“Look, there’s power in there, we’ll be safe inside a metal tube, and there’s as much free booze and grub as you can stomach. So it’s either that, or you fuck off back on your own to a big, dark building with fucking huge scary animals wandering about. It’s up to you.”
Wiggins was dragging Volkov away to one side. Bits of the body stayed behind on the runway, a trail of bloody gore. Something caught Banks’ eye, a darker shadow moving in the darkness. He swung his light in that direction and saw only the high fence delimiting the mammoth enclosure. But now he was thinking, not about the lion, but about the big male wolf, and the way it had looked at him.
“Inside, now,” he barked. “That door gets shut in ten seconds, whether you’re there or not.”
Waterston’s small rebellion seemed to have been quelled; all three of the scientists scurried up into the cabin. Banks let Wiggins go first ahead of him, then had one last sweep of the runway with his light, seeing nothing, before joining the others up in the plane. He pulled the steps up behind him, and closed the door.
It shut with a satisfyingly solid clunk.
McCally and Wiggins were up at the rear of the cabin, having herded the scientists towards the buffet table and bar. Whatever calamity had befallen the plane, it had been confined to the steps outside and the cockpit; in the main cabin, it was almost possible to believe that nothing untoward had happened.
One look at Hynd’s face was enough to convince Banks otherwise. The sergeant stood beside the closed cockpit door, and waited until the three scientists had their backs turned before opening it, just wide enough for the two of them to slip into the cramped cockpit.
The first thing to hit Banks was the smell; blood and pish and shite, an all too well-known stench of recent death. The view out of the front window was obscured by the fact that the pilot’s body was hanging out of the hole they’d seen from outside. Shards of glass lay strewn around—it looked like the whole window had been caved in.
“Something came in from out there?” Banks said, indicating the open view. “Through inch-thick glass. It came through, and then pulled the poor fucker out of the opening?”
“That’s what it looks like, Cap,” Hynd said. He drew Banks’ attention to the control panels. They all looked like they’d been struck, over and over again, by something heavy, possibly a hammer, then had their innards pulled out, just to make sure nothing would ever work again.
“It’s either a fucking smart lion, or we’re looking at something else entirely,” Hynd said.
“I’d say option B is our best bet,” Banks replied. “Comms?”
“No fucking chance,” Hynd said. “It’s all been torn to buggery. We’re lucky we still have power, although that’s coming from a battery somewhere, and I’ve no idea how long that’ll last us.”
“And the co-pilot?”
Hynd motioned to the second chair. A deep pool of dark blood lay in the bucket seat.
“I think it’s safe to say we won’t be seeing him again either.”
“What the fuck got them? Any clues?”
“Apart from big and pissed off?”
“Aye, I get that bit myself.”
Banks checked the door, but it only confirmed their first impressions; whatever happened here had been confined to the cockpit. His guess was that Volkov had been unlucky enough to get in the thing’s way. But conjecture wasn’t getting them anywhere.
He let Hynd leave the cockpit first, then exited and closed the door after them. It too shut with a reassuring clunk. It wasn’t locked, couldn’t be from this side, but judging by the mayhem they’d seen, that was going to be the least of their worries should the cause of it decide to come back.
He turned back to Hynd.
“We stay here until daybreak, then head back into the complex and look for a way to get a message out. We keep watch in shifts, and we don’t let the boffins do anything stupid. And if anything does show up, we keep shooting it until it fucks off again. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Cally, are you sober enough to take a watch?”
The tall corporal nodded.
“I’ll be fine, Cap. Let Wiggo sleep for a bit though, okay? He did the heavy work with the Russians… and their vodka.”
Banks nodded.
“I’m guessing that wee drinking session might even be the cause of all this trouble,” he replied. “If Wiggo was having trouble handling the liquor, I imagine at least one of the Russians was in a similar state?”
McCally smiled ruefully.
“More than one. Are you thinking they had a wee accident?”
“A fucking big one, more like,” Banks replied. “So we keep watch all night. You and the sarge up first then. Keep an eye on these two doors. Shoot first, ask later.”
He pushed Wiggins down into one of the large armchairs.
“Three hours, then you’d better have your head on straight, lad,” he said, but the private’s head had already drooped, and sleep took him down hard. Banks left McCally and Hynd at the front of the plane and made his way up the back.
The two younger scientists looked as beat as Wiggins and they too were close to sleep.
“Rest if you can,” Banks said. “We’re safe in here.”
If Waterston disagreed with that assessment, he was smart enough not to say it in front of the younger men. When Banks joined the older scientist at the bar, the professor waved a bottle of single malt scotch in the air.
“Will you join me?”
“One, then, and a small one at that,” Banks said. “And only because we need to talk, you and I.”
“Indeed we do,” Waterston replied, pouring them both a drink and handing Banks a glass. “But first, I must thank you for getting us to safety so quickly. I had not quite grasped the magnitude of the situation, until…”
He waved a hand toward the outer door. Banks understood his meaning.
“Volkov? Aye. The wee man was a bit of a bastard, but it was a hard way for him to go.”
“What did it?” Waterston asked, and Banks laughed softly.
“I was just about to ask you the same question. You know more than you’ve been telling.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do,” Waterston replied. He downed his whisky fast and poured himself another, then talked.
“I first started to get wind that there was something wrong going on about two years ago. Ours is a tight-knit field of study when all is said and done, and word gets around the community whenever something out of the ordinary occurs. Decades ago, when the Dolly the sheep cloning happened, that caused ripples. But the news coming out of Siberia caused the equivalent of a tidal wave. We all knew that Volkov was working on ancient tissue samples—his requests for materials, and access to others, were not subtle, although he threw enough money at enough cash-starved researchers that ethics were often not the first thing on people’s minds.
“So, in short, we knew the Russian was up to something. But given the remoteness of the location and lack of access to it, there wasn’t really anything anyone could do about it.
“That all changed two years ago, when Volkov engaged the services of a French team, specialists in gene therapy; viruses in particular. He flew them out here, all expenses paid. They spent three months on site and, last November, they all went home, or at least their ashes did. Volkov claimed an industrial accident had necessitated the burning of the bodies, but his reputation had finally caught up with him and it was at that point that the UN Advisory Council came to me and asked me to put a team together.”
Waterston paused to pour another drink for himself. At the same moment, Banks saw Hynd and McCally stiffen and heft their weapons, and felt the whole plane shift, as if something had nudged, heavily, against it outside. Everyone on the plane, at least those that were awake, held their breath, and it was as if time stopped for the space of a heartbeat, everything steady and fixed, like a still from a movie, before the clocks started ticking again. There was no repeat of the nudge from outside, and no sound from beyond the fuselage. Banks tried to look out the nearest window, but there was only deep black beyond, and his own reflection looking back at him.