Hunter (14 page)

He remembered that an emergency shipment of Barretts had been ordered by the U.S. Marine Corps after the 1983 attack on their barracks in Beirut, Lebanon. And in days following the attack they had more than proven their effectiveness at long-range combat.

Since they had begun tracking together, Hunter had developed sincere respect for the sniper. She said little, never seemed to lose patience, and only challenged his judgment when she had good reason. Yet if he overruled her ideas, she didn't debate. With a silent nod she would quietly tall in beside him, and he noticed she was learning from his movements. In time, he thought, she could be vastly superior to the corps of army trackers that this thing defeated so easily at the research facility

And, somehow, he was beginning to wonder if it might not also defeat him, too. He had been frustrated before, mostly by bobcats who walked so softly and carefully, leaving no sign. But never by anything of such enormous size and weight.

Even large cats, like cougars and tigers, were much easier to track than a bobcat because their heavy paws, which enhanced silence, also left distinct impressions. But this thing ruled in the worst of both worlds. It rarely left a clear track because it selected the hardest surfaces, always made the smart move, and couldn't be predicted.

Hunter's face hardened as he pondered it, and then Bobbi Jo shouldered the rifle and pulled her hair into a tight ponytail, tying it with a deft move. Afterwards she paused, staring at the perimeter, motionless and concentrated.

Hunter anticipated the movement, saw it in her profile before she even turned and, slowly, bent her head to gaze steadily at him. She didn't blink, didn't smile. And he held her look for a long time before he frowned, turning his attention to the professor. He had prepared the old man a meal from a large trout he had cooked and smoked that morning, knowing he himself would need the energy. But he sacrificed it now because of the old man's health. He had also given him a generous amount of pemmican—a mixture of beef jerky and animal fat. It was highly nutritious and kept for long periods of time in even the most extreme conditions. It had been a favorite staple of mountain men and American Indians, and Hunter always carried a small supply.

After a while the professor seemed to regain a measure of strength, though his face was still whitened, glistening with a sheen of sweat. Hunter knew it was the sudden run through the forest to the clearing that had strained him.

"Drink some more water, Professor," Hunter said. "Dehydration kills quick this high."

"Yes, yes, so I've heard," the old man replied, smiling faintly. He took a sip. "Ah, yes, a rather
...electrifying experience, that was." After a moment he asked, "Will it attack tonight, do you think?"

Hunter shook his head. "No way to know."

"But what do you think, my boy?"

Raising h
is eyes to scan the extensive perimeter, Hunter saw everyone alert with weapons ready. "It could, Professor. But it's too unpredictable. This thing doesn't move or think like anything I've ever tried to—"

Hunter joined what happened next by reflex.

Buck had been the first to unleash, the shotgun shredding the night at a titanic and monstrous image of underworld might that had broken the south treeline, charging out of the dark with an imperious air of indestructibility. And not even a full second passed before they opened up together, six weapons blazing outward. But Hunter spun toward the center when Bobbi Jo finally fired—the Barrett detonating with at least five feet of flame mushrooming from the barrel in a tremendous concussion that made the other weapons seem insignificant.

Stunned, Hunter whirled back to the beast, still firing. But he saw that the incredible impact of the Barrett had stopped the beast in stride, wounding it in the collar. Then Bobbi Jo had fired again, the brutal collision of the round staggering it backwards into the brush as the rest continued to hurl a wall of heated lead.

Falling back awkwardly with a wounded roar, it rose again as the forest around it was devastated by multi-weapon fire. Then, holding a hand to its chest, it staggered away. They continued the attack for another moment before Takakura bellowed for them to cease fire. But he was forced to repeat his command a number of times before they fell silent in a swirling gray atmosphere of smoking rifles. The ground was littered with brass cartridges and spent shotgun shells, and echoes of the wild cascade reverberated off distant mountains.

Hunter had ceased firing before the rest, having expended the six rounds of the Marlin at the nightmarish form in seconds. Together, backing up, they reloaded, quickly dropping clips and inserting shotgun rounds.

"Jesus!" Buck shouted without removing his eyes from the shredded black wall of leaves. "Did you see the size of that thing?" He shoved a grenade into his weapon, shouldering instantly, unable to relax.

"Reload and watch the perimeter!" Takakura raged, quickly exchanging clips and raising his weapon to his shoulder.

Only Bobbi Jo moved with a deadly air of cold calm.

With a brief glance, Hunter saw the female sniper very methodically remove the clip from her weapon. Then she took two six-inch rounds from her vest and shoved them into the magazine with mechanical precision before smoothly reinserting it in the rifle. Her motion to rack one of them into the chamber took obvious effort and then she was alert once more, eyes icy and sharp. Lowering the bipod attached to the rifle's stock, she rested it on the ground before her.

In all, the confrontation hadn't lasted more than fifteen seconds, but it had seemed like a lifetime until the beast had taken the second massive round from the Barrett and fallen to its back. But when it staggered up, it appeared that the awesome rifle had wounded it. It must have hurt it. But in the gloom, with such uncertain light and the detonations of the rifles half-blinding him, Hunter had been unable to tell for certain. All he knew was that it had been Bobbi Jo's weapon alone that had defied the beast's charge.

Takakura was speaking, still backing toward the bonfire. "For some reason it is resistant to small arms!" he yelled, since their hearing was dulled by the blasts. "But it is not impervious to the pain inflicted when it is hit! So if we can concentrate a heavy enough wall of rounds, the shock might make it retreat once more!"

Hunter wasn't betting on that; he knew that Bobbi Jo's rounds had really been what deterred its attack. But she could miss, or her rifle could jam, or the beast could launch a rushing attack and kill her first, temporarily disabling their ability to injure it. And all it would need would be seconds before it waded through them as it had waded through the guards at the research stations, stoically enduring the small-arms ordnance as it killed with impunity. No, they needed to come up with another defense if they were going to survive the entire night in this glade.

Already, it was too late to call for an emergency extraction. Because by the time the chopper snaked a dangerous path through these night-shrouded mountains to locate them, it would probably be over. Hunter estimated it would attack again in minutes—as soon as it determined that its injuries were minor. Obviously, the Barrett had stunned it—probably the first time a ballistic weapon had ever caused anything more than annoyance.

And despite their apparent shock at its unique ability to resist low-caliber arms, Hunter was not stunned. He knew that many creatures possessed skeletal density and skin composition sufficient to completely defeat low-velocity ordnance. A grizzly's skull could easily deflect a round from a 30.06—a virtual cannon. And anything less than a 30.30 would only flatten on the skin of a rhinoceros. So, without question, nature had repeatedly demonstrated that the right combination of bone and skin could negate the effectiveness of almost any rifle—except the ultra-high-powered Barrett or a similar sniper weapon.

Hunter looked down to see how the undue excitement had affected the professor. But the old man appeared studious and relatively calm. He stared at the gaping hole left in the distant wood
-line where it had fled, and his lips moved in silent thought. His first words came slowly.

"We cannot hold it off," he whispered, almost to himself. "It retreated only because it was shocked. But it will return soon enough
... Yes, but not with a bold attack. It will attack with cunning unless ...unless it is distracted ... by something. But what? Not flame ... no, it does not fear fire. What could distract it long enough for us to realize escape?"

Hunter's eyes narrowed; he looked at the old man. "I know what might distract it," he said evenly. With those words Hunter rose and walked away, knowing. He went directly to Takakura. "I know how we can hold it off for the night," Hunter said solidly.

Takakura stared. "Yes?"

"It uses the element of surprise. Likes to jump on you from trees and shit. We'll take that from him. If we see him coming, then we can open up and drive him back. No matter how many times he attacks, we can give him more than he can take."

"But it will be dark soon," the Japanese responded. "We cannot fight what we cannot see."

"We'll see him," Hunter nodded, angry, " 'cause I'm gonna rig this camp with more than claymores and fancy electronic devices, which it's already defeated too many times. I'm gonna set up some deadfalls, levers and fulcrums. He won't be hurt by them, but we'll know exactly where he is and we can open up. I'll have this place surrounded in twenty minutes."

Takakura s reply was instantaneous. "Do so. Take Buck with you. And Wilkenson. And hurry, Hunter." He glanced at the forest. "Or men will die tonight."

Hunter was in the woods like a panther, knowing every sound, every move, discerning instantly whether the forest told him it was near, knowing whether a broken branch had fallen from a tree, or whether it had been broken by  a  monstrous, approaching footstep.   His  skills  were
supreme now, and he used them supremely. His Bowie knife made swift work of sticks and twigs and the string he had brought by habit was vital. Buck and Wilkenson gathered the larger logs, and within a half hour they had completely surrounded the perimeter with carefully hidden traps that nothing could penetrate.

They returned to camp drenched in sweat, and Hunter knelt beside the fire, warming his bloodied fingers—fingers bloodied because he had worked more swiftly than caution allowed. But it didn't matter. He washed them in the stream and threw a hooked line across to the other side. It wasn't as good as a fish trap, and there was no bait, but should they survive the night, they would have food in the morning. And he knew the professor needed sustenance. For the first time he truly wished the old man had not come along.

Takakura spoke. "It is done?"

"It's done."

"Hat, this is good. At least we can know his direction now from the sound of the traps. We cannot kill him, but we can drive him back with concentrated ordnance."

"I hope so," Hunter threw in. "But we don't know its full potential yet. There's still a chance that bastard, if it's mad enough, can take more damage than we can dish out."

Takakura said nothing. Then Hunter noticed the sword strapped to his back and couldn't help but ask, especially since this might be their last night together. "Tell me," he said, "why do you carry that sword? Seems kinda archaic. No offense."

A soft grunt, perhaps a laugh, made the corners of
Takakura's mouth rise slightly. "You are," he answered, "the first man to ever ask me about it."

Hunter waited. "Didn't mean to intrude."

Takakura laughed, actually laughed, as he turned fully to Hunter. Then he reached behind his shoulder and slowly, very slowly, withdrew at least forty inches of the finest steel Hunter had ever seen. It was a beautiful weapon, obviously forged by sword makers who were masters of a craft that the world had long forgotten.

"This sword was my father's," Takakura said, extending the blade so Hunter could behold its purity, its strength, the razor-sharpness. "And before that, it was my grandfather's, who died in battle with the Chinese. And before that, his father's, and his father's. Who also died in battle. It is four hundred years old." He laughed grimly. "Why do I carry it? I carry it because I am born of a warrior clan. And my code is Bushido. I have never used it in combat. And should I, I expect nothing from it."

Hunter blinked. "Nothing?"

"No
...nothing. I do not expect life. I do not expect death. I expect nothing but to fight well. Life and death are the same. The water changes, but the river remains the same. It is the way of all things. And should I face death with this sword in my hand, then all will be good." He waited, staring at Hunter with a strange transparency. "Westerners do not understand such a life, do they?"

Hunter stared into the dark eyes. Takakura brushed his own forearm with the blade, a feathers touch, and a trickle of blood fell to the ground. In a single swift movement he sheathed the weapon. "You never draw the sword without drawing blood."

Hunter waited. "Yeah ... I think I understand."

Chaos!

The creature tripped a deadfall and they turned as one, unleashing a hail of ammo into the foliage that left it on fire. And the barrage continued until Takakura's imperial voice demanded them to cease fire. But none of them could tell if it was still there or not because they had been deafened by the gunfire.

Hunter concentrated, lowering his head, listening not for the creature but for the forest. "It's moving to the south side, where it came before."