Hunter (19 page)

"There ain't nuthin' that important, kid. Killing two platoons of marines would be considered an overt act of war. Even though we ain't in the Reagan years no more, there's only so much that folks out there in God's country will take. The people would make us hit back, no matter who it was against. And the good ol' boys would be lining up at the recruiting office, just like they did after we kicked butt in the Gulf."

Chaney hadn't considered that; yeah, killing two platoons of marines probably would be considered an overt provocation act of war unless ...unless. . .

"Unless . . ." he said slowly, "we killed them ourselves."

Brick didn't move.

Releasing a heavy breath, he stared at the wall.

"This is unreal," he said.

* * *

Chapter 10

Staring intently at the topographical map with Takakura sweating and glowering beside him, Hunter tried to find an easily negotiable route to the research station, located on the south side of the White Mountains, a massive range over thirty miles long and completely impossible to clear in time to help the professor.

His brow hardening, Hunter looked at Takakura, and the Japanese just shook his head, still breathing hard from the last hard knoll they'd had to clamber across carrying the stretcher.

This was obviously not good country for a man to get injured, nor one in which to portage a man out. The terrain was becoming increasingly difficult and rough-cut, and the map indicated that it was about to become even more severe.

As a team, they would have had only moderate difficulty clearing the north ridge of the mountains bordering Fossil Creek, a misnamed river that ran the length of the range. But with a wounded man in uncertain condition this was no longer a strike mission; it was a rescue mission.

They couldn't scale, couldn't push the pace at double time when they mercifully reached a rare level area. So far, the longest level path had been about a hundred yards and ended in a long descent that a strong man could negotiate with caution, but only with the greatest difficulty while carrying a wounded man.

Takakura turned his head. "Riley!"

In a moment Riley was bent beside them, wearily propped on his rifle. Hunter had liked the guy from the first, but had not found a good opportunity to talk to him.

Takakura's tone allowed no room for failure. "We will negotiate this bluff ahead to lower the professor and move for this area known as Windy Gap, which is the only pass through the mountains. Can you rig a harness for which to accomplish this?"

Riley glanced at the map. "That's a one-hundred-foot vertical drop, but yes, I can manage it."

"Good." The Japanese folded the map and rose sharply.

Hunter saw what he meant, knew it was possible. Then he looked up to see Bobbi Jo attentively medicating the old professor through the rough-rigged IV and stood as Takakura continued.

"There is no time to waste. We must move quickly, Hunter," he turned into him. "Are you confident that you and your wolf can detect the presence of the beast, should he approach again?"

Hunter's response was solid. "It hasn't deceived us yet. But it's learning. You can't be sure what it will do next. Confidence can be dangerous."

"How do you know that it is learning?"

"It used to stalk, now it waits in ambush." He paused. "There's other things bothering me about that, too. But we can talk about it later. Right now it's enough to assume that it probably can't move without Ghost hearing it. On balance ... I'd say that, one way or another, either Ghost or I can pick it up. But it's not a guarantee."

Takakura said nothing for a long moment, then turned to Bobbi Jo. "You will take point behind Hunter," he said. "You possess the only weapon which can wound it." He walked away. "Buck and Riley will carry the professor for now. Let's move."

Hunter never ceased to be amazed at Takakura's determination and complexity. On the one hand, the Japanese was patient and courteous and enduring far beyond the rest; on the other he could be as severe as a feudal lord declaring war. But Hunter had come to genuinely respect him; it was enough.

Bobbi Jo seemed to be finally showing the strain of carrying the heavy Barrett and its ammunition. Her face was flushed, perspiration running in rivulets down her neck through a sea of sweat, and her depressed shoulder showed where the strap, though padded, was cutting through her vest. As Hunter walked past her, he asked casually, "Want me to carry that for a while? It's a heavy piece of artillery. And you've carried it all day through some pretty bad terrain."

To his surprise and without blinking she said, "Don't mind at all. It's yours. Here." And gave it to him. Simple as that.

When she let the weapon go, Hunter was shocked. It weighed at least thirty pounds. He couldn't believe she'd carried this weight for so long without ever revealing the effort it took. He put the strap over his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable point of contact, as she worked the action on the Marlin, ejecting a cartridge from the port and then injecting it back into the magazine. Obviously she needed no instruction in how to work his weapon.

She swept back hair from her head, speaking quickly and pointing to the weapon. "There's a round already chambered. This is the safety. It's a semiauto .50 caliber. You already found out that it kicks some, but be ready. You've got five shots but I'll get to you before that.” A pause. “
Hopefully
."

He looked up. "Why hopefully?"

Shaking sweat from her forehead, she smiled, " 'Cause I've got the extra clips."

"Oh."

"Let's move!" Takakura repeated, looking more warlike with every step the expedition put behind them. Hunter took point, with Ghost ranging to his left and right, searching, searching, and always ready. Hunter tried to estimate how quickly they could negotiate the expanse between them and the research station before they once again might be forced to try and kill what might indeed be un-killable.

***

Chaney answered the fax, reading it from the screen of the portable laptop. As ever, he was impressed with the modern technology available to modern law-enforcement personnel.

Without shame or concern he considered himself a computer idiot, but he knew enough about technology to remain functional. From the old school, though, he still preferred the old-fashioned snitch and a good fast attack stratagem. However he was not so cowboy-minded that he didn't appreciate fingertip access to information.

Chaney studied the Executive Order displayed on the gray-blue monitor. It was dated one week ago and had authorized the search team in the Alaskan wilderness. And one name in particular attracted his attention: Dr. Angus Tipler, executive director of the Tipler Institute.

Chaney had just learned that
Tipler was the country's leading authority on crypto-zoology and ecosystems reputedly on the verge of destruction. In fact, that entire institute seemed dedicated to the preservation of endangered species and environments. Thoughtfully, Chaney studied it. What was this old man doing on what was supposed to be a military mission? Then he saw an obscure mention of the inclusion of a civilian "scout." He focused on the name: Nathaniel Hunter.

Hell, he thought, the army had plenty of scouts; it was a highly recruited MOS. Why would this team need a civilian scout? Did the military not have people who could handle this job? Or was Hunter recruited because he was an expert in the topography, the nature of the wilderness? Was there something more to it?

Question led to question.

What would a half-dozen top-secret CIA research stations be looking for up in Alaska, anyway? What could justify such an outrageous expenditure in an era of wholesale budget cuts? And, most important, who had authorized it? Who was responsible for their activities?

He called the operator for the number of the Tipler Institute, and recorded the address. That would be his first stop. Then he would do some background investigation on this "scout" who was leading the team. It seemed to him for a moment that he had heard of this man, Nathaniel Hunter.

Nothing seemed to come to mind, but he had read it, seen it somewhere. He made a mental note to look into him, too.

Whoever Hunter was, he had to be something pretty special. Because the army didn't normally rely upon civilian "scouts" unless they were operating on foreign soil. And Alaska, though wild and hostile and an easy place to get yourself killed, was still ours.

Then he remembered: yes, Nathaniel Hunter, internationally respected multimillionaire and founder of the Tipler Institute. Chaney understood now why the name had not immediately meant something to him when he recalled what little he had read of Hunter. From all reports, the man preferred the deepest anonymity but was a highly demanded speaker at global events concentrated on the environment and certain ecosystems threatened by civilization.

He was also, as Chaney remembered, a rather generous philanthropist who had funded or co-funded a number of award-winning research and ecological projects—some so complex that Chaney couldn't begin to understand them even when he had tried. Chaney also remembered reading something more obscure—news reports of Hunter somehow aiding in certain rescues. But those had been little more than brief accounts he had occasionally come across in the newspapers. At the time, they had meant nothing, but he had mentally indexed the name.

He wondered: what would this man who was famous for his environmental research projects and enormous wealth be doing wandering around Alaska with a military hit team? Now that, almost more than anything, truly didn't fit. In fact, it seriously enhanced the enigma.

Carefully, he checked the Sig Sauer 226 9-mm semi-auto that was his service gun to ensure that a round was chambered. And he tried to ignore how uncomfortable it made him feel.

Because he had checked it already.

***

Hunter raised a fist, knelt in place.

All the others stopped where they were.

Something—something instantaneous and ghostly—had happened; something that one of his reflexes or instincts perceived but didn't translate to his mind. He stood motionless, head down, concentrating.

As he understood.

There had been a rhythm to the chorus of birdsong, and then it had broken briefly before resuming with a slightly altered cadence.

First, he scanned for bear or elk or something else that may have intruded on the immediate vicinity. But he knew that it was wishful thinking. Even though the team was causing little noise, their combined scents would have scared away every large predatory animal within two miles.

Eyes moving slowly, left to right, Hunter eyed a leveled section of the bluff that ran alongside a series of broken black crags. His gaze roamed up, down, searching without seeing, waiting. He listened, heard nothing. Around them, higher peaks rose to touch a bright blue sky with an almost crystalline beauty, a stark contrast to the vicious battle in which they were trapped.

Hunter turned his head and looked at Takakura, who scowled in silence. Then he turned his face forward, and thought of moving, but something prevented him: Something was wrong here. Something he couldn't place. He remembered the rule: the forest will only tell you the truth, it will never lie.

Almost in the same second, Takakura came up beside him, holding a
steady and level aim at the crags. He waited for a moment, and then, "It has not attacked in the daylight yet. Why do you think it might change its tactics now?"

Hunter hesitated, frowning. Then answered, simply, " 'Cause I ticked it off. I hurt it bad and now it wants revenge. Tell everyone to stay a little spread
...but not much. Five feet is good. If it's in there, I think it'll strike from above."

"
Hai
."

He was gone and Hunter motioned for Bobbi Jo to come up. "Give me the Marlin. Time to change."

They exchanged guns and Hunter repeated the procedure she had done, working the action and inserting the cartridge back into the magazine. He ensured that it was fully loaded with a live round in the port. Then he glanced back to see that Buck and Riley were carrying the professor. When he had their attention, he cautiously walked toward the crags. Behind him, everyone followed in silence.

He padded forward slowly, feeling the ground with each step, testing the earth as much as the air, the fowl, the wind. He had six heavy rounds in the Marlin, each hot and hard enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks, but he knew that they weren't enough against this thing. Nothing seemed like it was enough. They had not had time to logically analyze its native ability to endure small-arms fire, Hunter knew they needed to at the first opportunity. First, though, they had to survive this gauntlet.

He only knew that, unless they caught it with a concentrated burst of fire or unless Bobbi Jo hit it point-blank dead-center with the Barrett and then Takakura took its head with the katana, they were going to be in a big, bad world of hurt. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from Hunter's face.

Ghost, vaguely agitated, stared at the tree
-line and shuffled his huge paws on rough, black volcanic rock. The big wolf seemed eager to get on with the fight, but would, as always, wait for Hunter's shouted command.

What happened next made Hunter instantly whirl and trigger the Marlin, ready to shoot anything that moved. In the space of a breath, a terrible silence had struck the entire forest.

***

Rebecca loaded the stat sheets into her car. She was in a mood to do something about this DNA information, and if she didn't get some cooperation fast she would be going to heads of departments that few outside the government could approach.

She had decided all of that during a sleepless night; no, she wouldn't engage in senseless dialogue with low-level bureaucratic morons. Not when Tipler's life was in danger.

She had an easy twenty-minute drive and then she would give this Dr. Hamilton a serious wake-up call. He could react or not. If not, or if he hadn't notified Dr. Tipler of the discovery, she would simply leave without a word. She didn't need the cooperation of the CIA. She had only dealt with them out of good faith.