Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  Matt felt anger, sharp and cold and painful, trickle through him. It wasn’t fair that Danny was dead; he had been good, and brave, and kind, and it just wasn’t fair.

  “What happened?” he heard himself ask. “Do we know?”

  “Vamps brought their helicopter down,” said Turner. “Danny survived the crash, but he was badly injured. General Allen scrambled another squad to go in after him, but Danny told him not to send them. He said it was too late.”

  “Oh God,” whispered Larissa, her eyes glistening with tears.

  “He didn’t want anyone to risk their lives trying to save him,” said Matt. “Did he?”

  Turner shook his head.

  Of course he didn’t, thought Matt, a lump lodged in his throat. So brave. Right to the end.

  “General Allen asked me to tell you, Matt,” said Turner. “He doesn’t know you’re here, Larissa, but he said you’d both want to know.”

  Larissa nodded, then grimaced as the tears brimming in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. Matt didn’t respond; he didn’t know how to.

  “Danny Lawrence was a fine Operator,” said Turner. “And he’ll be missed by everyone who knew him. I wish I could spend more time discussing this, but I’m due in a meeting in France that simply will not wait, for anything. If you want to talk to me when I get back, send me a message and I promise I’ll find some time. But right now, I’m afraid you’re both dismissed.”

  Matt nodded, and turned towards the door. Larissa didn’t move; she was staring at the ground, her cheeks wet with tears, her face crumpled in an expression of profound misery.

  “Larissa,” said Matt, gently. “Come on.”

  She looked round at him, and slowly nodded. He made for the door again, and this time she followed him. They walked in silence past the Security Operator and out into the main Level A corridor, where they stopped and faced each other.

  “Does Jamie know you’re back?” he asked. “I’m sorry to ask, but, well, you know …”

  Larissa wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and nodded. “He knows,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “I saw him this morning. We talked.”

  “OK,” said Matt.

  “Do you want to come to the canteen with me?” asked Larissa. “I’d really like to talk about Danny with somebody who knew him. If you’ve got time?”

  Matt grimaced. “I can’t,” he said. “I have to get back to work.”

  Larissa nodded and gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Matt. “I really am. I just … I just can’t.”

  He turned and fled down the corridor, almost breaking into a run, so desperate was he for the safety and security of the Lazarus Project lab, where he could throw himself into work and not think about anything else, not Danny or Larissa or Jamie or the pain and misery that seemed to be crowding in on him from all sides.

  Turner watched the door close, then grabbed his radio as it buzzed on his desk.

  His heart ached for his two Lieutenants as he pressed SEND; they had seen more death and misery than most people would experience in a lifetime, and although they bore it with tremendous resilience, Turner knew there was only so much anyone could take before their souls sustained permanent damage.

  He had debated long and hard with himself over whether to tell Matt that Pete Randall had identified his father as a Night Stalker, but, in the end, he had decided against it. He didn’t doubt Kate’s father’s account of what had happened to him, but it was still technically an unsubstantiated accusation; he couldn’t think of any reason Pete would have to lie, but he would feel a lot better when they had proof, and preferably when they had Greg Browning safely in custody. Then he would be in a position to answer at least some of the many questions Matt was bound to have when he was told the truth about his father.

  “Sir?” asked the Security Officer.

  “Go ahead, Angela.”

  “The medical staff have moved Pete Randall into a room in the Science Division, sir. Do you want me to let Kate know she can go and see him?”

  “No,” said Turner. “I’ll do it. Thank you, Angela. Out.”

  “I’m going to go ahead and call this meeting to order,” said Bob Allen. “All Directors in attendance. Also present is Captain Guérin of the French Army, who is acting as NATO liaison in this matter. Any objections?”

  Paul Turner looked round the table in the middle of the command centre that had been erected in Field 1 of the displaced persons camp. Bob Allen, Karla Schmidt, Aleksandr Ovechkin and Captain Guérin looked back at him; it was not only the first time in his relatively short tenure in charge of Blacklight that four Directors had been in the same place at the same time, it was also something he doubted had ever happened more than once or twice. The other seven Directors – the heads of the Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Egyptian, Canadian, South African and Brazilian Departments – were watching from screens at the end of the room.

  “Any objections?” repeated Allen.

  Nobody spoke.

  The NS9 Director nodded. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s get started. You’ve all been receiving my progress reports from here in France, but I’ll very quickly summarise them again, starting with the obvious. The destruction of the modern city of Carcassonne is almost total. We’re still relying on long-range reconnaissance, as we’re not currently allowing anyone to enter the city, but as the smoke clears, the picture is getting clearer and clearer. I’m sure you’ve all seen the footage and the composite images.”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “We have no accurate casualty numbers,” continued Allen, “but we can safely assume that we’re talking about hundreds dead, probably thousands. We evacuated at least eighty-five per cent of the city’s residents, but I’m afraid that leaves as many as six thousand people currently unaccounted for. We have no updates on the hostages being held inside the medieval city, and, as you know, there has been no further communication from Dracula. So I’m going to move straight on to the only item on this meeting’s agenda: what the hell are we going to do about all this?”

  “The answer did not require a meeting,” said Colonel Ovechkin. “There is only one option.”

  “Which is?” asked General Tán. The Chinese Director was younger than his counterparts, but he had earned a reputation as a calm diplomat and brilliant strategist in the five years since he’d taken over PBS6. Turner had never met him, but he had impressed Bob Allen during a visit to Nevada three months earlier, and that was more than enough reason to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “We stop him now,” said Ovechkin, fixing his grey eyes on Tán’s screen. “Or we do not stop him at all. It is that simple.”

  Silence fell over the room. The eleven Directors eyed each other, seemingly daring one another to be the first to respond. Eventually, it was Bob Allen who did so.

  “Does anyone disagree with Aleksandr’s assessment of the situation?”

  “I do not necessarily disagree,” said Colonel Maroun, the Director of Egypt’s Section G. He was a large man, with sharp, piercing eyes and a thick black beard. “But I do have a question. What is the involvement of the regular military and emergency services going to be?”

  “I can only speak for my country and for NATO,” said Allen. “But I can tell you now that neither will be sending regular forces to assist us.”

  “Why not?” asked Maroun.

  “Because they’ll be needed for domestic duties if we fail to defeat Dracula,” said Allen.

  “That is hardly a vote of confidence,” said Tán, smiling narrowly.

  “It does not matter,” said Ovechkin. “Regular soldiers will only get in the way. This is our business, not theirs.”

  “I agree,” said Schmidt.

  Turner stared at Bob Allen, who was looking at his colleagues with a tight expression.

  What aren’t you telling us, Bob? he thought. Out with it. There’s no ti
me left for secrets.

  The NS9 Director didn’t make him wait.

  “I also agree,” said Allen. “But for the sake of full disclosure I should tell you all that, despite official objections from NATO, the French government has refused to rule out the nuclear option.”

  There was an explosion of noise in the room, a deafening cacophony of protest and accusation. Turner stared at his American counterpart, incredulous; he could not believe what he had heard. General Allen had turned towards Captain Guérin, whose eyes had widened like a rabbit caught in headlights.

  “That is completely ridiculous,” said Schmidt. “A detonation on mainland Europe would violate every nuclear treaty that has ever been signed.”

  “I am sorry,” said Tán. “Are you telling us that the French are prepared to drop a nuclear missile on one of their own cities?”

  “Guérin?” said Allen.

  The French Captain swallowed hard. “Carcassonne is already dead,” he said, his voice low. “It is not the preferred option in Paris, but General Allen is correct. It has not been ruled out.”

  “In what circumstances would it become the preferred option?” asked Turner. “Given that we have no idea whether a nuclear detonation would actually kill Dracula, at least as far as I’m aware. Or whether or not we could even hit him. The first vampire is faster than any creature on earth, and I would back him to be able to get clear of the blast radius in the time between launch and detonation.”

  “What would you like me to say, Major?” asked Guérin. “I have told you that it remains an option. Whether you agree with it or not does not seem particularly important to me at this moment.”

  “We’re getting sidetracked,” said Allen, shooting them both a warning glance. “We don’t need to be worrying about what happens if we fail. We need to focus on making sure that we don’t fail.”

  “Correct,” said Ovechkin. “We have already wasted too much time.”

  “You are so impatient, Aleksandr,” said Schmidt. “What would you have had us do? Storm the city as soon as dawn broke?”

  “That would have been better,” said Ovechkin, glaring at the German Director. “While we talk, Dracula fortifies his position and plans his next move. We are playing into his hands by taking so long to respond. We have already allowed him to change the battlefield to his liking. What else will he do while we sit here debating with each other?”

  “Why don’t you tell us all what we should do, Colonel?” said Tán. “You seem very sure.”

  “With pleasure,” said Ovechkin. “Although before I do, I would like Major Turner to update us on the programme his Department has recently undertaken. PROMETHEUS, I believe you have called it?”

  Turner nodded. “We have turned fifty-five per cent of our active roster,” he said, “and have recorded no adverse effects so far.”

  “It is remarkable to me that you were able to find so many volunteers,” said Maroun. “I do not believe my people would have been so enthusiastic.”

  “My understanding is that the Blacklight Operators were not given any choice in the matter,” said Tán, and smiled. “Isn’t that right, Major?”

  Turner stared at the Chinese Director, his grey eyes narrowing. “You are correct, Colonel Tán,” he said. “PROMETHEUS was mandatory. And if the rest of you had followed my lead we’d be in a better position than we are now.”

  “What you have done is an abomination,” said Maroun, his voice a low rumble. “It is a disgrace.”

  “Fine,” said Turner. “In which case, I will order my vampire Operators to stand down and let your Department take the lead. How does that sound?”

  Maroun scowled at him, but did not respond.

  “Enough bickering,” said Allen. “Aleksandr, are you going to tell us your plan or not?”

  Ovechkin nodded. “It is very simple,” he said. “A frontal assault that engages Dracula’s army while a small strike team enters the medieval city to take out the first vampire himself. I asked Major Turner for an update because I would propose selecting the strike team from Blacklight’s vampire Operators.”

  “How large a force are you referring to?” asked Schmidt. “For the main assault?”

  “Everyone,” said Ovechkin. “All of us, all at once. I do not believe we will get a second chance, and I therefore see no point in keeping Operators in reserve.”

  “Major Turner?” asked Tán. “What do you think?”

  “I completely agree with Aleksandr,” he said. “I think it represents our best chance of success. And I think we need to do it quickly.”

  “How quickly?” asked Allen.

  “Forty-eight hours from now,” said Turner. “Sunset, the day after tomorrow. I think sooner would be better, but I don’t think gathering our forces together any quicker is realistic.”

  “Sunset?” asked Guérin. “Why not send everyone we have into the city now, when we have the advantage of daylight?”

  “Because Aleksandr’s plan relies on drawing Dracula’s followers out into open ground,” said Schmidt. “Inside the old city, in the narrow streets where the sunlight does not reach the ground, they’d swarm all over us.”

  “What about the hostages?” asked Guérin. “Have we forgotten about them?”

  “Of course not,” said Allen. “As far as the public is concerned, their safety remains our highest priority. But their best chance for survival is for us to kill the vampires holding them captive, because I don’t believe Dracula has any intention of ever letting them go. Do any of you?”

  Silence.

  “All right,” said Allen. “In which case, let’s—”

  Turner’s console beeped into life. He snatched it up from his belt and thumbed it open as the NS9 Director stared at him, his eyes narrowing.

  “I’m sorry, Paul,” said Allen. “Are we distracting you from something important?”

  “My apologies,” said Turner. “I left a Priority Level 1 investigation in progress.” He opened the message that had arrived and quickly scanned it.

  FROM: Bennett, Major Alison (NS303, 47-E)

  TO: Turner, Major Paul (NS303, 36-A)

  SSL terminates at Rusmanov Holdings Limited. Registered in Grand Cayman in 1982. Sole listed director Valeri Rusmanov.

  Turner stared at the screen.

  Jesus Christ, he thought. How deep does this go?

  “Can I have your attention for a moment?” he said, raising his eyes and looking around the table.

  “Go ahead, Paul,” said Bob Allen.

  “Are you aware of a vigilante group that has been operating in Blacklight jurisdiction known as the Night Stalkers?” he said.

  There was a low chorus of agreement and a series of nods from his fellow Directors.

  “There have been more than a dozen vampire murders in the last three months,” he continued. “The British press has been all over the story, and public opinion has been split down the middle. Half the populace believe the Night Stalkers are criminals, while the other half seem to think they’re heroes. There have been protests and counter-protests. Violence. Rioting.”

  “We get the picture, Paul,” said Allen. “Most of us have similar groups operating in our territories. What’s your point?”

  “Sorry,” said Turner. “I have a man who survived a Night Stalker attack in the Loop’s infirmary right now, a man who was able to identify his assailants. Several of them worked for a recently founded UK charity called SSL, the Supernatural Survivors League. It operates a helpline for vampires and their victims, which the Night Stalkers used to identify their targets.”

  “That is horrible,” said Schmidt. “But I do not see what it has to do with what we are discussing.”

  “I ordered my Intelligence Division to investigate SSL,” said Turner. “I wanted to know who was financing it and, presumably, bankrolling the Night Stalkers. They’ve just informed me that the charity’s financial trail ends in the Cayman Islands, with a limited company called Rusmanov Holdings. The company has a single dire
ctor listed. Valeri Rusmanov.”

  There was a long moment of silence, before everyone started to talk and shout at once.

  “Why?” asked Schmidt. “Why would Valeri do this?”

  “It is not Valeri,” said Ovechkin. “Valeri is dead. This is Dracula, or someone acting for him.”

  “Why, though?” demanded Schmidt.

  “To create fear?” said Tán. “And unrest? To distract Blacklight?”

  “But this group was killing vampires,” said Schmidt. “He was financing the murder of his own kind.”

  “That should come as no surprise,” said Turner. “Dracula wouldn’t think twice about killing a million vampires if their deaths served his ambitions. The lives of others mean nothing to him.”

  “The attacks as he took Carcassonne,” said Allen, his voice low. “The planes and the massacres on the subways, attacks that must have taken months of planning. The videos. And now this. What the hell else has he got in store for us? What else don’t we know?”

  “I have no idea,” said Turner. “But if the rest of you really do have similar groups in your own countries, I’d suggest you investigate them immediately. Because I don’t see any reason why Dracula would only try to destabilise the UK.”

  “No,” said Ovechkin, his voice low. “Nor do I.”

  Silence descended over the table. Turner raised his console, tapped REPLY, and typed rapidly on its screen.

  FROM: Turner, Major Paul (NS303, 36-A)

  TO: Bennett, Major Alison (NS303, 47-E)

  Leak this to the press immediately. Be unequivocal about the link between SSL and Dracula. Hopefully it will flush Greg Browning out.

  “All right,” said Allen. “Thank you, Paul. I’m sure we now all have calls we want to make, so let’s talk about the implementation of Aleksandr’s plan. Thoughts? Problems?”

  “I will not bring my entire Department,” said Tán, immediately. “I know without even asking that Beijing will not sanction it. But I will commit seventy-five per cent of my Operators, which, I should remind you all, is more fighting men and women than any two of your Departments combined.”