Operation Doomsday

by Paul Kenyon

  He kept them hungry and mean. The kennel man didn't dare approach them. He threw them their food over the fence. The run was never cleaned. The sick animals were left to die, to be eaten by their pack mates. Only Penkin could enter the run. He'd raised the wolves from cubs. They accepted him. His physical size and strength kept him from being bowled over when they jumped up and put their paws on his shoulders. If he'd once fallen to the ground, it would have been the end of him; he knew that. They took his arms and legs in their jaws, not clamping down too hard, and he reciprocated by grasping their muzzles in his immense hands and shaking their heads; that was the way you greeted wolves when you didn't have jaws like theirs. On a couple of occasions, he'd been challenged by young males. He'd hooked his great arms around their necks, holding their teeth away from him. and broken their backs. He'd thrown the bodies to the pack. It was an object lesson. He was their leader.

  The scientists and laboratory officials thought he was crazy. His own men worshiped him.

  As he sat watching the fence through the windscreen, a wolf came trotting down the enclosure toward the vezdekhod. It was a big gray male. Penkin recognized him. The animal approached the wire, sniffing. He wagged his tail. Penkin laughed. The wolf sat down on his haunches and howled.

  Penkin howled back. It was a good imitation. Viktor clapped his hands in glee. The howl set the rest of the pack off. There was an eerie chorus from the recesses of the run. A couple more wolves came loping out to investigate.

  "They look hungry, eh, Viktor?" Penkin said. "Maybe they need a snack. You're about the right size."

  He grasped the crooked little man by the belt and the nape of the head and lifted him off the seat. He kicked open the door and made as if to throw Viktor out.

  Victor squealed in terror. "Please, Evgeny Ivanovich!"

  Penkin roared with laughter. "Dog meat, Viktor, that's all you're good for!"

  The little man was rigid with terror. "Please, Evgeny Ivanovich. By your father!"

  Penkin scowled. He released the hunchback. After a moment he laughed again. He patted Viktor on the shoulder. "Had you worried, didn't I, Viktor?"

  A crooked smile spread across Viktor's knobby features. "Worried? Me? S'kakeekh por! Not on your life!"

  "Let's go."

  He took a last look at the installation. Past the triple fences, mounted on immense pylons sunk deep into the permafrost, were the glittering steel and concrete buildings of the laboratory. It looked like an ice castle, from some half-remembered childhood fairytale, with the angular sugar-cube shapes of the research buildings and the tall slabs of the administrative headquarters and the round gleaming watch towers like chessmen at the corners.

  It was his.

  He shoved the left throttle and the vezdekhod spun around on one tread. He cut in the other clutch, and the snow vehicle leaped forward, moving parallel to the fence toward the open tundra.

  About thirty miles out from the laboratory, Penkin suddenly brought the snow vehicle to a halt. He slid open the side window all the way, stuck his head out and sniffed.

  "Wolves, Viktor," he said. "Do you smell them?"

  He climbed out of the cab and stood, wide-legged, on the broad caterpillar tread. Viktor scuttled out after him.

  Penkin's nostrils twitched. "A large pack," he said. "Hundreds of them. No more than a dozen versts away."

  Even Viktor could detect the scent in the clear air. It was a stench of wet fur and rotten breath.

  "I'm glad the wind isn't blowing the other way," Viktor said.

  Penkin laughed good humoredly. "Viktor, you are a coward."

  The misshapen little man jumped up and down on the tread. "A coward, a coward!" he chortled. "Viktor is a coward!"

  "Don't fall off, Viktor," Penkin said. "I might drive off and leave you."

  The hunchback cowered in mock terror. "No, Evgeny Ivanovich," he said. "You wouldn't do that. For who would look after you then?"

  "Viktor, you're also a fool."

  "A fool, a fool…"

  "Shove it!" Penkin said harshly. "Let's go!"

  They found the Nenets a few miles farther on. They appeared as a cluster of black specks in the distance. Penkin spun the vezdekhod on its treads and glided toward them. There was a lazy smile on his lips.

  There were two of them, a man and his woman, leading a reindeer on a long leather rope. When they saw the vezdekhod, they looked up and waved. Penkin could see the smile on the man's face.

  He sat looking down at them through the windscreen. They were just a pair of primitive inorodzi — "other breeds," as people used to call them in his boyhood, though it was supposed to be nyekulturny to use the word these days. They grinned stupidly at him with their fiat Mongol faces and slitted eyes, looking round and chubby in their hand-sewn furs. The reindeer had taken the opportunity to nuzzle at the snow, looking for lichen.

  Penkin picked the submachine gun up from the' seat beside him and climbed down. Viktor followed.

  "Zdrahstvooite, Honored Sir," the Nenet began in broken Russian.

  Penkin looked him up and down. "What are you doing this side of the Ob?" he said.

  The Nenet seemed not to understand the import of the question, or to have noticed the submachine gun tucked under Penkin's arm. "We look for our stray animals," he said. "The wolves are very bad this year."

  "Where is the rest of your tribe?"

  The Nenet pointed south. "Many versts. We have been wandering for two days."

  Viktor sniggered. "He wants you to give him a ride, Evgeny Ivanovich."

  The Nenet nodded vigorously, looking pleased.

  "I thought all you inorodzi herders were supposed to have been put in reindeer collectives," Penkin said.

  "Our tribe follows the old ways," the Nenet said. "The government…"

  "The government says you're not supposed to be here. This is a restricted area. Agraneecheevainy! You are spies!"

  The Nenet stood there, still grinning stupidly.

  "Don't you understand me, Nenet?"

  Viktor said, "Perhaps he's wondering if the reindeer will fit inside the vezdekhod."

  "Is that what you're wondering, Nenet?" Penkin said.

  The grin faded from the Nenet's face. He looked puzzled.

  Penkin swung the submachine gun upward and fired one-handed. There was a short ugly rattle of automatic fire. The reindeer toppled into the snow, its flesh ripped and tattered. A red stain spread into the snow around the carcass.

  The Nenet's wife was still holding the leather rope. She stared, stunned, at the dead reindeer.

  The Nenet looked frightened. He had a knife at his belt, but he was smart enough not to put his hands anywhere near it. His wife began to wail.

  Penkin reversed the submachine gun and hit the Nenet on the side of the head with the butt. The nomad slumped to the ground.

  The woman whirled and sprinted like a startled deer. Penkin fired a burst over her head. She stopped.

  Viktor, grinning broadly, limped after her and led her back. His eyes were pleading.

  "So the dog wants a bone, eh, Viktor?" Penkin said.

  "Please, Evgeny Ivanovich," Victor said reproachfully. "It is not nice to say such things."

  "All right. Go ahead. If you want to freeze your saseesky off, that's your affair."

  Viktor stripped the woman at knife point. Beneath the furs, she was broad and muscular, with a firm rounded belly and blubbery globes of breasts. He opened his pants, fishing for his thing underneath six layers of Arctic clothing. The woman shivered, naked, in the subzero cold. Viktor wasn't impressed; he'd seen others like her last an hour or more in colder weather than this.

  He motioned her to lie down and crawled on top of her, a twisted hobgoblin shape with a lump on his back and a chin and nose that curved toward one another like a lobster's claw. His hand grew busy between his legs. Penkin squatted down beside Viktor and the woman for a closer look.

  Viktor was having trouble. The woman moaned in humiliation and fear. Viktor
slapped her across the face. Penkin laughed.

  Viktor rubbed his implement frantically against the woman's belly, and slowly, reluctantly, it came to life. It stood out like a twig, as gnarled and twisted as he was, with a network of purple veins and a blue acorn tip. He pushed it into her body. She began to weep.

  Two or three spasmodic jerks, and it was all over. He pulled it out of her, oozing a yellowish ichor. He wiped the thing "on her discarded furs and stuffed it back inside his clothing.

  Tears of laughter were pouring from Penkin's eyes. "Like a dog," he said. "Just like a dog!"

  Viktor's lobster claw of a face twisted. "Please, Evgeny Ivanovich!"

  The woman was crawling over toward the pile of furs that Viktor had stripped from her. Viktor kicked her in the head. She fell over on her back again, staring at him with dazed apprehension.

  "There was no pleasure in you," he said. He took out a little knife and pushed the point of it into her navel.

  "Not too deep, Viktor," Penkin said.

  A little pool of blood welled up in the woman's belly button. She stared at it and cried, "Ai, ai, ai!"

  "Get the spikes, Viktor " Penkin said.

  The little man swarmed up the side of the vezdekhod like a rat going up a wall. He came back with a bundle of spikes and ropes, and a small sledgehammer.

  He drove the spikes into the frozen ground, a troll with a hammer, and tied the unconscious Nenet's ankles and wrists to them. When he finished, the reindeer man was spread out like a starfish. The woman was making rhythmic noises that sounded almost like a chant.

  She offered no resistance when Viktor staked her out too. He spread the furs out beneath her back to keep her from freezing too quickly.

  "Well," Viktor said, looking up, bright-eyed. "Well."

  "Put your knife away, Viktor," Penkin said. "This will be enough."

  He nudged the dead reindeer with one boot, pushing it over closer to the two Nenets. He pondered awhile, then sprinkled some reindeer blood over them. The man stirred.

  "The wind's changing, Evgeny Ivanovich," Viktor said.

  In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Penkin raised his head and sniffed. "Get into the vezdekhod," he said.

  Viktor obeyed with alacrity. Penkin heaved himself into the driver's seat and backed the vehicle up forty feet, far enough from the two Nenets so as not to distract the wolves. They sat there and waited.

  The wolves appeared in less than half an hour. It was a huge pack, running like one single liquid creature, twisting and wheeling in instant response to the direction of the leader.

  "Look at that old fellow," Penkin said. "He's a big one."

  The pack stopped at a good distance from the vezdekhod and the two staked-out Nenets. They sat on their haunches and watched, like some satanic audience. Penkin could hear the young ones whimpering.

  The Nenet regained consciousness. He raised his head and looked in the direction of the wolves. Penkin could see the expression on the man's face. He laughed and got out a pair of binoculars.

  Some of the wolves became bolder. They started to drift over toward the two Nenets, giving the vezdekhod a wide berth. The man began to struggle against the ropes, then thought better of it when he saw that he was attracting the attention of the wolves.

  One great gray beast gathered its courage and darted in toward the reindeer carcass. It tore a piece out of the animal's flank and began gulping it down. That was too much for the rest of the pack. In a moment, the reindeer was covered with a carpet of gray bodies, fighting and snarling over the meat. There wasn't enough to go around.

  The leader of the pack began walking around the two helpless people, sniffing. He sat down on his haunches a couple of times, then resumed pacing. A young wolf sidled over toward the Nenets, its tail tucked between its legs. The pack leader lunged at him, snapping. The young wolf slunk off a few yards and sat down.

  The pack waited. The woman began struggling. The man said something to her sharply, and she stopped.

  A change came over the demeanor of the wolves. The flattened ears pricked up, alert. The fangs were no longer bared. They looked almost friendly, like tame dogs.

  "It won't be long now, Viktor," Penkin murmured.

  The big gray leader got to his feet and licked his lips. He trotted over to the woman and sniffed at her.

  She screamed.

  Penkin watched, the saliva wet in his mouth. Beside him, Viktor was jumping up and down in his seat. Penkin didn't notice him.

  The pack finished off the two Nenets in a few minutes. There was a slashing, snapping fury that spattered blood over the snow for yards. You could see nothing but a confusion of gray fur and white flashing teeth. A wolf darted from the mass carrying an arm. Another wolf leaped after him, and they began tugging at the morsel between them. More wolves joined the fracas.

  When it was over, a few of the bigger wolves settled down to gnaw at the thighbones, surrounded by patient supplicants who wagged their tails and waited. The younger pups, still hungry, were licking at the blood in the snow.

  There was nothing left of the Nenets. Nothing.

  "Evgeny Ivanovich," Viktor said.

  The big man made no response. He seemed in a trance.

  "Evgeny Ivanovich." The little hunchback shook Penkin's arm. "Perhaps we should get back to the laboratory. They'll be bringing in the space vehicle. We ought to be there."

  Penkin gave a great yawn. "Right you are, Viktor," he said. He pushed the throttles forward, and the big snow tank moved ahead. The wolves looked up curiously as it passed.

  * * *

  The two doors of the receiving bay yawned wide. The building had been used as a garage. When word had come from Moscow that the spacecraft's course had been changed and that it would land in the Arctic, the laboratory technicians had improvised brilliantly. The garage had been emptied of bobyks and vezdekhods. It had been made airtight, with an inner coating of plasticized concrete. Every crack had been sealed. It had been sterilized, inside and out, with flame throwers, then sprayed with disinfectant. Filters and air pumps had been installed. Air was pumped out, through a series of ultrafine filters that would trap any known virus down to a diameter of a few microns. The pressure inside the converted garage was several pounds below atmospheric pressure. If a leak developed, air had to go in, not out. The moon virus couldn't escape.

  But the doors hadn't been closed yet.

  The huge construction crane edged forward, its fifty-foot boom held level in front of it like a giant's spear. It lifted the lunar vehicle out of its enormous cradle and poked it, inch by inch, toward the barn-size doors. The stubby charred cylinder swayed at the end of its chains.

  The crane operator pushed the lever that would lower the spaceship to the garage floor. There was a grinding, grating sound.

  The spaceship dropped.

  It hit the cement floor with a crash. Cracks spread through the floor from the point of impact. Four tons of spacecraft and Lunokhod sunk into the concrete.

  "Zdjelajtee vydakh!" someone yelled.

  The technicians on the floor milled around, their faces gone white behind their plastic masks.

  "Close the doors!"

  The big steel doors began to swing shut, creaking. It took a couple of minutes.

  Cautiously, a team of three technicians approached the spacecraft. The seal on the hatch was broken. One of the men flashed a light inside. You could make out the bulky washtub shape of the Lunokhod inside, with the row of capsules containing rock samples strapped to its side.

  The men looked at one another.

  "Capsule number six," one of them whispered. "Do you think it's still intact?"

  The first technician played his flashlight through the bent hatch.

  "Looks all right. Hard to be sure until we get at it."

  The third man was breaking out into a sweat. "It better be all right, Comrades," he said. "If it isn't — and if what the Americans say is true — then we're all dead men."

  Ch
apter 8

  "There's somebody following us," the Baroness said.

  Wharton said, "Are you sure?"

  She was sitting on a fur throw in her borrowed reindeer-skin tent, stripped down to her long johns. Outside it was forty below zero, but inside the tent, toasted by a birch fire vented through a hole at the top, it was stifling hot.

  "I've been picking up the sound of snowmobile engines in the distance whenever the wind is right. Two of them, I think. They've been staying at the same distance for the last day and a half."

  "Is that unusual in these parts?" Inga said, over by the fire. She was wearing only her Lapp underfrock, a tunic-like garment of coarse cloth. "Snowmobiles are getting to be a way of life in Scandinavia."

  "That's right," Eric said. "Even the Lapps use them now — if they can afford them."

  Penelope's great luminous green eyes glinted in the firelight. She tossed her black mane. "We've crossed a lot of snowmobile tracks," she said impatiently. "And I've seen a few snowmobiles in the distance. But these are staying with us. And they're keeping out of sight."

  Skytop spoke up. "The Baroness is right. I've heard the engines myself. They stop when we stop. And I've caught a flash of sun on glass. Binoculars."

  "All right," Wharton said. He slapped the holstered forty-five at his side in an unconscious gesture. "The Chief and I will go back and take a look."

  Penelope shook her head. "I'll do it. Alone."

  "We'll go with you."

  "No. Whoever those jokers are, they have a friend in camp. The one who smashed Sumo's receiver. I don't want him seeing an expedition going out. I have a better chance of slipping out myself without being noticed."

  "I don't like it," Wharton said unhappily.

  "When will you go?" Sumo said.

  Penelope twisted to face him. Under the clinging fabric of the long Johns, her torso billowed. "In an hour or so. As soon as the Lapps settle down for the night."

  Skytop cocked his head. "That won't be long. Sounds like they're getting themselves about all sung out."

  From outside the tent, they could hear drunken voices raised in the primitive sounds of a joik — the strange-sounding chant that was the Lapps' way of singing. Penelope could make out a few words: something about "blood on the knife." She recognized it as a reference to the now legendary massacre at Kautokeino little more than a century earlier. No wonder the Lapps still stayed aloof from the Scandinavian society around them!