoke directly to Olsen.

“I hope you have a plan B. This door’s not going to stay shut for long.”

More rubble fell from the roof above them. One of the red lightbulbs blew out with a fizz and burst of smoke, and the huge door moved almost an inch in the frame as the pounding on the far side rose to a frenzy.

The Norwegian officer looked at the door then at Banks.

“We yield them this ground; I don’t think we have a choice. I need to call in some backup but first, we need to evacuate.”

“You heard the man, lads,” Banks said. “Let’s get our kit and get the flock out of here before this goes completely south on us.”

“What about this one?” Wiggins asked, pointing at where Larsen stood, white-faced, staring at the door that was now rattling loosely in its frame as the pounding intensified.

“He’s on his own,” Banks said and turned to lead the squad back up to the garage.

* * *

The bunker door gave as they were leaving the trailer; they heard the clang, followed immediately by the roar like clashing rocks. Larsen came out of the corridor at a flat run. Judging by the noise coming up from below, the trolls — a throng of them by the sound of it — were not far behind.

Banks had all the squad retrieve their rifles and spare ammo from their kit bags; if Olsen wanted to make an official complaint, he could do so later, but in the meantime, Banks’ men needed the firepower now.

“Outside,” Banks shouted, “double-time. Maybe the daylight will slow them down a bit.”

Wiggins took a last look at the trailer.

“All that pizza and booze. What a bloody waste.”

They ran for the garage exit and were almost there when the first of the trolls appeared in the garage. If it had been McCallum, Banks might have attempted an order but the first one out of the underground facility was the squat, barrel-like one he’d seen down below and it did not look to be in the mood to take commands. It came out of the corridor running at full speed, heading for them.

The squad backed out into the parking space, squinting at the sudden exposure to full daylight. They stood in a line, all four aiming back at the doorway. Olsen and six of his men joined them.

“Backup is on its way,” Olsen said. “I’ve asked for heavy artillery.”

“Looks like we’re going to need it,” Banks replied, then there was no time to talk.

* * *

Two more trolls joined the squat one in the main entrance to the garage. Olsen didn’t wait for them to advance.

“Rapid fire,” he shouted and the S-Squad joined with the Norwegians in laying down a field of fire. The parking area rang with gunfire. Pieces of the trolls flew, stone chips clattering against the roof and walls inside the garage, but although they were hit by tens of rounds each, none of the three fell.

Banks saw a larger, darker shape loom in the doorway, coming on fast, accelerating. The trolls stepped aside to let it past.

“Incoming!” Banks shouted, as their long trailer came out of the doorway, doing sixty miles an hour and careering right at them. It was almost flying across the ground, not propelled by any engine, for it didn’t have one.

The sneaky bastards chucked it out the door.

The soldiers, both Norwegians and S-Squad, scattered in the face of the approaching missile. One of Olsen’s men wasn’t fast enough; he seemed transfixed by the sight of the vehicle barreling towards him, sending sparks flying as it fell on one side and kept coming, slower now but still several tons of killing machine. The man tried to flee at the last instant but stumbled over his own feet and fell directly in the trailer’s path. It went over him without a pause, leaving little more than a red streak and a bundle of rags in its wake before coming to a crashing halt in a tangle of wreckage as it hit three parked cars at the edge of the parking area.

Banks had already turned back towards the garage entrance, expecting an attack under the cover of the diversion. Although the doorway was now filled with a dozen trolls — the tall figure of McCallum in the middle, his cleaner rock making him easy to spot among the others — they showed no sign of wanting to venture outside.

“It’s the sunlight. They don’t like it,” Banks shouted then joined Olsen and his team in sending another volley into the gathered things in the doorway.

McCallum let out a roar and at first Banks thought they might, finally, have tempted an attack but the trolls as one stepped back out of the doorway and were quickly lost in the shadows.

Olsen called for a cease-fire.

“Now what?” Hynd asked as quiet fell again.

Wiggins looked towards the wreck of the trailer.

“I’ll tell you what — we’re out of booze and pizza and I’m fucking starving.”

* * *

Before Banks got a chance to tell the corporal to stow it, the parking area echoed with the screech of tearing metal and the crash and tumble of falling rubble. Thin dust and smoke wafted out of the garage exit. A metal cabinet, double-fronted and the size of two men, came out of a high window, arced through the air, and landed with a crash just yards from Banks’ feet.

“They’re tearing the place apart,” the doctor, Larsen said, from where he stood, a safe distance away, behind Olsen’s men. “You’ve got to stop them.”

“We’re open to ideas,” Banks said. “They’re your patients after all.”

“Tranquilizer guns, maybe,” Larsen said. “Or we could gas them out.”

“Aye, because that worked so well down in the bunker. I don’t think these wankers worry much about what they’re breathing.”

Olsen stepped over to Banks’ side.

“We’ve got tanks incoming. In the meantime, if we can keep them inside, we can at least contain the damage.”

“That’s a big if,” Banks said, looking up at the sky, where a dark front of heavy clouds was approaching from the north.

- 19 -

The dark front arrived at almost the same time as backup arrived. A score of armed men preceded two tanks that lumbered into the parking area. Banks recognized them — they were originally German, the Leopard 2A4NL model; he guessed the Norwegians, like many other countries, had taken advantage when the Germans sold off old stock during an upgrade. They might indeed be old stock but Banks knew from experience that they packed a punch in their 120mm cannons that could penetrate two feet of steel and as backup to that, they each had twin-mounted 7.62mm machine guns with almost five thousand rounds of ammo.

“Now we’re talking,” Wiggins said as the two tanks lined up at Olsen’s directive to aim at the garage doors.

“Wait,” Larsen shouted. “You’ll bring the whole building down. All my research…”

“You should have thought of that earlier,” Olsen replied, “and saved us all a lot of trouble.”

Before Larsen could make any further protest, Olsen gave the order to fire.

The twin booms of the big guns almost deafened the soldiers. The shells went straight and true into the gaping maw of the garage entrance and a second later, a blast of heat and concussion almost knocked them off their feet. Every window above them blew out at once, glass shattering in a wave all across the parking lot. The garage doorway fell in on itself with a muffled thump and another blast of heat and debris. The main building above the underground garage slumped alarmingly to the north side then decided to stay up.

Olsen waited until the debris started to settle then waved his men forward.

“Wait,” Banks said, striding up to the Norwegian captain’s side. “We dropped a cave on one of these fuckers up in the hills and it crawled out without a scratch on it. You should take this slowly.” He turned to Davies. “Do you have any of yon sedative at hand?”

Davies reached inside his flak jacket and brought out four syringes.

“We’re going to need more,” Banks said to Olsen. The Norwegian captain nodded and went over to Larsen.

“Sedatives,” he said brusquely. “A lot of sedatives. We need them now.”

“Why are you asking me?” the doctor said. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but there.

Olsen got into his face.

“I’m asking you because this is your mess.”

The conversation switched to Norwegian, too fast for Banks to follow, but by the look on Olsen’s face, he knew it wasn’t good news. He had that confirmed when the captain turned away from the doctor and came back towards the waiting soldiers.

“He doesn’t have any,” Olsen said. “What there is of it is still down in the lab. If we want it, we’ll have to go and get it.” He looked Banks in the eye. “You have no obligation to us here, Captain. But I could use all the help I can get.”

Banks smiled.

“That’s okay. We owe you for the beer and pizza anyway. Lead on.”

Banks had Davies distribute the four syringes, one to each member of the squad.

“Save these for McCallum if you can,” he said. “I’d still like to get yon old soldier home, or at least give him some peace. But don’t do anything daft and don’t get dead. This is just another sanitation mission like the other one.”

“Can I blow something to fuck, Cap?” Wiggins asked. “I’ve got enough C4 in the rucksack here to bring the rest of the building down.”

“I’ll let you know if it comes to that,” Banks replied. “In the meantime, we follow Olsen’s lead; we’re on his patch and it’s his call.”

Olsen was already leading his men towards the rubble around what had been the garage entrance. Banks and S-Squad brought up the rear as they scrambled through the wreckage and debris.

* * *

There were no lights inside what remained of the garage — rubble lay strewn across the floor, making walking a precarious process. The roof had collapsed in three different places, bringing down more debris and a tangle of sparking electrical wiring. In one spot what looked to be most of a library had fallen through the floor, its contents reduced to scrap paper and busted shelving. All of the soldiers, both Norwegian and Scots, switched on the lights on their rifles. They stepped warily, moving deeper inside and found what was left of a troll several paces in.

It was one of the more encrusted ones. The skin was more like hard rock, thickly crusted green with a hairy moss that gave it a shaggy look. Its head was lying at far too great an angle to its barrel chest, and pale, watery fluid lay all around in the rubble under its body, but it still tried to raise itself at their approach only to fall back with a crash on the debris. It moaned piteously then roared in rage before slumping to the floor. Olsen stepped up and put three shots into its left eye. There were no exit wounds but the eye exploded outward in a shower of black, viscous material down Olsen’s torso, then there was only a dead troll at his feet, all life flown from it.

“Top tip,” Wiggins said. “Shoot the fuckers in the eye. Works for me.”

Banks was hoping they would find the rest of the trolls in similar dire straits in the garage but the one Olsen shot was the only one to be seen. Either the remainder had managed to avoid the tank assault, or they were buried under some of the extensive rubble.

Either way, they’ll have to be found.

But it looked like Olsen agreed with Banks that the first priority must be to procure more sedative. The Norwegian captain set six men to checking the rubble in case more fallen trolls were trapped there then led the rest of them quickly across the garage floor, picking their way through the debris, heading for the corridor down to the bunker.

* * *

The red throbbing panic lights were still pulsating overhead. The walls of the corridor had been bashed and dented in places, and again Banks’ imagination showed him basketball-sized fists, pounding in frustration and rage, rock on rock until one or the other had to give way. The main facility door had been completely torn out of the wall and lay flat on the floor of the corridor — they had to step up eighteen inches onto it to cross over down into the bunker.

Olsen’s first thought was for the men that Larsen had trapped inside the facility. There were six of them but they were long past saving, having been grossly mutilated and torn in the trolls’ frenzy — they could only hope that the Halon gas had killed the men before the atrocities were committed. There were no trolls. The banks of computers, servers, and laboratory equipment had been completely trashed, leaving behind no more than broken circuit boards, torn cabling, and cabinets whose metal casings were bent and battered into unrecognizable pieces. The only trolls present in the facility — a dozen of them — were the ones who had not woken from slumber and were still encased in the rock walls of their cells.

“Too old, or too tired to wake,” Olsen said.

“Or just too dead. We can only hope,” Wiggins replied.

A search for sedative gave them at least one good thing to come out of the carnage. They found an unbroken bottle in the wreckage of a cupboard and a search for syringes was also successful, meaning that by the time they were ready to move out again, every man present carried at least one dose of sedative with him.

“Aye, very nice,” Wiggins said. “But where the fuck have the big hard buggers got to? It’s not as if they can disguise themselves much.”

They got the answer to that when they returned back up the corridor to the garage area. One of the six men Olsen had left above came over to talk to the captain and led everybody to the north side of the garage. The roof had fallen in completely and it had brought down with it what looked to have been at one time to be a group of students who hadn’t had time — or had been too stupid — to vacate the building when the alarms went off. Now they would never be late for a lecture again; the trolls had found them and they were merely discarded food, their limbs and guts strewn and scattered, white bones showing signs of having been chewed on. Several of Olsen’s men lost their lunches off to one side but the S-Squad had seen it before, up in the hills — the only difference here was that these were new kills.

“You still want to save that big hard bugger, Cap?” Wiggins said softly.

Banks didn’t answer — he wasn’t sure anymore and he was saved from speaking by a yell from a soldier on top of the rubble, who was looking out northwest across the city.

“They went this way.”

- 20 -

The university complex backed onto a two-lane road at the north. Traffic was at a standstill on either side of a coach that had been tossed over onto its side and then pummeled — the bodywork bore the telltale signs of having been pounded by huge fists. The large window at the front of the bus had been torn out forcibly and a body — presumably the driver — lay half-out of the hole. His head was gone and his torso was brutally caved out and hollowed, blood running in a sheet down the buckled front of the bus to pool on the road.

Farther to the north, in what looked to be a suburban area, high screams rose in the air, accompanied by the sound of screeching, tearing metal and the now familiar wailing that sounded like rock clashing on rock.

“Looks like they won’t be difficult to track so there’s that at least,” Wiggins said.

“Aye, just following the screaming,” Hynd added.

“It is not the tracking that worries me,” Olsen said quietly. “There is only sea to the north and west of us here, so we will have them trapped with their backs to the water soon enough. But between here and there are at least two schools and if legends are true, these beasts are not particular about the age of their prey.”

* * *

As they crossed the road and followed the screaming into the maze of suburban roads, Olsen was on the radio, presumably urgently requesting evac of the aforesaid schools. Dark clouds lowered overhead and Banks felt spits of cold rain in his face. Studying the sky, he saw there was little hope of the sun coming to their aid.

The Norwegian soldiers around them had grown tense and quiet, moving quickly and with purpose. They went speedily through empty streets and found evidence of the trolls’ passing everywhere, from mangled cars to houses with front doors — and sometimes their whole walls — caved in. And everywhere around was more evidence of the trolls’ hunger in the pitiful remains of the newly dead men, women, and children, whose partially eaten pieces were strewn across doorways, lawns, and into the roadway, as if the beasts were eating on the move. Several times, Banks saw curtains twitching nervously at their passing but no one still alive was daring to venture out into the charnel house they were walking through.

They moved fast, double-time, but the sound of screaming and the accompanying howls of the trolls were becoming more distant. Wherever it was the beasts were trying to get to, they were in a hurry about it. Olsen had the soldiers up the pace further and soon they were all running.

They had to step out of the road only once and that was when a succession of coaches carrying children came from the opposite direction. The pale, fear-filled faces at the windows told Banks all that he needed to know of the horrors the kids had endured.

Minutes after the coaches passed, they came to a deserted school. The kids hadn’t all escaped; three armed cops, all of them weeping inconsolably, stood in an otherwise empty playground above the too-small, torn remains of dead children. When Olsen asked where the trolls had gone, one of the cops managed to raise a hand and point north.

* * *

They came out of the suburban sprawl where it bounded a river, arriving at one end of an old stone bridge, only wide enough for a single vehicle to pass at a time. The bridge was empty of traffic but a trail of blood spatter told them that they were still on the trolls’ path. On the far side, a narrow strip of land between that and the sea contained a mish-mash of old and new factory units. But silence had fallen now; there was no more screaming, no howling, and no sight of their quarry.

“Have they gone to ground?” Banks asked but Olsen seemed distracted and didn’t answer. He wasn’t looking out over the factory complexes but had his gaze fixed on the old stone bridge that stretched for a hundred yards across a swiftly flowing river.

“Captain?” Banks said. “What has you worried?”

“Bridges and more old legends,” the Norwegian said. “Knowing what we do now about their aversion to sunlight, the tales of them lurking under bridges seems to make more sense.”

“Really?” Wiggins replied. “I’m glad it makes sense to somebody because I’m as confused as fuck here.”

“So what else is new?” Hynd replied.

“Well, your wife got a tattoo on her arse,” Wiggins replied. “Not that you’ll ever see it.”

That earned Wiggins a cuff on the ear but Banks saw that neither of them really had any heart for the banter; they’d been as badly affected as he had by the sight of the dead children in the playground and the pale, frightened faces of those who had escaped. Thoughts of saving McCallum were far from his mind now; all he wanted to do was find these trolls and put them down hard and fast before they harmed any more kids.

Olsen was still gazing out over the bridge.

“I don’t like this, Captain,” he said.

Banks agreed.

“It feels hinky to me too. My guts are telling me this is a trap.”

“But trap or no trap, we have to get over there,” Olsen said and echoed Banks’ own thoughts. “We can’t let them get near any more children.”

Olsen led them forward, with S-Squad still bring up the rear of the troop of twenty-four men.

* * *

“Who’s that walking on my bridge?” Wiggins said in a gravelly voice, trying for a bit of levity. He didn’t get it but was answered instead by a roar like clashing rocks. The far end of the bridge where it hit the northern bank buckled upward, the old stone surface crumbling as something pounded its way up from below.

The soldiers were still in the process of raising their weapons as the squat, barrel-like troll they’d first seen in the bunker pulled itself up from under the arches, through the structure of the bridge itself, to stand smack-center in the road ahead of them. As with McCallum, Banks was reminded of nothing so much as a silverback gorilla, claiming its territory. It stood upright, shucking off pebbles and rubble, looked down the length of the bridge at them, black eyes deep under furrowed brows, and roared an invitation to battle.

“Remember, they are vulnerable in the eyes,” Olsen said then repeated it in Norwegian, raised his weapon, and led the men forward.

The troll didn’t wait for them. It put its head down and lumbered into a run, its pounding footsteps setting the bridge underfoot to shaking.

Olsen called for his men to stand firm. The front rank sent a volley of fire directly at the oncoming troll. Chips of rock flew and the troll roared again, loud even above the gunfire, but it still had its head down, its eyes defended by the shield of its rocky brow.

Then it was on them, barreling past the front rank and sending them flying like skittles. Two men went over the wall to splash in the waters below, Olsen was thrown roughly to the ground, landing heavily, and another man tumbled at the troll’s feet only to have his chest caved in by a stomping foot that left a fine spray of blood in the air. The beast wasn’t slowed at all and treated the second rank of men with equal disdain.

Banks was about to throw himself to one side when he saw that both Wiggins and Hynd had lowered their weapons and were instead holding the syringes of sedative, grasped in their hands like combat knives.

“Davies, you and I cover them,” he shouted and was given just enough time to step behind Hynd and Wiggins while the troll continued to wreak havoc among the Norwegian troop.

Banks aimed for the thing’s head, putting three rounds into the brow ridge and heard Davies provide covering fire beside him. The two men ahead of them crouched low, wrestler’s stance and, having learned from the fight back in the fjord, rolled forward at the same time. Their opponent was squatter and faster, giving them less of both time and maneuvering room. Wiggins, being smaller, went between the thing’s legs and Hynd went to the right. Banks and Davies had to throw themselves to either side, Banks just avoiding a wild forearm swipe from the troll that would have taken his head off if it had connected, feeling the rock graze the top of this skull, then the thing was past them.

Banks wheeled on his heels, expecting another attack.

The troll came to a stop ten feet away. It had two syringes plunged into it, one at the groin and the other behind its knee — both had been plunged more than halfway in. The beast roared again — but this time it had raised its head to do so. All four members of the S-Squad fired at once, aiming for the eyes.

They were never to know which of them got the kill shot but it didn’t matter.

Both of the troll’s eyes burst in a spray of black mucus and it fell forward with a crash that shook the bridge beneath them.

- 21 -

Olsen had lost four men — the two over the side lost to the river, the man on the ground with the caved in chest, and a fourth who lay slumped against the wall with a broken neck. The captain was moving gingerly as he came down the bridge towards Banks and was favoring what was obviously a bruised back. He was on the radio, speaking too quickly in Norwegian for Banks to catch the gist of it but when he got off the call, he shook Banks’ hand then smiled grimly at Wiggins, who was kicking at the dead troll at his feet.

“There’s a cleanup crew inbound,” the Norwegian captain said. “And thanks to you, there’s more of us alive than dead. Nice moves.”

“I learned it from my mother,” Wiggins replied. “It was her motto — when in doubt, go for the bollocks.”

Olsen turned to Banks.

“Another one down but still more than a dozen to go. Intel has them moving through the factories across the bridge, heading north. There’s a stretch of high sea cliffs in that direction.”

“And I’m guessing it’s riddled with caves?”

Olsen nodded.

“Larsen’s back at base. His theory is that they’re seeking shelter.”

“I’m loathe to take anything that wee wanker says as gospel,” Banks replied, “but this time he might have a point. Lead on, Captain, we’ve got your back.”

Olsen left two men behind to wait for the cleanup crew and led a reduced troop off the bridge and into the sprawl of factory units.

* * *

There was much more evidence of the trolls’ passing inside the maze of buildings. The beasts had continued on an almost straight line due north, pausing only for random acts of destruction… and feeding.

They saw signs of hurried evacuation at each unit that they passed, cars that had crashed into each other not by force of the trolls but in their hurry to flee, dropped packages and discarded briefcases. The worst thing was the torn remains and dismembered torsos of those who had been too tardy in their flight, lying discarded and partially eaten in a trail they had no trouble following.

They came to a wide central crossroads bounded by new metal sheds on all sides. Right in the center, where a rudimentary roundabout had made a perfunctory attempt to direct traffic flow, the trolls had paused long enough to leave the most gruesome sign yet of their passing.

“We’ve seen this before,” Banks told Olsen, “in the hills above the fjord.”

It was another mass feeding area and as the squad had seen in the hills, the remains had been posed as if in an attempt at art, with a tower of stacked heads overlooking gaping, emptied chests, splayed ribs, and empty bellies. And entwined in and around it all were pink and gray glistening entrails, already crusting where the blood dried. The stench, even in the open air, was almost overpowering. The only good thing was that the chill of December was too severe for flies or carrion crows. The ritual feast was a quiet, dead place, their art testament to the trolls’ hunger and fury.

They were all glad to leave it behind and continue north.

* * *

“Cap,” Wiggins said quietly to Banks as they walked in a deep alley between two tall factory buildings. “I don’t want to be Billy-Bad-News here, but what the fuck are we going to do if we catch up with these wankers? We don’t have the firepower to take them down if they all come at us at once. One of them took out four men at the bridge back there. I ken I was never that great at math but the sums don’t add up.”

It was a question that had occurred to Banks several times since they’d left the university. His only hope was that they could somehow herd the trolls into an area where fire could be concentrated — maybe bring the tanks up again, or call in an air strike. At least, that’s what he would do if he was in charge.

“It’s Olsen’s call,” Banks said. “We’re running backup here. Just keep your eyes peeled. At least we’re out of the heavily populated areas. And if the captain’s intel is right, they’re heading for shelter. We’ll get them there.”

He saw the word in Wiggins’ eyes; he didn’t have to hear it.

How?

* * *

They emerged from the canyon made by the high-sided factories onto a level seafront, a narrow pathway above a shingle shore. The path led northwest away from the factories then beneath tall rock sea cliffs. High up, over fifty yards up and two hundred away, they caught a glimpse of movement. The trolls were well camouflaged against the stone but the taller figure of the one who had been McCallum was clear enough. They were filing one by one into a wide cave mouth halfway up the cliff.

“We have them now,” Olsen said. “I will call in a strike.”

Banks walked forward and put a hand on the captain’s arm.

“Wait,” he said. “I mentioned earlier, we dropped a cave on the big bugger up in the hills and he climbed out. We can’t take the chance, he’ll do it again.”

“You’re saying we need to go up there? Go into the cave after them? That’s a big risk to ask my men to take when the easy option is, as your corporal might say, to bomb them to buggery.”

“Then let us go,” Banks said. “We started this shite when we woke McCallum. We’d like to finish it.”

“Four men against a pack of trolls? I do not like your odds, Captain.”

“Luckily, I’m not a betting man,” Banks replied. “And you’ve seen how McCallum responds to my orders. Maybe we can shift those odds in our favor. I have to try.”

Olsen looked Banks in the eye and nodded.

“Very well then. You shall have your chance. But I will be calling in the air force as backup. They will be ready to level these cliffs on my command.”

Banks looked up the narrow pathway the trolls must have climbed to reach the cave, gauging distance and time.

“You’d best give us half an hour. I’ll be up there waving if it’s all clear.”

“That’s okay,” Olsen replied. “I won’t ask my men to do it — but I too feel some responsibility here, for I should have kept a closer check on Larsen. I’m coming with you.”

- 22 -

Banks and Olsen led, with Davies and Wiggins behind them and Hynd bringing up the rear. The pathway was steep and treacherous, little more than a foot wide in places, with crumbling scree underfoot and precipitous drops at each turn and bend. Banks kept his gaze eight feet ahead of him — looking at his feet would only make him dizzy and off balance. He felt exposed and expected with every step to be ambushed, fearing a flurry of boulders from above.

But no attack came and Wiggins was even relaxed enough to light up a smoke. “Heigh, fucking ho, it’s off to work we go,” the corporal sang as he smoked then went quiet quickly when Banks looked back at him.

The glance backwards showed Banks how far they’d climbed. They were already almost thirty yards up and almost directly under the cave mouth the same distance again above them. If an attack was to come, it would be now, when they were at their most vulnerable. Every sense was heightened; he felt the winter cold seep through the soles of his boots, smelled salt spray in the air, and heard, high and far off, the screech of gulls. The rock looked damp up here, shaded all day from any sunshine. The dark clouds still lowered overhead and a breeze was getting up; he could only hope there wasn’t a snowfall imminent — that would make getting down a real problem.

He put everything to the back of his mind and concentrated eight feet ahead of him again, heading up.

* * *

He was concentrating so hard on not falling that it took him several steps to notice that the path had leveled out; they’d arrived on a wide ledge in front of the cave mouth where the trolls had entered.

He waited for the squad to arrive beside him. Now that they were here, he felt reluctant to go inside, the primitive hind-brain fear of the dark and monsters in enclosed spaces shouting out his rational thought. It took an effort of will to push it away and remember what had brought him this far.

There’s one of us in there. I’ll save him… if I can.

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Wiggins asked, casually flicking the butt of his smoke away over the edge. Banks watched the sparking embers tumble away before answering.

“We go in and see if there’s anything left of McCallum that will listen to reason.” He saw the doubt in Wiggins’ eyes… he felt plenty of it in himself, now that they were here. “And if that doesn’t work, we go to Plan B. Keep the C4 and detonators ready, Wiggo. You might get to blow something to buggery after all.”

He took a last look at the view and the wide, open spaces then turned his back on it and led the squad inside the cave.

* * *

They’d only taken two steps before he had to turn on his rifle light. The darkness felt thick enough to touch and the only sound was the pad of their feet on stone. They didn’t have to go far, for the passageway opened out into a tall, wide cavern after only a few yards. Banks and Olsen both cast light beams around the chamber.

Most of the trolls had already gone to the rock; the walls of the cave were a fantastic conglomeration of rocky torsos, heads, faces, and limbs all tumbled together like a manic jigsaw of pieces that had begun to fuse together. Only McCallum stood free, as if waiting for their arrival. The roar as of clashing rocks greeted them.

Banks motioned that the others should stay behind him and stepped forward, aware that he was close to being within the range of a sweep of the troll’s arms should it decide to attack.

Here goes nothing.

“Private McCallum, stand down. That’s an order,” he shouted, his voice echoing almost as loudly as the troll’s roar had done seconds before. McCallum, his head almost scraping the ceiling, his fists dangling almost to the floor on impossibly long arms, gave Banks a sideways lean of the head and a puzzled look that was all-too-human.

Banks lowered his voice.

“There’s no need for any rough stuff. We’re here to help you, lad.”

Another roar echoed around the chamber. Banks saw from the corner of his eye that Hynd and Wiggins had moved up alongside him, each of them holding a fresh syringe of sedative. Without taking his eyes from McCallum, he motioned that they should stay where they were.

We got away with that trick once before. But if this thing’s as smart as I think it is, it won’t fall for it this time.

“Private McCallum, we’re here to take you home. Wouldn’t you like to go home?”

That got him other sideways glance.

At least he’s listening to me.

“You remember home, Private? Scotland? Family?”

He was more than aware that the man’s family, at least the ones he might remember, were probably long dead. And it seemed McCallum was indeed smart, for the troll let out a wail that was more of pain and loss than of anger. The troll waved an arm to indicate the beasts that had gone back to the rock, most of them now barely distinguishable from the stone of the cave walls. The meaning was clear.

These are his family now.

“We can’t let you — any of you — stay here,” Banks said. “You must know that. You have killed people — children. There will be consequences. There must be. You swore to defend the weak. Remember that?”

Another roar of pain echoed around the chamber. Banks sensed Wiggins tense beside him and again put out a hand to remind the corporal to stay still.

“Come with us, McCallum,” he said. “This can be fixed.”

The troll pointed at its belly, where there was still a weeping hole, the one made by Larsen’s auger. Again, the meaning was clear.

You call this fixed?

“That was a mistake. One I won’t be making again. Come with us, lad. Let’s get you home.”

The troll — McCallum — wailed, a mixture of pain and rage this time, and Banks saw movement in the walls as some of those taken to the rock seemed to stir and start to reawaken at the noise.

“Cap?” Wiggins said and Banks heard the worry in the corporal’s voice.

“Not yet,” Banks whispered but he was starting to fear it might already be too late as he saw a huge hand come out of the wall, flatten on the ground, and start to pull its ancient, moss-covered figure out of the wall.

McCallum turned away from Banks and put his hands on the emerging figure’s shoulders to help pull it out.

I’ve lost him.

He gave Wiggins and Hynd the nod.

- 23 -

Hynd and Wiggins attempted to execute the move the same way they’d done before — crouching in a wrestler’s stance and rolling quickly forward. But McCallum was wise to it this time and was quick enough to move aside, leaving Hynd out of reach with his syringe. Wiggins managed to stab the troll, not in the groin this time but directly into the weeping hole in its belly. He had taken his chance deliberately and carefully but it had cost him dearly — he wasn’t able to roll away in time.

McCallum’s huge splayed foot came down on Wiggins’ chest and stopped, pinning the corporal to the ground. Banks knew it would only take the slightest effort by the troll to cave in sternum and ribs and reduce Wiggins’ innards to a bloody pulp.

The syringe, plunger pushed all the way in, still hung from the hole in the beast’s belly.

Stall. Play for time. The sedative will take hold soon.

The only hope he had was that there were enough drugs now coursing through the troll’s system to bring it down — or at least calm it enough to be persuaded.

“Private McCallum, stand down,” Banks shouted, putting the parade ground into it. “That’s a soldier you’ve got there and he’s one of our own. I will have no fighting in my squad.”

The other troll had stopped coming out of the wall — its head and shoulders had emerged but they were now, slowly, being drawn back onto the stone. McCallum, still with his foot on Wiggins’ chest, had fallen quiet and still. He touched the syringe at his belly and when he whimpered, he sounded more like a man than ever. Banks lowered his rifle to the ground — the light shone directly on Wiggins’ pale, wide-eyed face.

“Hang in there, lad,” Banks said softly to the corporal. “We’ll get you out of this.”

Hynd had pushed himself upright and stood at Banks’ back, with Davies and Olsen behind him.

“Follow my lead, Sarge,” Banks whispered. “Nice and easy now.”

He took a step towards McCallum. The head came up, staring straight at Banks from under heavy brows. The shadows there were too deep to see the eyes themselves, to see whether they were losing focus, going cloudy and drugged. All Banks had to go on were cues from the troll’s movements — and for now at least, it was still very much awake.

Wiggins let out a grunt of pain as McCallum shifted his weight.

“Stand down, Private,” Banks said. “That’s an order. Don’t make me have to tell you twice.”

McCallum whimpered, looked at Banks, then down at Wiggins, but showed no sign of obeying the command. Once again, it motioned with its hand at the walls. Banks was unsure of the meaning — was he asking for clemency for them all, or was he asking to join them in the stone, to go to sleep?

“Not going to happen, lad,” Banks said. “I gave you an order. It would be best for you to obey it.”

Banks was watching the troll closely and now he saw it, the first hint that the drugs might be working as McCallum’s huge chin dropped to his chest and jerked back up again.

“Last chance, Private McCallum. Stand down or I’ll have you up on a charge.”

But instead of compliance, Banks got another shout of rage in reply. The walls shivered and great cracks appeared in the stone. The trolls were waking again.

In one swift movement, Banks drew his service pistol, stepped inside an arm that was already swinging in his direction, and put three shots into McCallum’s left eye.

* * *

The troll swayed, left then right, lifted the pressure on Wiggins’ chest enough for the corporal to roll away, then it collapsed like a falling tree, with a crash that shook the whole chamber, laying the body out flat, face down on the floor of the cave.

The walls settled, the last echo of the pistol shots faded and the only sound was Wiggins, fumbling hastily to light a cigarette.

“Fuck me, Cap,” he said once his smoke was lit. “Cutting it a bit fine there, weren’t you?”

Banks wasn’t listening. He looked down at the prone figure.

“I’m sorry, lad,” he said.

“No worries, Cap,” Wiggins replied.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Wiggo,” Banks replied, retrieved his rifle, and went outside in search of clearer air.

- 24 -

They watched the end of it from the supply vessel that brought them ‘round from the harbor. Larsen had campaigned, long and hard, for access to the “specimens,” but Banks’ and Olsen’s testimony had persuaded the authorities that much of the blame for the debacle should be laid on the doctor’s shoulders and all the man’s pleas were refused. When Olsen offered a chance to the squad to oversee the final act before heading home, Banks knew he couldn’t refuse.

Three F-16s roared overhead, six AIM-120 missiles went into the cave mouth, and seconds later, the whole cliff face disappeared in a rumbling roar of debris. When the smoke and dust settled, the cliff face was thirty yards farther inland and there was a new pile of rubble on the shore.

“I’d keep an eye on that if I were you,” Banks said.

“It shall be carefully transported, every stone and pebble of it, to one of our high arctic island outposts, into a remote valley where the sun never shines,” Olsen said. “And I have been given authority for the site to be treated as a war grave. Your man, or what is left of him at least, shall not be disturbed again.”

Banks turned away, lest the captain see the tears in his eyes.

The End

Content

William Meikle
OPERATION: NORWAY

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