Operation Norway (S-Squad Book 7) Read online

  “Private McCallum, put that man down. That’s an order.”

  And to everyone’s great surprise, the thing took pause and stood still, as if confused. That gave Jensen time to administer his sedative.

  He came to me that very afternoon.

  “We should have seen it before. He still has a soldier’s training, a soldier’s loyalties. All we have to do to make him comply is play to that.”

  Johnson obviously felt that it was all too little too late—or maybe he just did not wish to see any further torture. Whatever the case, he entered the cell alone late at night, having bribed the guard with scotch and cigarettes for passage. His purpose is unclear but if asked to speculate, I’d say he was intent on administering the excess dosage of sedative he mentioned to me in the summer. He may even have made an attempt but it seems he got too close to the reaching arms of the “troll.” The first we all knew of it in the camp was the high screams that echoed around the fjord but Johnson was long gone before anyone could come to his aid.

  The starving had obviously brought on a great hunger. I saw the results of that red feast; it is a sight that will be with me for as long as I live.

  And that is it for me. I have had enough and despite Jensen’s long and loud protestations, I have given the order.

  This experiment is over.

  The thing dies tonight.

  *

  That was it; there were no more pages to read. Banks could only surmise that some calamity befell the attempt to bring the experiment to an end, the result of which was the tumbled walls and bent iron of the cell and the dead men at the foot of the cliff.

  But the main thing he took from the reading was the reason the thing on the cliff path had stopped its attack at Wiggins’ shout.

  It’s a soldier. Somewhere down there, somewhere deep, it’s one of us.

  - 11 -

  “What do you mean, it’s one of us?” Wiggins said when Banks told the squad what he’d read. “It’s a fucking monster.”

  “And it wasn’t always one. The poor bugger volunteered for experimentation. He thought he was doing his bit for King and Country and look where it got him.”

  “Aye, well, one of us or not, the bastard broke Wilkins’ leg and tried its best to get the rest of us. And you say it likes long pork? If it gets in here, it’s going down; I’m not having that wanker munching on my leg.”

  Banks didn’t reply. He was starting to get another idea, an inkling of a plan.

  “Davies, you said you’d found high-grade sedatives in the lab?”

  “Aye, Cap. Enough to put an elephant to sleep.”

  “How about a ten-foot-tall rock gorilla?”

  Davies laughed.

  “Aye, maybe one of them too.”

  “What are you thinking, Cap?” Hynd said.

  “I’m thinking, Sarge, that we don’t leave a man behind; we’ve been doing that too often recently to my mind. Yon thing out there is—was—one of our own. We owe it to him to try to put things right. We should at least try to sedate him and get him home to where the boffins can have a look at him. It might be reversible.”

  “Have you gone soft in the head, Cap?” Wiggins said.

  “That’s enough, Corporal,” Hynd replied sharply.

  Wiggins didn’t look contrite.

  “Aye, okay then. But here’s some other good news; the phone’s FUBAB, totally fucked. Looks like we’re waiting for the supply boat to notice we haven’t phoned home.”

  “How about the old radio here?”

  “Too far gone,” Hynd replied. “It was a crystal valve set and there’s not a one left intact.”

  Banks turned to Davies.

  “Will Wilkins be okay with a wait?”

  “As long as we keep him warm, sedated, and off his feet, he’ll be as fine as can be expected, Cap. The leg needs reset though and soon, or he’ll have a limp for the rest of his life. The sooner we can get him to a hospital the better.”

  *

  More coffee, more smokes, and growing warmth in the room from the fire soon had them forgetting the rigors of their yomp across the snowy hills above the fjord. Banks quizzed Davies further about the sedatives.

  “How would we dose the thing up, if we can get him up close?” he asked.

  “Injection would be the best way. But you saw how little effect our bullets had; it looks like his skin’s like rock.”

  “Not everywhere,” Banks replied, taking out the nub of tissue again and tapping it against the journal. “I saw fissures when I got a good look on the path out there; like cracks and with a lighter color in the deeper parts. The book says at one time the cracks wept, blood and fluid. Could be a soft spot? One we could get a needle into?”

  “Aye,” Wiggins piped up. “A soft spot, seventy years ago maybe. The bloody thing’s been sleeping in stone since then if your theory’s right, Cap. We might be better off packing the cracked bits with C4 and standing well back.”

  It might come to that yet, Banks thought but didn’t say out loud.

  *

  Banks had Davies prepare a long syringe full of sedative for each of them.

  “I want to be ready if an attack comes. I’m sure it—he—is out there somewhere watching even now. When he comes, don’t shoot until I give the order. Is that clear?”

  He was looking directly at Wiggins when he spoke and the corporal gave him a nod in return; Wiggins could be insubordinate at times but he was a good soldier when it mattered and that was all Banks could ask of anyone.

  Even McCallum?

  That was a question he was hoping he wasn’t going to have to answer.

  He allowed each of the men another dram from what was left of the whisky and took his own mixed with more coffee. Young Wilkins looked to be out and far from any pain, and the rest of them were warm. It beat being huddled under a makeshift shelter back up top on the hill and by rights, he should be more relaxed, but Banks’ guts roiled with tension. They’d had their flight. Now every instinct told him that it wouldn’t be long before the fight.

  *

  Banks ordered Davies and Wiggins to bed down for a couple of hours. It was just after three o’clock in the morning; last night’s sleep seemed a long way away and it had been a long, wearying trek out on the hill. What with that and the wearing off of the earlier adrenaline rush, Banks felt tired to his bones. He asked Hynd to take watch with him; fearing that he might fall into sleep if left on his own.

  “Did you mean that, John?” Hynd said as they had a smoke by the doorway once the others had settled down to sleep. “About him being one of us?”

  “That I did,” Banks replied. “We lost McCally on Loch Ness, Brock in the desert, and we never got to bury either one. I’ll be buggered if I let another soldier go into the dark alone without trying to help.”

  Hynd spoke softly, as if taking care with his words.

  “Yon thing out on the hill didn’t look or act like any soldier I’ve known,” the sergeant said.

  “That’s what I thought…until I saw how he reacted when Wiggins gave him an order. The soldier’s still there. Just like it’ll be in us, long after we hang up our boots and settle down to that pipe, those slippers, and a warm fire.”

  “You and I both ken that our chances of making it that far get slimmer every time we come out. How many old retired lags do you know in this game?”

  “Damn few and they’re all dead,” Banks replied, agreeing. “But I’ve got to try and save this one. He must be 90 if he’s a day and well overdue his pension. Will you help me at least try?”

  “You know I go where you go, John, same as it ever was.”

  Banks smiled thinly.

  “I’ll remind you of that the next time things get hairy.”

  *

  The night wore on. The wind dropped away completely and snow stopped spattering against the windows but Banks didn’t feel like venturing outside in the dark. He stood with Hynd at the doorway, their conversation turning to old campaigns, battles long sinc
e fought but not forgotten but even that made him wonder.

  Does McCallum remember his own soldiering days? How much of the Army man can be left in him after all this time…and am I just deluding myself to think I can save him?

  “Penny for them, John?” Hynd said, noticing that the captain had gone quiet.

  “Just remembering the men we’ve lost,” Banks said.

  Hynd smiled sadly.

  “Aye, it’s that time in the morning, isn’t it…the hour when they come back to ask why.”

  “And I still don’t have an answer for them.”

  “Aye, you do. We all do. We did it, do it, all of us living and dead, for duty, comradeship and the squad, for the man next to us. Same as it ever was. And they all knew that as much as we do. As much as you do.”

  Banks smiled back.

  “It never hurts to hear it said though. The first round’s on me when we get back.”

  “Hell, if your plan works and we actually capture yon big brute, you’re on the bell all night.”

  This time, they both laughed in unison—and were answered by a roar of rage from out in the night.

  - 12 -

  “Lights out, Sarge,” Banks whispered.

  While Hynd moved to comply, Banks went over to wake up Wiggins and Davies. In a matter of seconds, all four of them stood in darkness, syringes, not rifles, poised for use, listening for any sign of attack. Something crashed, a rattle and tumble of stone outside, and Banks guessed that the last remnants of the red brick cell were now finally reduced to rubble.

  No attack came. Twice they heard heavy footsteps beyond the door but they passed by each time.

  He’s not daft.

  Banks moved towards the door, putting a hand on the handle.

  “Cap?” Hynd said softly. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Bringing him to us. Follow my lead and only make a move if I do. And remember,” he said, showing them the syringe. “Into the cracks. And pray we’ve got enough of this crap to keep him down.”

  He opened the door and stepped out into what was now a still, cold night.

  *

  A full moon hung over the fjord, sliver glistening off both water and cliff faces. The snow underfoot looked almost blue and the carpet of stars twinkled like fairy lights overhead. The troll stood in the ruins of the red brick cell, staring up at the sky as if in wonder.

  Banks took a step forward and spoke just loud enough that he knew he would be heard.

  “Private McCallum?”

  The response was immediate. The thing dropped its gaze from the stars and looked straight at him, its eyes lost in shadows under heavy rugged brows. It broke into a lumbering run, coming fast.

  The rest of the squad was still coming through the door and the troll was already almost on top of them when Banks raised his voice, shouting now, putting all of his authority into it. He was playing a hunch here, aware that he was risking his life on it but to back off in the face of this rush would be equally as fatal.

  “McCallum, stand down. That’s an order, Private.”

  As before, the response was immediate although it took a while for the thing to come to a halt for it had worked up quite a head of steam. It stopped only six feet in front of Banks and once again cocked its head to one side in an all-too-human gesture that showed it was listening.

  “I’m Captain Banks,” Banks said, clipped and official in manner, “and I’m here to help you.”

  Then he made the mistake that could have cost him his life; he raised the syringe, showed it to the beast.

  The troll moved first, letting out a roar of rage that echoed all around the walls of the fjord then swiping at the syringe as if to knock it away. Banks didn’t have time to avoid the blow and his left hand was struck by what felt like a lump of cold stone, sending the syringe flying into the night to clatter off rocks on the shore. His whole arm went numb at the weight of the hit and he tumbled off balance, just having enough presence of mind to let himself fall and not get entangled with the rest of the men.

  As he rolled to one side, he saw Wiggins jump up onto the troll’s back, getting it in a half nelson. The beast, enraged at this affront, moved to grab for the corporal. At the same time, Davies stepped inside its reach and plunged his syringe down on its chest—he missed his mark and the needle—and the glass itself shattered against the hard skin. The private couldn’t get out the way in time and a huge arm brushed him away with a swatting blow that threw Davies across the quayside to land heavily, sliding for ten feet in the fresh snowfall and coming to a halt just above the drop into the icy waters of the fjord.

  Banks was still trying to get to his feet and Wiggins was still hanging grimly to the beast’s neck when Hynd, calm as you like, ducked, rolled forward in a wrestler’s move, and came up between the thing’s legs. He took his time, looking for the right place to strike and slid the syringe into a crack in the skin at the thing’s groin, pushing the plunger in quickly before rolling again, through the thing’s legs and free.

  “Ha, got you in the bollocks, you bastard,” Wiggins shouted and finally had enough of a grip to be able to swing his other hand ‘round and plunge the syringe into the troll’s neck. “This is for Wilkins,” he said and pushed the plunger before dropping away and tumbling out of the thing’s reach.

  *

  It took a while to go down and it went down hard. First its legs went weak, sending it rolling like a drunk to one side then the other. It hit the hut wall, leaving a massive dent. It tried to reach for Wiggins, who dodged it easily. The corporal danced like a boxer, fists up, taunting the thing.

  “Come on then, big man. Have a go if you think you’re hard enough.”

  Wiggins threw a punch at the thing’s belly then danced away holding his fist.

  “Fuck me, it’s like punching a wall.”

  “Don’t try kicking it in the nuts then,” Hynd said, laughing grimly.

  The sergeant stepped forward and, using the outside of his heavy boot, kicked the troll hard on the inside of its left knee. The beast tottered and finally fell, even while it roared in rage, reaching for Hynd with huge grasping hands. It hit the quay with a crash, another echo ringing around the cliffs then finally lay still.

  “That went well,” Wiggins said with a smile and went to help Davies up. The young private was shaken and stiff.

  “Nothing broken except my dignity,” he said.

  “Good lad,” Banks replied. “Fetch as much of that sedative as you’ve found,” he said. “I think we’re going to need it.”

  Hynd lit two smokes and passed one to Banks while they both stood over the prone figure of the troll.

  “What now, Cap?” Hynd asked.

  - 13 -

  “I don’t have a fucking clue, Sarge,”

  The troll had fallen, face down, full length along the quay. The resemblance to a gorilla was even more marked close up and Banks was reminded of Kong, after his fall from the Empire State building. Hynd seemed to pick up the same thought.

  “It wasn’t beauty that felled the beast…but a big needle in its bollocks. Should we try to move him, get him somewhere warm?”

  “Given where he’s spent the last seventy years, I don’t think he gives a fuck about the cold, Sarge. And besides, it will take a fucking crane. All I can think of is keeping him under with the dope and hoping the skipper of that supply vessel has a bright idea.”

  “Speaking of which,” Hynd replied. “I’ve been thinking too. We don’t have a phone but maybe we could get a beacon going? We’ve got enough crap to burn here and at least it would let anybody passing know we were here?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me. Get Wiggo to help you. I’ll need Davies to keep an eye both on Wilkins and this big galoot here.”

  Hynd had one last question before he turned away.

  “You really think this can be reversed? I mean, I get it, he’s a soldier and we all saw how he reacted to your order. But how can anybody come back from something like this?”
>
  Banks didn’t reply but the same answer he’d already given came immediately to mind.

  I don’t have a fucking clue.

  *

  He let Hynd and Wiggins get on with the job of building a beacon fire on the quayside and went into the hut to find Davies checking on Wilkins.

  “The lad’s still out cold, Cap,” Davies said. “He slept through the whole bloody thing.”

  “Let’s hope we can keep yon big bugger out there in the same condition.”

  “I’m not sure how to go about that, Cap,” the private said. “There’s a formula for sedatives based on body weight, blood pressure, several other factors. But I’m not even sure how yon thing’s alive. There’s no discernible pulse, no sound of a heartbeat, and he’s only just breathing. For all I know, all we’re doing is killing him slowly.”

  “Just do your best, lad,” Banks said. “We’ll get an expert onto him as soon as we can.”

  “There’s experts in this shit?”

  “Well, there used to be. All we can do is hope there’s still some bugger back home that knows how to deal with him.”

  Banks didn’t say it but he was already second-guessing his own decision; he could hear the colonel’s admonition even now.

  “I said bloody sanitize, not babysit.”

  The only comeback he’d have at his disposal is that he didn’t have a clue how to sanitize the thing out on the quay; dumping a cave load of rock on it hadn’t done the trick, nor had a volley of rapid fire from five guns. If the troll woke up, Banks might get a chance to try something else, maybe Wiggins’ idea of using a load of C4 to blow it to buggery. As he walked back out to help with the building of the beacon fire, he was hoping that decision might be taken out of his hands.

  *

  They built a huge pyre at the end of the small jetty, piling on anything that looked like it would burn; chairs, tables, bedding, cots, and cupboards, and used what little paper they could salvage from the old filing cabinets to get the fire started. The only thing they kept back was a hospital-style folding bed that they had Wilkins—still unconscious—laid out on by the fire inside.