Colony

by Benjamin Cross

  “I don’t believe you,” Ava said. “Dan may have been a lot of things, but he was no murderer.”

  “The purity of his intentions is beyond doubt,” Volkov replied. “He is a misguided fool, but his motives were noble enough. He wanted to save the Arctic from exploitation. The problem is that this is impossible. Naïve idealists like Mr Peterson are just too blinded by sentiment to see it. Commercial exploitation of the Arctic is inevitable.” He grinned. “Thanks to his own actions, it is now closer than ever.”

  Callum kept quiet. The last thing he wanted was to believe a word Volkov said. Yet there was a ring of truth. He remembered when Darya, Ava and he had first awoken on Harmsworth. His own words repeated on him: Dan’s the last person any of us saw… one of us has woken up armed with a whole raft of survival equipment… the one he has feelings for…

  The conundrum had been why Peterson would drug three of his colleagues and strand them on Harmsworth? Now, in the surreal confines of Volkov’s assault helicopter, the answer seemed to slug him hard around the face. And the pieces kept on fitting. Peterson was a true nature lover. He was passionate about the Arctic. The submarine would have given him the ideal means of operation and escape…

  But what Ava said was also true. Peterson was not a ruthless killer. Of that, Callum was certain. He was a nice guy, quirky and highly strung, but a decent human being.

  Suddenly it all made perfect sense.

  Why would Peterson drug three of his colleagues and maroon them on Harmsworth?

  Because he was trying to save their lives.

  2

  The mist was clearing. The grey blanket had fractured into a 3D jigsaw puzzle, its pieces thinning and warping, billowing past Koikov as he sprinted to the top of the moraine.

  Until now, his only indication that the rescue helicopter had arrived at the extraction point had been the thumping of the rotors as he’d scrambled up the slope. Now that he could see the craft, he could tell instantly that there was something wrong.

  Marchenko had been told to expect an Mi-26, a troop-carrier with a hundred-person capacity, perfectly suited to severe weather conditions. The co-axial, heavily armoured assault helicopter now heading away from him was no Mi-26. It was more similar to a Black Shark, a Kamov 50, only slightly larger. And why would the craft be painted white rather than regulation military shades? A White Shark.

  As he cast around for an explanation, his gaze fell upon the jumble of blood-stained corpses. His eyes widened in disbelief and he sprinted over. Dropping to his knees, he rolled the nearest man onto his back.

  “Marchenko!” The damage to his body was extensive. But his eyes were open and the tiniest shred of life clung on within him. Koikov raised his head up, supporting the back of his neck. “Marchenko? Marchenko, what happened?”

  Blood spilt from the sergeant’s mouth as he tried to speak. “They… must have… intercepted… my transmission…”

  “Intercepted your transmission? Who? Marchenko? Who’s they? Who the fuck did this?”

  This time there was no response. Marchenko’s gentle eyes took on that sudden dimness that Koikov had seen too many times before. In vain, he crouched over the corpse and began chest compressions. He’d performed no more than three before his hands cracked through Marchenko’s shattered sternum and disappeared into his chest cavity.

  He tore his hands away and retched violently. It was no use. Marchenko was gone. He checked the others for signs of life. All of them were gone.

  Koikov’s breathing spiralled; his head spun. The scene before him was more gut-wrenching than anything he had witnessed so far on Harmsworth. It was not the work of dragons. His team’s wounds were not the result of claws or teeth. They were bullet holes, the result of man-made metal rounds fired at close quarters.

  Something cold stung at Koikov’s cheek and he wiped away at it. His fingertips were moist. A single tear had escaped him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shed a tear. They were useless. They solved nothing. But, on this occasion, they just happened.

  As the helicopter made away, he buried his face into Marchenko’s shoulder and wept.

  * * *

  “You used him,” Callum spat. “You used Peterson. And for what? What’s this all about, Volkov? Money?”

  Volkov pursed his lips. “I did not use Mr Peterson; he volunteered his services readily. And I much prefer to think in terms of economy, not money.” He grinned. “My reasons for involving Mr Peterson are none of your concern. But let’s just say that the Harmsworth Project is going to be much more economical when his transgressions are brought to light.”

  “Darya told me you were a greedy, manipulative bastard, but this…”

  Volkov threw a glance in Darya’s direction. His eyes narrowed. “Yes, our paths have unfortunately crossed before. She and her kind have cost me a great deal in the past, but not this time.”

  Ava turned to Callum. “Doctor Ross, surely you don’t believe this bullshit about Dan?”

  “Of course not,” he lied; he needed Ava’s help more than ever and the last thing he wanted was to isolate her feelings.

  “What is it you want, Volkov? If everyone was supposed to go down with the Albanov then why are we still alive?”

  A dark smile crossed Volkov’s lips. “I have kept you alive because I would like to play a little game with you, Doctor Ross.”

  “A game?” Ava said. “Are you serious?”

  “Deadly,” he replied, reaching into his belt and removing a handgun. “I call it Mr Peterson’s Data Stick, and it works like this.” He pulled back on the top of the weapon, cocking it. Then he pointed it at Callum’s face. “Round one. I point this gun at each player in turn. I then ask, ‘Do you have Mr Peterson’s data stick?’ If the player answers no, then unfortunately they are no longer in the game. If they answer, ‘Yes, I have Mr Peterson’s data stick,’ then congratulations, they are through to round two.”

  Callum frowned. “What data stick?”

  “I cannot tell whether you are bluffing, Doctor Ross.” Volkov paused, eyeing Callum coldly. “The data stick in question belonged to Mr Peterson, and it is now of considerable value to myself and my associates.”

  “So what happens in round two?” Ava asked.

  “Round two is where the game starts to get interesting. In round two, I say, ‘Give me Mr Peterson’s data stick.’ The remaining player then has only to hand me the data stick and they win the game. If the player is unwilling to hand it over immediately, then unfortunately they are also out of the game.” He sat back in his chair. “Are we all clear on the rules?”

  Callum went to speak, but he was drowned out by the pilot yelling back into the cabin. Volkov’s expression soured and he rushed over to peer through the side window.

  Heart racing, Callum also stole a glance. By now the mist had largely disappeared. Through the glass he could see back towards south-western Harmsworth. The moraine rose from the centre of the basin, the abandoned hovercraft glinting at its base. To the east, there was now a smoking scatter of rubble where the bunker had once stood.

  His gaze moved to the top of the moraine. A dark blotch was spread across the rock where Marchenko and his team had fallen. From this distance, their individual bodies had merged into a single, lifeless heap that brought the image of their massacre flashing back through Callum’s mind.

  As he looked on, something else caught his attention. Movement. Next to the bodies, something was moving around, subtle but unmistakable. Was it one of the creatures? Could one of the soldiers really have survived?

  His face cut with a sudden rage, Volkov bellowed something through to the pilot, and the helicopter began to turn.

  “Bind their hands!” he ordered, leaping through into the co-pilot seat.

  Confused, Callum looked across at Ava. Who the hell was he talking to?

  His heart skipped a beat.
<
br />   With one hand clamped around her wrist and the other brandishing a pistol, Lungkaju met his gaze. “I am sorry, my friends. But you must put your hands behind your back.”

  3

  Callum could hardly believe his eyes as Lungkaju uncoiled a length of rope and began coolly binding Ava’s wrist.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I am doing what I have to do, my friend.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “Doctor Ross—”

  “How could you? How could you help that… that murderer? Did you even see what he just did?”

  “Yes, I saw, and I am very sorry that this had to happen. I hoped that nobody else would have to die.”

  “Nobody else?”

  Ava offered no resistance as Lungkaju pulled her other arm gently but firmly behind her back and secured her hands together. He then approached Callum and took hold of his wrist.

  Callum wrenched his arm away.

  “Please do not make this more difficult, Doctor Ross,” Lungkaju said. His tone was soft, apologetic. It was also accompanied by a metallic snap as he cocked the pistol. “I have no choice.”

  Callum stared into the face of the man he had considered a friend, the gentle Nganasan who had dressed and redressed his leg wound and grieved so hard at the death of his pet dog. His eyes moved back to the gun aimed at his chest, and he turned and put his hands behind his back.

  “Do you remember when I told you about my daughter, Doctor Ross?”

  Callum did remember, but he made no reply. All he could think was: Marchenko had a daughter too, and a son. And thanks to your boss they’ll never see each other again. But he said nothing. As the rope snaked around his skin, he felt numb with betrayal.

  “She is everything to me. Like your son, Jamie, is to you.”

  The name was like a kick to the stomach. “Don’t you dare talk about my son!”

  Lungkaju steadied himself as the helicopter banked. Then he sat down opposite Callum. “We are very different people.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Lungkaju sighed. He lacked the poise with which Volkov wielded his own pistol. His movements were controlled but pensive, his eyes heavy with conflict.

  “In Russia, the Nganasan, my people, are…” he searched for the right words, “…not equal. Life is hard for them, Doctor Ross, harder than I have ever seen it before. The melting ice makes hunting less predictable and more dangerous for those who try to live the old way. Because of this there are less and less of them, and it is harder for them to support their families.”

  He leant forward. “The old way is dying, and for those who move into the towns to find work, there are other problems. Education and healthcare are very poor. Unemployment, crime, and drug and alcohol addiction are high. I have friends who have drunk themselves to death, others who have tried to kill themselves because they see no future. This is not unusual now, and it is very sad when I go back and see what is happening to my people.” He paused, a look of resolution in his eyes. “I do not want this for my daughter.”

  “I can sympathise with the plight of your people,” Callum said. “But poverty and social deprivation are not an excuse to go around pointing guns in people’s faces. You must know that?”

  “It is okay for you to say this, Doctor Ross. You are a good man, but you are also very fortunate. You do not know what it is like to be unequal. You do not know hopelessness.”

  “I know right from wrong,” Callum replied. “I know that I wouldn’t want my son to grow up knowing that his father was a criminal. That he’d stood there and watched as innocent men were murdered and others taken hostage, and all for the sake of money.”

  “It is very easy to look down on those who envy wealth, Doctor Ross, when you yourself are wealthy.”

  Callum threw a glance at the others. Darya’s eyes were still closed, but she was stirring slightly, in the early stages of coming round. He hoped to God she didn’t wake up now. Beside him, Ava sat still and quiet, just listening to Lungkaju.

  “Mr Volkov was working in Ust Avam in Taymyr many years ago. He was caught in a blizzard and was freezing to death. My father and grandfather were out hunting, and they found him. They cared for him. They saved his life. I can still remember walking in and seeing him, the white man sleeping in my father’s bed.

  “He promised that he would help them however he could. My grandfather was far too proud to ask him for anything. But before he passed away, my father wrote to him and asked if he could help me to find work. He said that I could go and work directly for him. That I would earn good money to support my family.”

  The helicopter dropped down suddenly and accelerated. Callum could see that they were fast approaching the coastline. Now that they were closer, it was clear that there was still somebody alive on top of the moraine. Whoever it was, the helicopter was heading straight for them.

  “What are we doing?” Ava asked.

  “There can be no survivors now,” Lungkaju replied. “Not now.” He stood up and fastened both hers and Callum’s seat belts, before fastening his own.

  “So we’re going back to chalk another one up, are we?” Callum said. “Another innocent life. It must be some package Volkov’s offering you, my friend.”

  “Mr Volkov takes very good care of me. He allows me to take very good care of my family. When my wife was dying, I could afford the best medical care for her, so that she could spend her last days with dignity, in comfort and not in pain. I can afford to send my daughter to the best schools and provide for her everything she needs to be safe and happy. None of this would be possible without Mr Volkov.” He paused, before adding, “Tell me, Doctor Ross, what would you do if you were me?”

  Before Callum could answer, a mechanical whirring noise rang out beside him. He had never been in a helicopter gunship before in his life, but he knew with grim certainty exactly what it was.

  He watched as the front, side-mounted machine gun rotated into position.

  4

  It wasn’t an illusion. The sound of the helicopter was growing louder. Koikov lifted his head from Marchenko’s shoulder, his face streaked with the man’s blood, and searched the sky. The helicopter was returning to Harmsworth. He watched as its shadow passed low over the coastline. The White Shark was bearing straight for his position.

  The next thing he knew, two parallel bursts of automatic gunfire hammered into the slope and ripped towards him.

  In an instant, he was on his toes, bolting in the opposite direction. As he leapt from the plateau onto the side of the slope, the White Shark tore overhead. Bullets strafed past him to the left, peppering the scree and throwing up mini-mushroom clouds of dust and rock.

  He kept on running, arriving at the bottom of the slope just as the Shark turned around and came back for another pass. The automatic fire flared up once again, and Koikov flung himself behind a stand of rock.

  He hit the deck only to find a dragon, its brains blown out, slumped awkwardly beside him. He rolled forward into it and then backwards, heaving the stinking carcass up in front of him just in time. The stench was horrendous, but the line of bullets beat into the creature’s flank just as he’d hoped, their force absorbed within the barrier of muscle and bone. He shoved the dragon shield to one side and leapt to his feet. Then he ran like hell.

  In seconds the White Shark was back on him. Rounds ricocheted to either side as he dove for cover behind another outcrop. As it passed overhead once more, he sprinted on and finally made it to the hovercraft. He threw open the weapon store. He knew full well what should be in there, but still he prayed out loud. His eyes lit up as his fingers fell against one of the two remaining RPGs, and he snatched it out and primed it.

  With only seconds to spare before the Shark came in for another skirmish, he knelt down and prepared to launch.

  The craft had now turned fully. It
was bearing down on Koikov with immense speed. Any moment and he would see the tell-tale flowering of smoke from the side-mounted guns, before the rounds bit into him.

  It was all about nerve. In its determination to take him out, the craft was flying so low that a hit with the RPG was almost guaranteed, so long as he didn’t fuck up. He took a deep breath. The only question was where to put the grenade. He wanted to plant it square in the pilot’s ball-sack. But something was stopping him. Where were the scientists? He hadn’t seen their bodies on top of the moraine, and this left the possibility that they were hostages on board.

  He had to think quickly. The military training manual in his brain kicked in, and his eyes came to focus on the twin rotors. One of the main military advantages of the co-axial rotor system was that it negated the need for a tail rotor. This was significant because a high percentage of artillery attacks on assault helicopters took out the tail, leaving normal single-rotor machines in a spin, fatally compromised. With the co-axial models, blasting out the tail would still take them out. But it wouldn’t necessarily cause them to crash. If he played it right, he could bring the Shark down, but bring it down safe. His jaw clenched and his grip tightened around the RPG housing. That would have the added advantage of allowing him to wring the neck of the motherfucker responsible for wiping out his team.

  With only a split second on the clock, Koikov took final aim and fired. The rocket screamed from the launcher, spewing a thick trail of smoke behind it as it curved up and around. He held his breath.

  As the first few rounds pummelled into the side of the adjacent outcrop, the rocket found its target. With a loud explosion, the tail shaft was obliterated. Red-hot shrapnel rained down onto the rock below, and the entire craft was engulfed in thick, black smoke.

  Koikov slammed the launcher into the floor and let out a victorious roar. Above him, the Shark shuddered with the impact. Then it headed inland, its altitude reducing by the second.