William Meikle
OPERATION: SIBERIA
- 1 -
Private Wiggins was first to respond to Captain Banks’ news.
“Siberia? Come on, Cap, you’re having a laugh, aren’t you? Fucking Siberia? You said it was a milk run.”
“And it is,” Banks replied. “We’re babysitting a UN inspection team as they make an inspection of a lab. It’s a cushy number. There’s no creepy drifting boat, no empty Nazi UFO bases, none of that weird shite from the last couple of missions.”
“Cushy, maybe,” Wiggins said, “but you promised us somewhere warmer. I was hoping for Barbados. But we’ll be freezing our bollocks off again. My knob’s only just warmed up from that last trip.”
“You should use it more often,” Hynd replied.
“Aye, that’s what your wife says too.”
Wiggins had to roll out of his chair to avoid a cuff on the ear, and Banks had to catch the private’s beer to avoid it falling off the table, but at least the team was all in good spirits, despite his news. He waited until Wiggins was settled back at the table, and McCally returned with another round of beers from the mess bar before continuing.
“Besides,” he continued, “maybe it won’t be all that cold. It’s summer over there, same as it is here.”
“Aye,” Wiggins muttered. “Like Largs on a wet August Bank Holiday, and just about as much fun. I’ll pack my trunks and sunscreen.”
“Babysitting, did you say?” Hynd asked.
“Aye. Three English scientists—they’re coming up tonight from London.”
“And what kind of lab is it?” Wiggins asked. “It’s no’ nuclear, is it? I won’t need the lead-lined Y-fronts, will I?”
“Not nuclear or chemical. Biological,” Banks replied. “The colonel says that the word is it’s more in the line of a rich man’s zoo—exotic animals and such. Some Russian oilman’s plaything is what I was told. Why it warrants a UN inspection is above our pay grade. The job’s as simple as fuck. We look after the boffins, we keep our noses clean, and we’re in and out in forty-eight hours and back here for the weekend. You’ll like this bit though—no rickety transport planes for us this time. We’re traveling in style. The wee rich zookeeper is sending his private jet for us.”
“I’ll pack my tuxedo as well,” Wiggins replied.
Hynd laughed.
“Fucking James Bond, that’s all I need.”
“Aye,” Wiggins replied, already moving away from the slap he knew was coming. “Your wife says that too.”
The squad’s introduction to the trio of scientists in the morning was awkward. They all met over a full cooked breakfast in the mess, and it became immediately obvious that the ‘boffins’ knew more than the squad about what they’d be walking in to—and equally obvious that they weren’t prepared to talk about it.
Waterston, a stocky, bearded Englishman in his sixties, appeared to be the most senior of the three and did most of the talking, what little there was of it.
“What part of ‘classified’ are you having trouble with, Private?” he said when Wiggins pushed, not for the first time, for more information about the zoo.
Wiggins bristled—the toxic combination of Waterston’s tone and the cut-glass of his accent bringing the Scotsman’s anger front and center.
“How about the bit where we’re supposed to save your arse when you get into bother? Let’s start there, shall we, before you start looking down your nose at me?”
Banks waved to McCally to take Wiggins aside—any further conversation the private had with the scientist from that point on wasn’t going to go anywhere pretty for either of them. He turned back to Waterston.
“Wiggins has a point though. We generally have some idea what we’re going to be up against,” he said, realizing as he said it that it was mostly a lie.
Waterston’s stare lost some of its ice.
“Look, it’s a zoo, okay? Volkov’s put together a strange collection of exotics, and he wants to show it to the world. Our job is to evaluate if that would be safe.”
“Safe? What the hell’s he got—venomous snakes, big spiders, crocodiles the size of a bus… what?”
But the scientist refused to be drawn, and by the time they were packed, prepped, and called out to the runway for their flight, Banks and his squad were none the wiser.
Wiggins perked up when he saw their ride—a sleek, white Lear jet that looked too new, too clean for their small R.A.F. base in Northern Scotland.
“Caviar and champagne it is then,” he said. “I knew I should have worn the tux.”
Once Banks ensured their gear was securely stowed and locked in the jet’s hold, he joined the others inside, and found that his private hadn’t been too far wrong about the fare on offer to them.
A buffet table took pride of place in a cabin area as opulent as any hotel Banks could imagine. The leather chairs looked capable of swallowing a man, there was a bar stocked with all manner of single-malt scotch and expensive vodka, and the buffet itself did indeed include caviar, along with a bewildering mix of cold meats, fancy chocolates, breads, and exotic pickles.
“Somebody’s trying a wee bit too hard to impress us,” Hynd said as Banks joined him at the table.
“Not us; them,” Banks said, nodding to where the three scientists were already piling their plates as high as they could manage. “There’s obviously a lot at stake here for somebody. Eyes open, and game heads on, okay? Don’t let the lads near the booze.”
The order to stay off the free drink didn’t go down too well with Wiggins and McCally, but Banks knew Hynd would keep them in order—and that the richness of the other fare on hand would do much to mollify them. The scientists, in the meantime, had no qualms about partaking, and were already on their way to sampling a scotch from every bottle at the bar while they were still over the North Sea. By the time they reached Moscow and landed to refuel, the three men from London were dozing drunkenly in their seats at the rear of the plane.
Wiggins looked at them ruefully.
“See, Cap, that could be us right now. It’s not as if there’s anything for us to protect them from up here, apart from the threat of a hangover.”
“We’ll see about relaxing a bit on the return journey,” Banks said. “But I need more info yet before I’m ready for that.”
Banks knew he wouldn’t get anything from Waterston, even drunk, but he waited until one of the younger men, Smithson, woke blearily and came forward again. Banks bearded him at the buffet table as the man, rather clumsily in his drunkenness, tried to prepare a sandwich.
“Come on then, Steve—it is Steve, isn’t it—what’s the story? I know your boss has a pole up his arse and is a stickler for regs, but you strike me as a decent chap. Talk to me. We’re all in this together here, and I don’t know what we’re walking into. My lads deserve to know the score.”
Smithson put a finger to his lips and whispered theatrically.
“Hush-hush stuff. Not allowed.”
“Come on. All this free booze, the best quality of tucker too. This Ruskie’s buttering you up, you’re letting him, yet you won’t tell your own people what’s going on? And I thought you were decent.”
The appeal to decency, helped along by the booze, got through the man’s filters, just for a few seconds, but long enough for it to worry Banks for a while after the scientist went unsteadily back to his seat.
“Let’s just say it’s not going to be like any zoo you’ve ever seen. Not like one that anyone has ever seen—not for ten thousand years at least.”
Banks was amused to see that all three of the scientists were green around the gills on wakening as the pilot announced their descent to their destination. Smithson, in particular, was particularly bad, and had to avail himself twice of a sick bag before they landed with a hop and a bump. Banks tried to get a look out at the terrain, but there was only gray beyond the window, a thick fog obscuring the view that was still too thick to see through as they taxied to a halt and were allowed to disembark.