Hunter (28 page)

Chaney didn't understand that one either. He did, remarkably, know a little about how an immune system responded to bacterial invasion. He asked, "Why wouldn't the host see it as an invader since that's basically what it is?"

"Because this alien DNA is so closely related to Homo sapiens DNA. It
... it's just assimilated so easily by the host. I actually think the human immune system sees this fused DNA as part of its own system. It doesn't register it as a threat." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Where this DNA strand came from, I don't know, but it was from something very closely related to homo-sapiens. "

Frowning, Chaney stared at the charts. "But, really, what would that be?"

She emitted a brief bark of harsh laughter. "Marshal, you're in some kind of delayed scientific shock at all this. There is more difference in the DNA between a sheep and goat than there is between a man and an ape, or a chicken for that matter. Most creatures on this planet are compatible with the DNA of man up to ninety-five percent. An ape is ninety-nine percent. Only one percent of its DNA is non-man. That's a fact. But that one percent is everything. Somewhere within it is intelligence, emotion, egoism, self-conscious awareness. Basically, the mind. This is no different. Somewhere in this one percent is something else—something that's not even close to man. And, degree by degree, it is slowly infiltrating the entire host organism, slowly gaining complete control. If it doesn't have complete control of its mind, it will soon."

Chaney stared at the graphs. They meant little, since he couldn't understand them at all. But he understood everything Gina had said, knew that there was far more going on in those research stations than anyone would admit. He didn't take the time to formulate a plan. He knew vaguely what his first move would be; the rest would decide itself for him.

"Okay, I want copies of these," he said. "I want a copy mailed to the White House, a copy mailed to my boss, a copy sent to an e-mail address that I'll give you, and a copy mailed to a friend of mine for safekeeping."

"And you, Marshal?" Gina stared at him. "You want one for yourself?"

"No." Chaney shook his head as he stood straight. "I'm going somewhere else for answers. And they ain't gonna be glad to see my smiling face, I can tell you that for nothing."

He started for the door.

"Marshal?"

Chaney stood in place, staring at a very small young woman surrounded by a billion dollars' worth of science that he couldn't master in a lifetime. Her voice was hesitant. "Please get the people that killed Rebecca. Make them pay."

Now that was his world.

Chaney nodded.

"You can count on it, Gina."

* * *

Chapter 14

Birdsong heralded morning long before first light, and Hunter could tell from the cadence how long until dawn. Outside, it was still dark but he knew, or felt, that the creature wouldn't be attacking again tonight.

For one reason, they had, for the first time, truly injured it, and he turned the episode over and over in his mind, trying to conclude why bladed weapons had injured it when bullets didn't. He couldn't come up with a reason; it didn't make sense.

A knife traveled with far less velocity than a bullet, struck with less impact; there was no explanation why he had been able to savage the creature's arm as he had with a blade. Finally he let it go and turned his attention to Bobbi Jo, who had at last fallen into some much needed sleep. Her head rested on his shoulder and he was careful not to move, so as not to disturb her.

Looking across the narrow corridor he could see that Taylor was wide awake, as always. The commando was lazily scrawling images in the dirt with the
Bowie knife, his shotgun laid against the wall. He had loaded each clip with depleted uranium slugs for deadlier contact, and he seemed eager to get on with it.

Ghost was asleep, lying on his side, a good sign of safety. And
Takakura had spent the last hour sitting in isolated silence, though Hunter occasionally saw the Japanese gazing bitterly at Wilkenson.

The SAS agent did not seem to notice the attention. And if he did, he
hid it masterfully, appearing completely unperturbed. He had spent the time cleaning and oiling the modified Heckler and Koch 7.62mm fully automatic assault rifle and sat patiently without expression, glancing only occasionally at the rising chorus of morning outside the wall.

Finally Takakura stood. "It is daylight," he said in a stronger tone than he had used through the night. He looked at Hunter. "We must go outside in order to transmit a direct signal to the satellite. The phone system cannot penetrate rock."

Hunter rose, fatigue and soreness assaulting him in a wave of stiff muscles and pain. "I know."

His chest ached from the deep furrows torn by the creature s claws, and he knew he'd been lucky. He didn't know what had warned him, didn't think about it that much. It was enough that some primal instinct that he could barely comprehend had acted for him.

Now they were all staring at the wall, unmoving. Then Takakura turned to Bobbi Jo. "If the creature is waiting outside, the only chance we have is for you to shoot it point-blank with the Barrett. If one of us is in the path of the bullet, you must not hesitate. You must fire. Do you understand this? A team member, balanced against the survival of the rest of the team, must be considered expendable. There is no other way."

Expressionless, she nodded. Racked a round into the Barrett.

Hunter had no doubt that she would do it. Now, he understood that later she would pay more dearly than others with the nightmares and regrets, but the job would have been done.

It was a simple matter to remove the third log, since the second was shattered. Then they removed the fourth and hesitated.

"Remain inside the mine," Takakura said. Without waiting for a reply he took his sword in one hand and one of Taylor s shotguns in the other and slid through the narrow opening.

He vaulted softly into azure light, alert and careful, glancing above, left, right. He stood for a moment in the middle of the small clearing, but nothing happened. Finally he turned back and motioned for them to follow.

They quickly removed the remaining logs, keeping their weapons near, and Hunter helped the professor from his cot. He sat the old man on a chair they had gotten from one of the cabins. Wilkenson activated the Magellan System.

Hunter heard the movement in the trees, the wind swaying branches, the breeze rushing over the stream located at the bottom of the slope, the
musical sound of water trickling from the limestone cliff, a distant chattering woodchuck, and somewhere in the far distance a moose calling for its mate.

After being shut into the mine all night, every smell was fresh and distinct: rotting vegetation, green pine, old wood, even the earth itself. He inhaled deeply, relaxing, and released the breath as Wilkenson seemed to finally make contact.

He listened intently as Wilkenson requested an emergency extraction. The reply was negative. They were instructed to move at least a quarter mile downstream where a Blackhawk personnel helicopter could airlift them back to the base.

With a faintly perturbed expression, Wilkenson closed the case and gazed somberly at a frowning Takakura. "Well," the Englishman began, "seems we are still on our own, Commander."

"As I anticipated," Takakura growled. He turned to Hunter. "You are more familiar with the terrain than anyone. Can we make it?"

"We can make it," Hunter replied, steady. "Now we know how to kill it." Moving forward without words, he began down the slope. He held the Marlin lightly, knowing it was useless. The only weapon he possessed that could penetrate the Kevlar-like skin of the creature was the
Bowie knife on his waist. The problem was that in order to inflict a wound, he was bound to receive one. A wound, or death.

Roaming ten feet ahead of them, Ghost led the procession.

Hunter heard Takakura order the Englishman and Taylor to carry the ailing Tipler on the stretcher. Then he ordered Bobbi Jo to back up Hunter at point while he took rear guard, and they were moving slowly, carefully, fearfully.

In a half hour they reached the path—it seemed to require far less effort than the climb to the cliff—and moved west toward the pass. It would take two hours, he estimated, to reach the clearing where the Blackhawk could pick them up.

And until then they would remain in danger, as anyone in these accursed mountains was in danger. But Hunter had steeled himself to it; there was nothing that could surprise him or shock him now, and he somehow despised the fear, knowing it would make him weaker, slower, less instinctive and less ready.

Casting an obscure glance back to see the formation of the unit—their positioning and readiness—Hunter heard Bobbi Jo's quiet voice. It was so soft he could barely make out the words, and he knew she had spoken only to him.

"Thank you for last night," she said without overt emotion. But it was there, somewhere beneath the words, in the tone. And in the fact that she had said it at all.

He nodded without looking back, knowing she was watching him, and they continued on, Hunter leading with winter in his veins and a cold wind in his face.

***

Chaney had left the Tipler Institute in a scientific fog. Without question, Gina knew her discipline, though he wondered if she might not be somewhat unsettled by the death of Rebecca, and whether it could be influencing her theories.

He knew all too well how emotional content often shaped rational thinking—one reason why the Marshals Service prevented agents involved in a shooting from pursuing the suspect.

No, they were routinely reassigned to another case because supervisors feared that causes of vengeance and anger would shadow logic at the moment of apprehension. Chaney had never had a problem with it; he had a pretty broad disposition toward vengeance, so it generally worked in his favor by keeping him out of prison.

He hadn't told her it was murder, but Gina had assumed it. But, then, he hadn't corrected her when she herself used the term, so that was a confirmation of sorts. He wondered if he might not need to order some protection for her as he made his way to the car and headed it toward Washington.

The game was getting more complicated, but it was adding up quickly. He knew that the government had done something far outside the known perimeters of science and law and probably of ethics as well.

What, exactly, was hard to discern. But something had happened up there and had gotten out of control. And now they were trying to mop it up before a public relations fiasco broke loose that would make the Bay of Pigs look like a carnival.

He headed across town toward the installation at Langley, calling Brick on the cell phone to leave a coded message that he would meet him later in the day. He had one other appointment he had to keep—maybe two— before he was finished.

Somehow, he was looking forward to them.

***

He felt his energy building as he raced to catch up to the team, and then he saw a dark moving speck on the far side of the stream, far up the trail. He moved faster, forsaking absolute silence for speed as he raced through the forest, leaping from boulder to boulder, hurtling fallen trees and vaulting small streams with ferocious strength powered by the sustenance he had consumed.

The caribou had fallen as if struck by lightning and he had lifted his fist from its shattered skull, his taloned hand groping for a split second to withdraw a ragged portion of the brain, which he had eaten first. Then he had ripped huge chunks of meat from its flanks and consumed them voraciously, growling with primitive pleasure.

He had not taken long before he noticed his arm healing far more quickly, even the searing scarlet scar fading moment by moment until he was whole again. He could feel his body utilizing the nutrients, strengthening him, making him once again what he had been: the ultimate beast of prey.

As the sun crested fog-shrouded trees, he had consumed enough and turned, running quickly and with purpose. He had hoped to be there when they emerged from hiding, but he had been moments too late, though it had been easy to discern their tracks. As a precaution, since he had come to more deeply respect the strange man who led at the front, he had crossed the stream to avoid detection.

Yet as he closed on them, his strength rising to match his rage, he began to lose his fear degree by degree, imagining the man's blood in his mouth.

Oh, yes, the man would die, though now he might save him for last. To torment him, to torture him, to make him afraid. Through with the thought, as he placed a broad black hand on a fallen tree that he vaulted without effort, he knew the man would never be truly afraid. No, he would die as the old ones had died, fighting till the last, though they had ultimately died.

Such glory ...

Days of blood, nights of cruelty and screams in the dark as they had hunted the weak ones, finding them in the shadowed forest to leap with a scream from above. He remembered the ecstasy of falling, killing before he touched the ground. And then rising slowly, so slowly, to behold their horror, to see the rest run.

Grinning, he increased his speed.

They knelt together before the cleft, and Hunter cast a tired glance at the professor, who was again sound asleep. Hunter was grateful for that. He hoped that when Tipler awoke again, they would be at the clearing where the Blackhawk would airlift them to the last surviving research station.

Takakura was studying the cleft closely. His dark eyes were narrow as he spoke. "It is the perfect place for an ambush," he said slowly. "But there is no other path we can take. The rock"—he pointed to the sheer cliff that descended like a wedge to the stream—"blocks any other line of advance. We must take our chances."

He turned to look directly at Hunter, but Hunter didn't acknowledge it. His mind was already inside the cleft, imagining the best method of negotiating that long walk in darkness. For they had lost most of their equipment in the pell-mell of the retreat, often casting off load-bearing vests in the heat of combat so they could move with greater agility and stay alive. But they could have used a major light source. All they had was Hunter's mini-light. Not enough.

Hunter stood. "Give me fifteen minutes and I'll make some torches," he said. "We can't go in there without light."

Taylor pulled a machete from his waist. "I'll help you."

He followed Hunter off the trail and into the woods. In minutes they had cut branches of dry pine into sections four feet long that Hunter slivered at one end into twigs as thin as toothpicks. Then he ripped up what remained of his T-shirt into tiny ribbons, stuffing them deep into the thin splinters.

Hunter had the torches burning in ten minutes, and turned to the rest. "Okay, I think we should stay close. We know bullets don't hurt it. But a blade will, so this will be face-to-face. We don't know yet how it really reacts to fire. If it's more man than beast, the torches could hold it for a second. But it might not. Just tell me, Takakura, if you don't like anything I'm saying."

A curt shake of his head and the Japanese answered, "I disagree with nothing." He lifted his eyes to the cleft. "We must negotiate the pass. That is all. We will deal with what we must deal with."

Again, Hunter was struck by the stoicism, and he remembered what he had read about the code of Bushido: expect nothing—not victory or defeat—and live knowing only death.

Hunter shook his head silently at the thought. He understood it, and he respected it, but he had found a different path through life. Neither was superior, he thought, as he rose with two torches in each hand, passing them out, but what he had come to know as life embraced life. It wasn't life focused on death. But that, too, was part of Bushido, the way of the warrior.

The torch didn't seem
as bright as he stepped into the cave.

***

He had been forced to move more quickly than he had thought possible to get ahead of them, for he had spied the cleft far away, emerging high on a cresting knoll to see the black ribbon stretching down from the cliff.