The Nightmare Man: (Child of the Vodyanoi) Page 17
He caught sight of Howard’s broad grinning face.
“Are you not used to exercise, Dunlop?”
He found his breath.
“I thought I was. God, your boys are good with the skis.”
Howard’s special bellow that Dunlop now recognized as his characteristic laugh rang out in the darkness as the Major pressed on.
“Bloody good I’d say. Best snow troops in the world.”
Through the forest where he had found the headless body of the first victim, Sheila Anderson, they glided along in the firebreaks, a few stars suddenly showing above the dark outline of the trees.
As they emerged, the last of the snow had stopped falling, the sky clearing as they skied around the side of the mountain and then force marched, skis straight ahead, up a high valley between rounded mountain peaks. At the summit the sky was full of stars as Dunlop came to a halt.
Howard raised his hand. In a perfectly executed halt the column came to rest.
The Major shone his torch on to his map case. In the reflection his broad face was unusually tense. He brought the light closer down on to his map as Dunlop pointed to a position.
“We’re about here, less than three miles now from the Coastguard Station.”
Howard peered closely. “I see. So anywhere from now on—we should get a possible contact with this... this ‘thing’ of yours?”
Dunlop nodded.
“It’s a big area, but yes, it’s possible.”
“Good.”
The Major folded up his case and called the Sergeant over.
The huge figure of a man loomed up, his skis biting with a flurry of frozen snow as he came to a halt, white freezing breath clearly visible in the starlight.
“Sir.”
“Give the men ten minutes. I want you to get into the special equipment—over there out of the way. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
With a push on his sticks he slid away.
Dunlop felt his mouth drying with apprehension. With difficulty he forced himself to ask: “What special equipment?”
The Major was tense.
“You will see.” He added nothing more.
Dunlop waited, straining to see down the line of men. It was useless. There was no sign of the Sergeant. He turned back to Howard.
“I think it’s time you were frank with me, Major. You know what it is we’re after, don’t you? That’s why you got here so fast.”
Howard turned slowly and stared at him. Dunlop wasn't sure if it was his imagination, but several of the marines seemed to be edging nearer to him. His fists bunched harder on to his ski sticks, his heart thumping in his chest again.
Howard eventually spoke—his voice flat, expressionless. “Yes.”
Dunlop pushed it further, the blood roaring in his head. “You were expecting our call for help.”
Howard continued to stare fixedly at him.
“Not exactly. But it was—how would you say?—a God-sent gift? We knew where to come because of it. Otherwise it would have been much more hazardous—for us.”
Howard suddenly stiffened and looked at his watch. He called out to the men: “Right, break out the hand flares.”
He turned his attention back to Dunlop.
“We use these when we’re on mountain rescue. They’re very bright, so be ready to shield your eyes.”
Dunlop spoke to the faint outline of Howard’s hooded head against the stars.
“I think I’m beginning to understand. We’re at the centre of some sort of international incident, aren’t we?”
He saw the head nod before Howard answered, “Yes.”
The word was punctuated by a burst of brilliant blue sparks at the far end of the column, that settled into a rod of bright light as the first of the hand torches was lit.
“How much can you tell me?”
Howard thought for a moment, face intent in the light from the spitting, smoking flare nearly a hundred yards away. When he finally spoke it was with a rush, giving Dunlop the impression that it had almost been—rehearsed.
“Not many ordinary people in Britain know it, but out there—” He pointed in the direction of the sea. “—there’s a deep cold war going on, twenty-four hours a day, every day. At any moment that cold war could become hot—white hot! And the most likely place for that to happen is—” He stabbed his pointing finger again, “—the sea between here and the Faroe Islands. Russian missile firing submarines must pass through it from their base at Murmansk. It’s the only channel that’s deep enough for them to escape detection, and get out and lose themselves in the oceans of the world where they can present a global nuclear threat to the United States and Western Europe. They run deep, they run fast. In any future nuclear confrontation the known position of these submarines will be vital to the West.” He paused. “So you see, NATO seeks to locate and then plot every Russian as it passes Scotland. That’s why the A.S.W. units have sown the sea with a SOSUS system that runs from here all the way to the Faroe Islands.”
Dunlop frowned, still taking it all in.
“A.S.W. units? SOSUS, what are they?”
Howard smiled apologetically.
“Sorry about the jargon. ASW stands for Anti-Submarine Warfare, and SOSUS means Sound Surveillance System— literally thousands of microphones have been planted on the sea bed.”
When he finished speaking, Dunlop didn’t reply immediately, looking thoughtfully at the ground.
“So something happened out there?” .
The Major gave a resigned sigh. “Yes. Three days ago a British attack submarine shadowing a Soviet Delta class accidentally came into collision. There was an explosion—both vessels were lost.”
For a moment Dunlop could only think of the cold black water bursting in, the screams, the drowning, the lingering deaths in dark loneliness: of the police knocking on the doors of houses.
He brought himself back to reality.
“What’s that got to do with our troubles?”
“Ah.” Howard turned and gestured towards the canvas covered craft. “That, my friend, is a Vodyanoi.”
“Sounds Russian.”
“It is. Any idea what it means?”
“No. I’ve never heard the word.”
The Major smiled. “The Vodyanoi were mythical creatures—dangerous water spirits with burning eyes that could fly along the surface of the water, or beneath it, lurking in the depths.”
His face lost its easy look.
“It’s a form of piloted missile that has been known in the West for some time—by a very restricted few attending the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks in Moscow. In conception it represents a fundamental, radical departure from anything known before. It can be launched underwater from a submarine, and take to the air when and wherever it wishes, and continue to transfer from each element at will.”
Even while he was comprehending the significance of the revelation, Dunlop irrationally suddenly remembered the warmth of the Vodyanoi’s exterior.
Feeling foolish he said: “Is it alive? It felt warm when I touched it.”
Howard acted evasively, to Dunlop almost shiftily.
“We’re not sure. There is speculation that it has in part been engineered using living tissue, a term I believe that the Americans call ‘Bionic’.”
Dunlop shuddered in disgust, but Howard did not seem to notice as he continued.
“Anyway, it is known there is a thermal requirement to keep the Vodyanoi at a constant temperature, just like a mammal.”
Still struggling with his nausea Dunlop asked: “How does it fit in with the sub crash?”
Howard looked suddenly serious, the dedicated professional soldier.
“When it became known, that shortly before the final explosion that finished the Russian sub. a Vodyanoi had managed to launch, possibly armed—” Howard gave a short uneasy laugh, “—it was imperative that we got to it before the other side. Simple. That’s why we were ready, and already in the area.”
“You mean that thing may have got a nuclear warhead?”
“No. Worse than that.”
“Worse? What the hell could be worse?”
In the awful silence it suddenly came to him.
“Jesus, not biological?”
It took a second before Howard, tight-lipped, quietly replied.
“Yes.”
Dunlop was still struggling with the icy shock when there was a crackling from a radio handset that Howard was holding. The voice was eerie, mechanical, barely human.
“All set to proceed, sir.”
Never taking his eyes off Dunlop, Howard brought the speaker up to his mouth.
“Right, carry on.”
He lowered the radio, eyes still on Dunlop.
“Each Vodyanoi is equipped to carry ZA 42, a laboratory perfected virus that attacks the central nervous system. The effects are horrific, the result always fatal. It is contained in tanks in the nose cone and can be released in the air or under water, like reservoirs.”
Dunlop was numb. He watched in horror as the Vodyanoi was uncovered, illuminated now by a ring of the torches. The fins were squashed, but even as he watched they seemed to unruffle. The sight filled him with revulsion, but Howard’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“We’re going to check to see if it’s armed, and if it is, determine if any of the ZA 42 has been lost.”
“Couldn’t that have been done before?”
“No, too risky.”
There was a shout and a sudden burst of activity. Into the area of light skied more marines with two men on stretchers.
Mystified, and with mounting unease, Dunlop pointed at them.
“Those are your injured, aren’t they? Why have you taken them from the hospital?”
Howard seemed to weigh his answer carefully:
“We will not be able to go back there, they must therefore come with us—now”
Panic gripped Dunlop. He suddenly remembered the empty feeling of the town. The thought of what governments could order on the strength of public safety, the protection of the nation, nearly made him sick with fright. He could only manage a hoarse whisper.
“My God, you haven’t done anything to the people— they’re all right?”
His heart was aching for Fiona. In the strange pulsating blue light, Howard’s face seemed to repeatedly swell and shrink.
“Relax, we have done nothing actively to harm them.”
Dunlop’s relief was tempered as he suddenly comprehended the sting in the tail—that implication that something had happened.
Seeing his distress Howard’s voice was full of compassion. “They were warned to stay indoors—a military curfew. That they would run the risk of being shot.”
Dunlop was staggered.
“Why?”
As he waited for an answer, Dunlop’s gaze travelled beyond Howard. The Vodyanoi fins seemed even larger, more webbed, looking more obscene.
Finally Howard, who seemed to be having difficulty finding the right words, spoke again.
“You see, if there has been a loss of the virus, and there is a possibility, then the outlook for the islanders could be…” He paused. “… bleak. Best that they should remain indoors, separate from one another until help comes.”
In his panic Dunlop could think only of Fiona.
“What about me, and you, and the rest of the men? We must be infected as well. We shouldn’t be separated.”
With a grim, humourless smile, Howard made a gesture of dismissal.
“We are soldiers. They have different plans for us. Our orders were explicit. To get in, get the Vodyanoi and if possible its pilot, and get out—FAST.”
Dunlop was jolted out of his own sickening despair.
“The pilot?”
Just at that moment there was a sudden hiss and a burst of brilliant magnesium-blue light just above them on a rocky outcrop. Blinded, Dunlop had to lower his eyes and cover them with his hand.
He stared down at the brilliantly lit snow at his feet, illuminated almost like day, until his eyes grew accustomed to the fierce light. He took his hand away and slowly looked up.
At first the shape holding the flare was obscured and indistinct in the blazing halo of light and thick drifting smoke. Then the flare moved, and the figure holding it came into view.
From that moment on, as his heart raced with the shock of the adrenalin that slammed into his body, Dunlop knew he was in the presence of man-made evil.
23
Dunlop snatched in his breath, staggering back, hand struggling to get at his revolver. Two marines on either side grabbed him and wrestled the gun away.
He ceased struggling then, rooted to the spot, chest heaving. There was no doubt. The monstrous, frightening shape with the flare-stick in its hand was just as he had grown accustomed to seeing in his mind; a tall Ku Klux Klan-like figure, made more so by the burning torch.
Instead of the long gown, there was a one-piece boiler suit made from aluminium-looking fibre that ended in similar attached boots. The tall pointed cowl rising in one piece from the shoulders was inset by an evil-looking face formed completely in black immobile rubber, the glass eye pieces slanting upwards in a sinister grimace above high primitive cheekbones.
Twin metal bars projected forward giving the appearance of cruel baboon-like jaws, from the front of which a black corrugated breathing pipe led away to a back pack. The hand holding the torch was gloved, continuous with the rest of the suit.
Dunlop’s pulse began to slow. The first fundamental shock had been emotional. Slowly his rational mind took over.
It had to be a man inside; that was something. He tore his eyes away and looked around. All the marines were staring at him. His eyes finally found Howard’s.
“What is it?”
The latter looked the figure up and down.
“The suit designed for use in the Vodyanoi unit.”
The frightening shape moved slowly forward, the light flashing in the glass eyepieces. Dunlop shuddered and took hold of himself as it passed close by. The circle of flaming torches backed away as the awesome figure moved stiffly, silently:, to the Vodyanoi and sank down like some deep sea diver, hands feeling clumsily along the edge of the canopy.
Dunlop couldn’t be sure in the strange pulsating light that seemed to make things rhythmically swell and diminish, but he thought he saw the fins of the Vodyanoi extend and contract, as though it was excited. It made him feel sick.
There was a click, and the opaque material of the hood pulled back. Unconsciously, Dunlop was reminded of an eye opening.
The figure turned, the inhuman brutal face catching the torchlight on its high polished cheeks, black shadows forming beneath, making it look like a skull grinning back from under its hood.
There was more crackling from Howard’s radio. This time he recognized the voice of the Sergeant.
“I can see the firing limb; it’s off”
Howard released his breath with a rush.
“That’s something.”
The figure stooped, and then started to enter the Vodyanoi. Suddenly Dunlop realised what Howard had said about the strange unit, that it was designed to fit inside the thing. That was puzzling. How did they have one in their possession?
The seconds ticked by, all eyes on the Vodyanoi lying on the snow, the only sound the hissing and spluttering of the flares.
The radio burst into life again, the voice high with emotion even through the mechanical distortion and bursts of static. But it was a stream of incomprehensible gibberish. Dunlop was amazed. He knew he’d heard it somewhere before. Then with almost physical force it hit him. In his mind’s eye he could see the space shots on television.
He faced Howard to challenge him, the pieces of jigsaw whirling around in his mind suddenly sticking together in one awful rush.
But Howard was already barking orders into his radio; orders
that Dunlop couldn’t understand. He brought up a whistle and gave two short piercing blasts. Immediately the marines broke up into parties, working without obvious orders in a flurry of trained activity.
Two groups skied away in opposite directions, their torches soon like fireflies, turning and twisting against the velvet darkness. They began to stretch out and move in two long lines of search parties.
A third group raced towards the Vodyanoi and began to help out the monstrous figure while others began setting up a field radio, and pegging out more flares in a cross. Dunlop knew then what they were doing.
He looked around to make out the best direction to make a break for it. Howard broke off from his latest radio exchange.
“Don’t do it. You and your people are in great danger. There is something you must do for them. Trust me.”
Something about the man, his bearing, made Dunlop abandon the idea. In any case, unarmed, against machine guns in the hands of expert snow troops, it would have been pointless if they really wanted him.
They took the Vodyanoi headgear from the Sergeant. Even his cold face was welcome after the horror mask. The latter, like some malignant disembodied head, stared back evilly at Dunlop from under the Sergeant’s arm as he approached Howard who moved forward to meet him.
They spoke rapidly to each other. When they finished, at Howard’s wave, two marines moved forward and set down a field case. From it they took a small glass injection bottle and a syringe. One of the marines tugged at Dunlop’s sleeve and jerked his head.
Dunlop tore his arm free as Howard faced him, his voice hard and urgent.
“Do as he wants. Take it off.”
Dunlop looked at the needle.
“I want to know what’s happening.”
As the marine held up the syringe before him, clearing the air bubbles from the liquid by pushing some out through the needle, Howard nodded at it.
“It’s anti-toxin. The tanks in the nose cone were nearly empty. Do not waste time. Let him give you the injection.”
Dunlop looked at the needle again and then back at Howard. He took a deep breath, made up his mind, and started to undo his jacket.