Black Mountain (37 page)

In the centre of the ravine, the interrogation began. Hammerson’s captor shook him roughly to ensure he had his full attention, then gripped him by his cropped grey hair.

The second man leaned in close. ‘Where is the Arcadian?’

Hammerson stared into the black slits of the ski mask. ‘Identify yourself, soldier.’

He was shaken again, harder. ‘Where is the man called Alex Hunter, the Arcadian?’

I wish I knew, asshole.

Hammerson laughed into his interrogator’s face. He didn’t see the punch coming to his other eye, just felt the blow and then a warm wetness on his cheek. Felt like a significant cut.
Gonna be sore in the morning
, he thought, and laughed again. The optical devices gave him some protection, but he couldn’t take many more hard blows to the eyes without losing his sight – and to a fighter, that meant end game. He’d never make another hour, let alone the morning.

The two men looked at each other, some kind of silent communication passing between them. One stood back a pace, while the other knocked Hammerson to his knees, in preparation for the execution.

A brilliant silver moon broke through the clouds and Hammerson looked up at it.
Beautiful
, he thought, and remembered what his father used to say.
Good light, good night-hunting
. But there would be no more hunting for him.

His eyes travelled along the edge of the cliff, and saw a figure standing there. The shape of the body, the strength and confidence in the stance, told him who it was. He knew the man as well as he’d have known his own son. As he watched, the figure grasped a tree trunk and began to climb down it into the ravine.

‘Arcadian!’ Hammerson yelled.

The word and its echo bounced around the small valley and travelled up the mountainside.

The white-clad men looked at each other, then one of them spoke softly. ‘He’s here.’

‘Then we have him trapped,’ the other said.

Hammerson grinned.
You think you’ve trapped him in here with you? Wrong, assholes – you’re trapped in here with him
.

THIRTY-SIX

Captain Robert Graham tried once again to raise his test subjects on the mountain. None of the three men were responding, and one of their lifelines had gone dead on his screen.

‘Shit.’ Graham bit the edge off a fingernail and spat it onto the desk. Those idiots couldn’t be out there forever. The operation needed to be over quickly.

His major concern wasn’t the potential confrontation with Alex Hunter. He had equipped the three soldiers with more than enough capability to accomplish the task. They easily matched the original Arcadian’s strength and speed, and they were three to his one. His worry was the instability of the compound and its effects on the men’s physiology.

The ARC-044 treatments seemed to start a war within the subjects’ bodies. Their increased physical capabilities fired their metabolism to a level far above that of a normal person – basically their recuperative and regenerative powers had to work overtime to keep rebuilding what their own bodies were continually tearing down and consuming in a bid to feed an engine permanently stuck in high gear.

He looked again at the blank screen. He needed to know what was going on, which meant going to see Jack Hammerson. That brick-headed old soldier had kept enough secrets from him.

*

‘Don’t say a word; that’s an order. This is between me and your boss,’ Graham said, pointing his finger into the face of Annie Fletcher, Hammerson’s personal assistant.

She removed her hand from the phone and narrowed her eyes as Graham opened Hammerson’s office door without knocking.

It was dark in the large room, so Graham left the door ajar a crack. The big viewing screen on the wall was fizzing with white noise. He saw a figure sitting near the desk, its back turned, its head resting on one hand.

‘Hammerson, you must think we’re all stupid,’ Graham burst out. ‘I know the Arcadian is alive and on US soil. Your submission to the Joint Chiefs was a total fabrication.’

He paused; the large figure just sat there, unresponsive.

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ Graham went on, determined to get a reaction. ‘We don’t need him in the field anymore. We’ve reproduced the treatment – Hunter can be retired immediately.’ He took a step closer. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t need him at all. We can work together – you scratch my back, et cetera. General Wozyniak is delighted with my results, but I know the compound’s still a little unstable. I can’t seem to balance the subjects’ metabolisms. Wozyniak might not be so happy if I told him the men could burn themselves out, literally, in a month – not a great return for a hundred million taxpayers’ bucks. Now, if I could take a quick look at Hunter’s hypothalamus . . .’

Graham reached the seated figure and realised it was too big to be Hammerson. ‘Jack?’

‘He can be
retired
? You mean fucking
terminated
.’

An enormous hand shot out and caught Graham’s wrist, then pulled and twisted, bringing Graham to his knees beside what he now saw was a wheelchair. In it sat Lieutenant Sam Reid.

Graham screamed.

Annie Fletcher came to the door, smiled sweetly, and pulled it fully closed.

Sam tugged on Graham’s arm again. ‘You want to kill him, you little weasel? You fucking killed him years ago when you pumped that shit into him! He doesn’t even know if he’s human anymore.’

Graham wailed and banged at Sam’s hand with his fist, but the HAWC just tightened his grip.

‘I’ll see you in chains, Reid,’ Graham yelled.

Sam laughed softly and applied more pressure to the scientist’s thin arm. ‘Haven’t you noticed – I’m already in chains, you asshole. Guess I must be suffering from battlefield trauma – happens to us HAWCs, you know. We can go psycho sometimes, real loony – been known to actually kill people.’ He laughed again. ‘By the way, that reminds me, I’m due for another coffee with my old friend General Wozyniak. Got something real interesting to tell him now. In fact, why don’t I –’

‘I could make you walk again.’

It was like all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Sam let go of Graham’s arm. ‘Fuck off.’

Graham stumbled backwards, then stood up. He rubbed his wrist. Both an idea and an opportunity sprang to his mind. He looked at the huge frame packed into the wheelchair.

‘Not much of a life for a man of action, is it?’

Sam sat motionless again, staring at the fizzing screen.

Graham took a cautious step forward. ‘The Arcadian treatment works, Lieutenant Reid – you know that. But did you know that it can be used to regenerate tissue, bone matter, internal organs . . . even the nervous tubular bundle of the spinal cord? That part’s easy. Imagine being able to get out of that chair. Imagine being able to run, fight, defend your country again. I could give you all that. I just need –’

Sam jerked his body forward at the scientist. ‘I said
fuck off
!’

‘Okay, okay.’ Graham backed away, holding his hands in front of him. ‘We’re both a little stressed at the moment. By the way, I saved Hunter’s life when everyone else had given up. I’m not the bad guy, Sam. Remember that.’

The HAWC turned his head away, but Graham knew he’d got to him.

He reached behind his back to touch the door handle. ‘Think about it,’ he said. ‘I helped Alex, and I can help you. You know where to find me.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

Matt stayed hunkered down above the ravine, paralysed by the brutal action below. Sarah sat with her back jammed up against his, keeping watch on the upper slope, but he knew that she was blind in the darkness. She wouldn’t see anything coming until it was right on top of them.

He looked around for something he could use as a weapon . . . anything. There were a few loose branches nearby – not much use against the beast they’d seen in the cave, or against the guns in the fight below. Then he remembered . . . and moved his hands frantically around under the snow’s surface. His fingers touched Chief Logan’s handgun.

Matt had seen how fast those white-clothed men moved, how just one of them had beaten down Hammerson. Even armed with the handgun, he reckoned he’d probably last about thirty seconds . . . and that included twenty seconds to raise and fire it.

Jack Hammerson’s last order had been to wait five minutes, then head back down the mountain. Matt knew he needed to honour it. Also, he didn’t want to watch a brave man get beaten to death.

He was just about to grab Sarah when Hammerson’s voice boomed out: ‘
Arcadian!
’

Matt’s head snapped back to the ravine; he hadn’t heard that word in years. He scanned the rock face leading into the valley, then the snowy slope behind him. When he turned back to the cliff edge, he saw a figure silhouetted against the moonlight, arms outstretched, strength radiating from him. The sight reminded Matt of the last carving he and Thomas had seen in the cave: Tooantuh, Thomas’s people’s mighty warrior.

The old Indian had been sure his ancestor would return when needed.

‘Tooantuh will come and you must be ready for him,’ he had told Matt. ‘Help him to push the beast back into the mountain.’

The beast
. Matt looked over his shoulder again at the dark slope.

*

Alex jumped the last thirty feet to the valley floor, going down on one knee and fist with the landing impact. He stood and walked towards the masked soldiers, stopping a few dozen feet away.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Where are you from?’

The men moved towards him, fanning out one to each side.

‘You are Captain Alex Hunter, formerly of the HAWCs,’ said the man without the blood-spattered mask. ‘The one they call the Arcadian. You are to come with us.’

Alex didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’ he repeated. ‘How did you get to be . . . like you are?’

Neither man answered the questions, nor even looked like they understood them.

‘You will come with us, Hunter,’ the leader said again. ‘That is our order, and all you need to know.’

The man’s head tilted slightly, studying Alex, then the emotionless voice came again. ‘You will come with us. If not, we are authorised to use extreme force.’

Caution flared within Alex and the skin on his neck crawled. These men were like him, he could sense it, but they appeared non-human, disconnected – almost robotic.

When Alex still made no move, both men slowly lowered their hands to their guns. Alex held his hands up, trying to slow them down.

‘Wait, I need to talk to you. If I come with you, will you –’

‘You will come with us,’ the man said again. ‘Alive would be better, but our mission will still be complete if we retrieve just your head. Your choice.’

Alex couldn’t think straight. He could tell the men wanted to attack him. Perhaps their orders were to bring him in dead or alive, but he knew they wanted to test their own skills against him first. Frustration writhed and coiled inside him. He wanted to talk to the men, but his heartbeat was rising and a fire was igniting deep within him.

The other man got shakily to his feet. ‘Alex,’ he called out, ‘if they get you back to the lab, you’ll end up as nothing more than tissue in formaldehyde. Graham wants to cut you up.
I
have the answers you need.
I
can tell you who you are, and where you began. I’m Colonel Jack Hammerson, your former commander. I know about your mother . . . Kathleen.’ He took a pace forward. ‘I know everything – your father, Jim, was my friend . . . He was more like you than you know.’

Hammerson
. . . the name felt familiar. But before Alex could speak, the white-clad man closest to the grey-haired soldier had raised his strange bulbous gun at his face.

‘No!’ Alex yelled, and charged.

Hammerson dived and rolled, but the shooter was already spinning away from him and bringing his gun up to Alex. The other man turned side-on and did the same.

For Alex, the world slowed. He drew his own weapon and started firing as he crossed in seconds the twenty feet that separated him from the white-clad soldiers. The men twisted and dodged the projectiles, without receiving even a graze.

Their own gas-powered bullets were two streams, kicking up snow as they raced towards Alex.

He dived, spear-like, at the closest man, rolling and coming up in front of him, grabbing his gun and forcing it straight up in the air. The man responded with the same manoeuvre, so each was now gripping the other’s weapon, twisting and pushing, their strength matched. As Alex fought, he knew he was vulnerable to the other man, who was circling the struggling pair, looking for the smallest opportunity to put a bullet in him.

He released his gun into his attacker’s grip, freeing his own hand and bringing its fist around hard into the man’s jaw. The man pulled away and Alex’s blow glanced off his chin. Alex knew he should have planned better; they shared the same speed and anticipation skills, so trying to be simply quicker or stronger wasn’t going to cut it.

The man must have seen the logic in Alex’s move for he released his own gun. Alex took it and threw it to Hammerson. He didn’t understand why he felt he could trust the HAWC, but he did. Perhaps it was simply down to the oldest military truism:
my enemy’s enemy is my friend
. If he was wrong, he was as good as dead.

In the millisecond it took Alex to hurl the weapon, his opponent took advantage of his exposure and landed a stunning blow to the side of his head. Alex heard the man’s fist break on the bone of his brow. His vision blurred for an instant and he felt like he’d been hit by a speeding car. Nevertheless, he grabbed the man’s wrist, extended from the blow, and hung on . . . and saw the smashed metacarpals slide back into place below the skin.

‘
Who are you?
’ he yelled into the blank, featureless face.

The black eyes stared back at him through the slits of the ski mask, indicating no understanding or emotion.

In Special Forces training, every hard point on your body is a potential weapon. The knowledge came to Alex from somewhere deep inside, and his body took over. He pulled the man towards him and lowered his elbows to smash them into his cheeks. The blow disorientated Alex’s opponent, giving him time to bring a knee up into the man’s ribs. The grip on his gun arm loosened enough to allow him to pull it free and grab the ski mask. Alex needed to find out who this man was; to see some flicker of humanity beneath the robotic responses.