Department 19: Zero Hour (46 page)

“Let me guess,” said Holmwood. “He didn’t?”

Ovechkin shook his head. “He did not. The team was despatched, but before they reached the man there were two gunshots, and the heat signature we were monitoring became confused. When my men arrived, they found him lying beside a brown bear, which he had managed to kill with a point-blank shot to the head. The man had sustained terrible injuries, but he was still breathing when he was brought into the base. My medical staff were unable to save him, but he regained consciousness on his way to surgery, and told one of the doctors that his name was Richard Brennan.”

“Jesus,” said Holmwood. A hundred questions were jostling for priority in his mind. “What the hell was he—”

The SPC Director held up his hand. “There is more, Cal. Let me finish, then ask your questions.”

Holmwood stared at the screen for a long moment, then nodded.

“Thank you,” said Ovechkin. “We checked his DNA against the sample that your Science Division provided, and confirmed that he was who he claimed to be. My intention was to inform you of his death last night, but there was something else in the report I received from my medical staff. As well as his name, Brennan also said a single word, in Russian.
Safeguard
. I ordered a search of our network for all references to such a word. Hidden deep in our Research Division files, accessible only by the Director and a former member of this Department by the name of Yevgeny Demidov, we found the records of a project. A project codenamed Safeguard.”

Cal glanced over at Paul Turner again; the Security Officer was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white.

“I remember Demidov,” said Holmwood. “He’s dead.”

“He died seven years ago,” said Ovechkin. “A cardiac arrest in his sleep. He was a disgusting slob, a disgrace to our Department. He is not missed.”

“What was Safeguard?” asked Turner. “What was he doing?”

“It was a black project,” said Ovechkin. “Classified above Top Secret. I had no idea it existed until yesterday, and there is nothing to suggest that Yuri Petrov was aware of it either. But the records show it ran for almost twenty years.”

“You can give me the detailed history later, Aleksandr,” said Holmwood. “Just tell us what it was.”

The SPC Director sighed deeply. “Spies,” he said. “Demidov was making spies. And Richard Brennan was one of them.”

As Arkady Petrov led them deeper and deeper into the forest, Jamie found himself wondering how such a place could still exist.

The generally accepted wisdom seemed to be that the world was smaller than it had ever been, that there was nowhere left to explore, no dark corners into which to shine a light; the North and South Poles reached so often they had become tourist destinations, Everest scaled time and again, the deepest reaches of the Amazon braved, the great wildernesses of Siberia and Canada mapped. Satellites, GPS, camera phones, the internet: all had combined to increase knowledge and reduce mystery.

But then again,
thought Jamie,
we kept vampires a secret for more than a century. So who knows what else is still out there?

The Teleorman Forest was large, although not in comparison to the great Russian steppes or the seemingly endless frozen wilds of Alaska. But the facts were indisputable: all their equipment, the modern technology that connected them to the outside world and which Jamie was only now truly realising they had come to rely on so heavily, had failed barely thirty minutes after they had stepped into its trees.

There were no signals, no radio, no satellite contact.

They were on their own.

Cut off from the chain of command, the tension within the squad was rising with every minute that passed. It seemed clear to Jamie that Tim Albertsson was struggling with the pressure of leading the operation; without surveillance, without the ability to contact his superiors in Nevada for clarification, mistakes that were made would be his and his alone. Jamie almost felt sorry for the American; Operators throughout the Departments were trained to function as parts of a whole, to adhere to mission objectives and patrol grids and Operational parameters. Initiative was encouraged, of course, and self-sufficiency was drummed into every man and woman who underwent training. But theory was one thing; being forcibly separated from a support structure that you had come to take for granted was quite another.

The rest of the squad were all dealing with the isolation in their own way. Petrov had become even more stoical, if that was possible; his hard, pale face was entirely expressionless, and he spoke only when he had something directly related to the operation to say. Engel seemed to be shrinking before Jamie’s eyes; her jovial manner seemed ever more forced as she withdrew into herself, as though it was an act that she herself no longer believed. Van Orel had gone the opposite way; he had become louder and more manic as they made their way through the unchanging landscape of green and brown, rattling out a stream of jokes and anecdotes so relentless that Tim Albertsson had eventually ordered him to shut up. And it was obvious to Jamie that Larissa, her already apparent frustration amplified by the sudden unreliability of her supernatural senses, was fighting a pitched internal battle with her vampire side.

He knew the signs all too well. She was flying constantly and erratically, responding to comments with frowns and rolled eyes and grunts that were close to growls, and regularly soaring away through the trees, separating herself quite intentionally from her squad mates. Jamie knew that her vampire side was hardest to resist when she felt uneasy or threatened; the combination of the strange properties of the forest, the operation itself, and whatever was between her and Tim Albertsson, was clearly causing her to feel both.

I can wait until we get out of here,
Jamie thought.
Because there’s no sense in making this situation even worse. But then one of them is going to tell me what’s going on, whether they want to or not.

He swallowed down a deep yawn of exhaustion. The incident with the snake had left him drained; the adrenaline that had flooded his system as he stared at the reptile’s black eyes had long since worn off, and evening was drawing in. The constant gloom was deepening into a darkness that would soon be absolute, and although it was currently going unsaid, he was sure his squad mates were far from pleased at the prospect of making camp among the trees.

The squad had gradually spaced out as they continued their seemingly endless march; there were now a hundred metres or so between Petrov on point and Jamie at the rear. As a result, the Russian’s voice sounded small and distant when he called for them to stop.

“All stop,” relayed Tim Albertsson. He was currently third in line, behind Engel and ahead of Van Orel. “What is it, Petrov?”

“You will want to see this,” said the Russian.

“What is it?” repeated Tim.

“I do not know,” said Petrov.

Great,
thought Jamie, as he jogged up to where the SPC Operator was standing.
What today has really lacked is something weird and inexplicable.

He joined his squad mates as they gathered round Petrov. Larissa had floated to the ground and was looking at the Russian with obvious impatience, her eyes flickering red.

“So?” said Albertsson. “What’s going on?”

They were standing in a small clearing, no more than five metres in diameter. A huge tree, its trunk as wide as a car, stood at its northern edge, and the floor was covered by the tangle of shrubs and bushes that made travelling through the forest such hard going.

Petrov looked at Albertsson, then raised his foot and brought it down on the ground, hard. A loud bang echoed through the trees as his boot connected with something solid, making Jamie jump.

“What the hell?” asked Van Orel.

Petrov shrugged. “Wood.”

“Get some light in here,” said Albertsson, drawing his torch from his belt. Jamie and the rest of the squad followed suit as Petrov stepped aside. The torch beams revealed a worn patch of grass, through which the outlines of wooden boards could be clearly seen. “Find the edges,” said their squad leader, spreading his hands through the grass.

Jamie crouched down and ran his hands over the ground. He could feel the smoothness of the wood beneath his gloved fingers; it felt strange in this overgrown place. He found an edge and began to rip at the foliage, exposing a straight line in the dirt.

“Here,” he said.

Van Orel quickly found a corner, half buried by a low bush sprouting between his feet. Engel had found the opposite one, and was brushing torn grass away from it as Albertsson and Petrov worked an edge. Larissa cleared the final corner, her eyes glowing in the last of the fading light.

“OK,” said Engel, as the shape was revealed.

It was a wooden square, two metres long on each side. Moss and grass covered most of its surface, and the wood that was visible was stained dark by years of dirt; it looked as though it had been lying there for a great many years.

Jamie got to his feet and stepped back. His squad mates did likewise, their eyes trained on the strange discovery. Eventually, it was Van Orel who said what they were all thinking.

“What’s underneath it?”

Larissa leant down and took hold of one of the edges with a gloved hand. She lifted it with no discernible effort, sending up clouds of dirt and dust as the wood separated from the forest floor, creaking and screaming as it came loose. It was huge, a solid block almost fifteen centimetres thick, but Larissa handled it like a feather. She raised it to shoulder height with one hand, in what Jamie was sure was a deliberate demonstration of her supernatural strength, then tossed it aside. It crashed to the floor, and lay still.

The squad stepped forward. A pitch-black hole stared up at them, its edges square and neat.

“Lieutenant Kinley,” said Tim Albertsson, his gaze fixed on the empty space. “How would you feel about finding out how deep this goes?”

Larissa nodded, stepped effortlessly into the air, pirouetted, and disappeared into the hole.

“There’s a floor,” she shouted, instantly. “And a tunnel heading north. Wooden boards. Five metres down.”

“Is there a ladder?” asked Albertsson.

“No,” said Larissa. “You’ll have to rope down. I’m going to see where this goes.”

“Stay where you are,” shouted Albertsson. “Is that clear?”

Silence.

“Yes, sir,” said Larissa, eventually, her voice dripping with sarcastic obedience. “Perfectly clear, sir.”

Albertsson grinned, then turned to the rest of his squad. “Petrov,” he said. “Fix a rope. You, Engel, Van Orel, you’re coming down with me. Carpenter, you’re staying up here.”

Jamie frowned. “Are you serious?” he said.

Albertsson squared up to him. “I’d have thought that was obvious, Lieutenant. Did you think I was joking?”

“You don’t want to know what I think,” said Jamie, his eyes locked on the American, familiar angry heat spilling into his stomach.

Albertsson smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “I genuinely couldn’t care less. Someone has to stay up here and keep watch while the rest of us are underground. I’ve chosen
you
to be that person. Are you refusing a direct order?”

Jamie stared at him, fighting the overwhelming urge to sink his thumbs into the Special Operator’s windpipe. “No,” he growled. “Sir.”

“Good,” said Albertsson. His smile widened, as though they were suddenly the best of friends. “I’m so glad. Thank you.”

“Rope is ready,” said Petrov.

Jamie looked over at him. The Russian Operator was staring at Tim Albertsson with what appeared to be his usual neutral expression, but Jamie could see the tiniest downward curl at the corners of the man’s mouth.

Looks like I’m not the only one who can see that you’re a dick, Tim.

“All right,” said Albertsson. “Van Orel, you go first. Engel, second, I’ll follow you. Petrov, you bring up the rear. And if anything happens up here, don’t rely on comms, Carpenter. You shout your head off, OK?”

Jamie nodded, then watched as his squad mates lowered themselves one by one into the hole and disappeared. He stared at the black square for a long moment, trying to work out whether he wanted to burst into tears at the petty, frustrating unfairness of Tim’s behaviour or throw his head back and let the rage that was bubbling inside him out in a primal scream.

Or throw a grenade down there after them,
he thought, then pushed the idea away, disgusted at himself for even having allowed it to cross his mind.

Larissa watched her squad mates descend the rope hand over hand, wrestling with the urge to break Tim Albertsson’s neck as soon as his feet touched the wooden floor of the tunnel.

She had heard the conversation between him and Jamie, heard Tim single out her boyfriend to be left behind, and she could feel her vampire side raging with the desire to commit violence; she took a series of slow, deep breaths as Van Orel landed with a thud, followed by the rest of their squad.

Larissa had obeyed Tim’s instruction not to explore, but the immediate surroundings were already clear to her supernatural eyes. The tunnel was long and straight, with wooden boards for a floor and packed earth for its walls and roof, held in place by thick struts and beams that looked like tree trunks. It reminded her of photos of the battlefields of World War One, where long tunnels had been dug to place mines beneath enemy positions.