Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  Jamie smiled gratefully at the sight of his friend, who strode across the room and flopped down in the seat beside him.

  “All right?” whispered Jack.

  “All right,” replied Jamie. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s going,” smiled Jack. “Yourself?”

  “Fine,” replied Jamie, feeling his mood lift.

  Jack Williams was a descendant of the founders of Blacklight, just like Jamie, and although he was eight years older and had been an Operator for almost four years, he had become one of Jamie’s closest friends in the Department. He was widely regarded as the finest young Operator in the Department and a man destined for great things, a viewpoint reinforced by his membership of the Zero Hour Task Force, but he also had an uncanny ability to make Jamie laugh, to make him feel like there could still be light in the middle of all the darkness that surrounded them.

  Jack’s father was Robert Williams, a veteran Operator who had served Blacklight since the 1970s, and the grandson-in-law of Quincey Harker, the greatest legend of the Department, whose tenure as Director had transformed the organisation into the hi-tech, highly classified unit it was today. Jack’s younger brother Patrick was also an Operator, but where Jack was loud and confident, the life of the party and the biggest personality in any room, Patrick was quiet and appeared to be almost pathologically shy.

  Jamie had spent a lot of time with the two brothers in the officers’ mess, and the differences between them were like night and day. What was even more striking, though, was the fierce love that so clearly existed between them, the loyalty that was utterly beyond question, to which Jamie, an only child, responded with deep admiration, and more than a little jealousy.

  Jamie was about to tell Jack that he still appeared to be the unpopular kid in the room when the door opened for the final time, and the last two members of the Zero Hour Task Force arrived.

  Colonel Cal Holmwood, Blacklight’s Deputy Director and one of its most senior and decorated Operators, was the man who had piloted the Mina II, the supersonic Department 19 jet, to Lindisfarne on the night that Frankenstein had been lost, dragged over the steep cliffs by a werewolf whose intention had been to kill Jamie. He had flown survivors back to the Loop after that terrible night was over, and now entered the Ops Room deep in conversation with the man who fascinated Jamie more than any other in the entire Department.

  Professor Richard Talbot, the director of the Lazarus Project, was remarkably tall and thin, like a giant stick insect wrapped in a spotless white lab coat. He was in his sixties, his face lined and weathered, his bald head perfectly round, flanked by two strips of grey hair that rested above his ears. The Professor was smiling gently at whatever Cal Holmwood was saying to him; then, as they made their way to opposite sides of the long table, he locked eyes with Jamie, smiling broadly at him. Jamie smiled back, involuntarily; the Professor made him feel something close to star-struck, even though they had only spoken to each other once, as the first meeting of the Zero Hour Task Force had come to its conclusion.

  The Lazarus Project was an enigma, even within an organisation as secretive as Department 19.

  It had only been officially mentioned once, during Admiral Seward’s speech about Dracula; its purpose was unknown, and its laboratories, located on Level F of the Loop, were off-limits to all but the tiny number of senior Operators who possessed the necessary clearance. The Project’s staff were rarely seen; their quarters were inside the security perimeter, and they made only occasional appearances in the dining hall or the mess. Nobody even knew how many of them there were. Doctors, scientists, administrative staff: all were hidden away behind an Iron Curtain of secrecy.

  So when Professor Talbot had strolled into the inaugural Zero Hour meeting and introduced himself to the rest of the group, there had been a sudden sense of excitement in the room. Talbot was a mystery, whose work was classified far beyond Top Secret, yet the man himself was utterly disarming, friendly and charming to a fault. After the meeting ended, he had fallen into stride beside Jamie as they walked to the lift at the end of the Level 0 corridor.

  “Mr Carpenter,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “I read the Lindisfarne report. I’m very sorry.”

  Jamie looked up at him, completely thrown by the fact that this man was talking to him, this man who answered only to Admiral Seward himself.

  “Thanks,” he managed. “It was a bad night.”

  Understatement of the bloody year.

  “I can’t imagine,” Talbot replied. “But you should take heart from what you did. The destruction of Alexandru will save hundreds of lives. I’m sure that doesn’t feel like any consolation at the moment, but hopefully in time you’ll be able to understand that you did something remarkable. And if there’s anything I can do to help, please do let me know.”

  “I will,” Jamie replied, his voice thick with confusion. “Thank you.”

  Talbot smiled, then accelerated away down the corridor, leaving Jamie standing as still as a statue, his face wearing the look of someone who is not completely sure that what has just happened to them was actually real.

  Since that one brief conversation, Jamie had been fascinated by Professor Talbot; so much so that Larissa, the only person to whom he had described the conversation, had started to use a different word.

  Obsessed, thought Jamie. She says I’m obsessed with him.

  He could understand why she might think so. In the week that had passed since the first Zero Hour meeting, Jamie had asked almost every Operator he had spoken to what they knew about Professor Talbot and the Lazarus Project. The answers he had received had ranged from incredulous demands that he not ask such questions, to wild theories about what was taking place in the Project’s sealed laboratories on Level F.

  “They’re cloning Operators,” one earnest civilian contractor had insisted. “They’re going to bring back Van Helsing, and Quincey Harker, and all the others. They’re going to declare war on the vamps.”

  Jamie had scoffed, but continued to ask the question, undeterred. Some Operators claimed that it was a weapons project, devising new ways of destroying vampires, while one member of the Science Division swore blind that the Lazarus Project was building a microwave emitter tuned to an electromagnetic frequency that only existed inside the brains of vampires. When it was complete, the scientist promised, all that would be required was the push of a single button, and every vampire in the world would be destroyed, instantly. Jamie asked tens of men and women, and got tens of different replies, leading him to the only conclusion that could be rationally drawn.

  Nobody has a clue what they’re doing down there. Not a clue.

  “Zero Hour Task Force convened, January 19th,” said Admiral Seward. His personal secretary, a small, plump man named Marlow, had positioned himself a deferential distance behind the Director and now began to take minutes, his chubby fingers flying silently across the keys of a portable console. “Second meeting. All members present.”

  The Director looked at the seven men gathered round the table. “Gentlemen,” he continued. “Operational data since the last meeting is as follows. Vampire activity remains heightened, but stable, as do sightings and incidents involving the public that require our involvement. Patrol logs indicate that incidents of the graffiti that was discussed last week continue to occur, in increasing numbers.”

  Seward nodded to Marlow, who punched a series of keys on his console. The huge high-definition screen that covered the entire wall behind the Director powered up. A series of photographs filled the frame; the same two words, in tens of different colours and handwritings, printed and sprayed on walls and roads and bridges.

  HE RISES

  Jamie felt a chill run through him as he looked at the photos. The two words represented the Department’s greatest fear, the moment the Task Force had been created to prevent.

  Zero Hour.

  The vampires knew what was coming, just as surely as Blacklight did; the graffiti was proof of that. But more
than that, it seemed to be directly addressed to them, left at the scenes of crimes that only they would be called to.

  It seemed to be a challenge.

  No, that’s not it, thought Jamie. They’re not challenging us. They’re mocking us. They don’t think we can stop Dracula from rising. And they might well be right.

  “What are our vamp contacts saying?” asked Cal Holmwood.

  “Nothing,” replied Paul Turner. “Less than that in fact. Most of them have disappeared, and the ones that haven’t won’t talk. They know what’s coming.”

  “We should stake them all,” said the Operator from the Intelligence Division. “What use are they if they won’t talk?”

  “Absolutely none, Mr Brennan,” agreed Turner. “But still more than they would be dead. Circumstances change.”

  “I don’t get it,” pressed Brennan. “If Dracula rises, if it’s as bad as everyone thinks, they’re going to lose everything too. Why don’t they help us stop it?”

  “Because they don’t think we can,” replied Turner, evenly. “Stop it, I mean. And whatever may happen if Dracula rises, the one thing they can be sure of is that helping us is not going to make them popular.”

  Operator Brennan stared at Turner with a look that suggested he had more he wanted to say, but he held his tongue.

  “Fine,” said Admiral Seward. “Paul, keep at them, but I don’t think you’ll have much luck, as you said. I spoke to the SPC this morning and they assured me they’re doing all they can, so let’s—”

  “All they can?” said Jamie, without thinking. “Apart from not losing the remains in the first place, you mean?”

  Seven pairs of eyes swung in his direction, and Jamie swallowed hard.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s just frustrating. Nobody knew they had them, so there was nothing we could do to make sure they were safe.”

  “I knew the SPC had the remains,” said Seward, coolly. “As did the other Directors. What would you have had us do?”

  Jamie looked at the Director for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  Seward’s face softened. “I don’t like it any more than you, Lieutenant Carpenter. Clearly, there are lessons to be learnt from what has happened, for all of us. But we have to play the hand we’ve been dealt, to the best of our abilities. So, on that note, and because I’d like to keep this meeting as short as humanly possible, if there is nothing—”

  “I don’t like it either,” interrupted Operator Brennan, scowling at Jamie. “I don’t like any part of this. And I still don’t see why some kid who isn’t even old enough to wear the uniform gets a say in this just because his surname is Carpenter.”

  Jamie felt his face flush with anger. He opened his mouth to reply, saw Seward do the same and was surprised when someone beat them both to it.

  “Mr Brennan,” said Professor Talbot. “Have you ever seen a Priority Level 1 vampire?”

  “What does that have to—”

  “This young man,” continued Talbot, glancing at Jamie, “has not only seen one, but faced it down and destroyed it. Compared to every vampire you have ever seen, Operator Brennan, Alexandru Rusmanov might as well have been a different species; a natural disaster made flesh, like a hurricane, and Mr Carpenter destroyed him. He is the only living soul to have destroyed a Priority 1. That’s why he’s here. Because what Alexandru was to normal vampires, so Dracula will be to Alexandru if he is allowed to rise, and I for one will want Mr Carpenter on our side if that happens. Is that clear enough for you?”

  Jamie looked at Professor Talbot, stunned. He had not expected his defence to come from the most unknown quantity in the Department.

  Sometimes I forget about Alexandru. He had my mum, so for me it was simple. I forget how big a deal it is to everyone else.

  “There you have it,” said Admiral Seward. “Couldn’t have said it better myself. Anyone else have any more questions they want to ask, or speeches they’d like to make? No? Well, thank heaven for small mercies.”

  He stood up from the table, and the rest of the group followed his lead.

  “I would remind you, one more time,” said the Director. “Everything that has been said here is only for the ears of the men in this room. Any violation of this very simple instruction will be considered a court-martial offence. I ask you all not to force me to make good on that promise. Dismissed.”

  9

  NO STONE UNTURNED

  STAVELEY, NORTH DERBYSHIRE

  Matt Browning shoved his chair back from his desk and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He had been in front of his computer for more than thirty of the last forty-eight hours, and his eyes were killing him.

  He walked out of his bedroom, stuck his head into his little sister’s room, waited until he heard the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, then made his way downstairs to the kitchen. As he passed the door to the front room, he heard his father swear at the television, berating an offside decision he had clearly not agreed with. At the table in the small dining room that was attached by French doors to the back of the living room, he could hear his mother on the phone to her sister, talking with quiet animation about a minor celebrity who had left her equally minor celebrity fiancé at the altar. It was evidently quite the scandal.

  In the kitchen, Matt poured himself a glass of water and leant against one of the counters. He doubted that anyone in the world knew as much about vampires as he had learnt in the two months since he had been returned home.

  Matt knew, as he sat in the back of the car with the blacked-out windows that was taking him home, that the first few moments of his return were going to be crucial. If he was going to be believed, if his parents were going to accept, as the doctor at the base had, that he could remember nothing of what had happened to him, then he was going to have to play his hand perfectly.

  The doctor was so pleased with his recovery from the coma that his apparent amnesia had been almost an afterthought. Tests were carried out, a great number of them, but Matt realised quickly that the doctor had been convinced that he would emerge from his coma with significant brain damage, and that lent him the courage to lie with conviction. He picked a point four days before the incident in his parents’ garden, and stuck resolutely to his claim that he could remember nothing since then. He feigned frustration, and concern for the state of his memory; he summoned tears of apparent confusion and fear, while the doctor had held his hand and told him it was all going to be all right.

  There was one brief, terrifying moment when the nurse suggested a polygraph test to assess whether there might be recoverable memories, to check whether, in effect, Matt was lying without meaning to. But the doctor rounded angrily on her, and told her that the boy had been through enough. The nurse, chastened, apologised for the suggestion, and Matt breathed a little easier.

  He stood on the doorstep of his parents’ small house for several minutes, the letter he had been told to give them in his hand, as he prepared himself to give his performance. Then he rang the doorbell, and waited until his father answered. In the end, very little was required of him; he had barely begun a stuttering, rambling apology when his father interrupted it by wrapping him into a crushing bear hug and dragging him inside the house.

  Greg Browning carried him into the kitchen, set him down, then flopped into one of the battered plastic chairs. His eyes were bulging and he was clutching at his chest, and for one terrible moment Matt was sure his father was having a heart attack. Then a great sob burst from Greg Browning’s mouth, and the tension in his body evaporated as he began to cry. He grabbed for the phone, tears pouring down his cheeks, his gaze fixed on Matt as he found the handset and dialled a number with trembling fingers; it was as though he feared that if he averted his eyes for even a second, his son might disappear again. Then a voice answered the phone, and Greg’s face had crumpled into a blubbery mess of tears and snot as he told his wife that their son had come home.

  M
att’s mother arrived the following morning, on the first train west. Matt assumed, although he didn’t say anything out loud, that she and his father had been fighting, and his mum had gone to visit Matt’s aunt in Sheffield. She carried his sister through the front door, yelling Matt’s name until she saw him, and fell silent. The look on her face was indescribable, to Matt at least; the sight of it had brought instant tears to his eyes. Then his mum started to cry as well. She put his sister carefully down on the sofa, then wrapped her arms round him so tightly that he wondered whether she was ever planning to let him go.

  That evening, the three of them sat in their front room, and had the only conversation they would ever have about the night he had been lost. Sticking to his story was easy; his parents were so overcome with relief that he had been returned to them that they never even entertained the thought that he might know more than he was saying. When they were finished talking, Matt’s dad silently handed him the letter he had brought home with him.

  “You should see this,” he said.

  Matt took it from his father, unfolded it and read it.

  Mr and Mrs Browning,

  The incident in which your son sustained injury remains a matter of the highest national security. You are hereby instructed not to discuss the incident with any other party; doing so will be considered an act of treason, and appropriate action will be taken. Acceptance of this letter constitutes acceptance of this instruction.

  Your son has received all appropriate medical care, and his recuperation is progressing well. If he develops further medical problems, you should inform medical personnel that he suffered a myocardial infarction due to sudden rapid blood loss. You should not discuss with anyone the circumstances surrounding his injury.

  Matt handed the letter back to his father, and told them he was going to bed. And the very next morning, his parents began the long process of trying to forget that any of it had ever happened.