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.”