Fatalis (35 page)

Hard.

At least Lieutenant Mindar agreed with Gearhart that capturing the animals would be extremely difficult and possibly counterproductive. Men could die in the effort. The lieutenant had experienced sedating animals from dogs to deer to mountain lions during fires and floods. He said that not even seasoned gamekeepers knew how much tranquilizer it took to knock out a large predator without overdosing and killing it. They also didn't know which animals were allergic to tranquilizer ingredients such as nicotine and even how an animal would react after being sedated. Some became calm and then suddenly went manic. Some appeared to pass out only to waken and attack everyone around them. Some took a long time to even feel the effects of the dart.

The wait was punctuated by occasional, frustrated calls from Chief Deputy Valentine. Since no one in town had Gearhart's cell phone number, and the mountain roads had been sealed off on all sides, no one could reach him. Reporters, university professors, environmental groups-not just in the county but on the state level-and even Joseph Tumamait had left word for the sheriff to get in touch. Gearhart did not return any of those calls, nor did he ask Mike Valentine what they were about. Plausible deniability plus a true and unshakable belief that he was working for the public good was a potent rebuttal against any form of opposition. Particularly against special interests.

By early afternoon the motion detectors were all in place and everyone was ready to move out. Some of the men were airlifted by the Chinook and others got underway on foot, all of them following the course that Gearhart had laid out. He had consulted with Dr. Honey Solomon at the Santa Barbara Zoo and had learned that on average a lion rests between twelve and fifteen hours each day, most of that after feeding. The zoologist agreed that it was more likely for migrating animals of any kind to move after resting rather than before. Given the distance between the previous kills-approximately five miles-Gearhart calculated the outside radius of where the predators would appear tonight. This time his people would be there, ready to stop them.

Gearhart slipped on a weapons vest that included a serrated hunting knife, a Beretta, and extra ammunition, and accompanied the teams who moved out on foot. When they were in place, he would link up with the chopper and follow the motion detectors from there. The sweet, fragrant scent of monkeyflower and manzanita complemented the golden, late afternoon glow. In places, those sweet, refreshing scents were overpowered by the pungent odor of the sage and buckwheat that spread across large swaths of hillside.

Gearhart was more aware of the mountain smells than he had ever been before. It was like being back in the war, where enemies could be anywhere and were clever about concealing themselves. The ground was too rocky here to hold footprints, and Gearhart told the National Guard troops to examine the sharp-pointed scrub oak and needlelike chamise looking for traces of fur or blood, just in case the animals had emerged to change passageways. Though Gearhart was not willing to accept that the killers were prehistoric monsters, most of the time they
had
been moving southeast, as Grand had said. So Gearhart concentrated on caverns in that direction. Dr. Thorpe came along to help determine which tunnels and caves were too narrow to accommodate large predators, helping them to focus on the most likely routes.

Just before 3:00 P.M., everyone was in place across a twelve-mile stretch of mountain. The placements stretched into two of the other counties, Ventura and San Luis Obispo, and deputies from both sheriffs' offices were present to assist, advise, and monitor.

Gearhart and the Chinook were airborne shortly after three. The Boeing chopper had a range of slightly over thirteen hundred miles, which would give the units coverage for a good portion of the early evening. The plan was to refuel, if necessary, at nine. Gearhart had a feeling these creatures would show themselves long before then.

The sheriff was right.

Shortly after 4:00 P.M., the pilot of the chopper informed Gearhart that there was movement in a passageway, at an old cave nearly five thousand feet up in Monte Arido.

Gearhart went into the cockpit and looked at the thirteen-inch monitor between the pilot and copilot. It showed a green sonographic image of the throat of the cave. The monitor showed three distinct pulsing white blips moving northeast.

"Could they be hikers?" Gearhart asked.

"No, sir," reported the copilot. "Not unless they're riding dirt bikes. These blips are moving at twenty-plus miles an hour."

In dark caves
, Gearhart thought.

Troops and deputies who had been stationed at sites in the region immediately surrounding the cave were notified and picked up by the Chinook.

As the chopper rushed over, the radio operator at the site confirmed the signals. There were definitely "animals" somewhere in the mouth of the cave.

The copilot asked the unit radio operator, "What kind?"

The operator was silent for a moment. And then he replied, "Big ones."

Sergeant Andy May peered through his binoculars at the cave. The headset was part of his helmet, a thick unit that put four pounds against the young man's forehead and on the outsides of his eye sockets. In the evening, the regular binoculars would be replaced with night-vision goggles. Four months before, when he had completed basic training and started ATT-Advanced Individual Training for specialized equipment and night-action-May had hated the heavy feel of them. Now, the National Guard full-timer only felt whole when he had them on. When he was equipped and in the field, he felt as though the terrain was his. Just like he used to feel when he went duck hunting with his dad and they'd wade waist-deep in Crescent Lake in his native Crescent City, Florida.

The four other men who were with him also seemed comfortable with their goggles. Three of them were guardsmen and one of them was a sheriff's deputy; all of them were cool and "ready to rumble," as the deputy had put it.

The cave opening was actually a ten-foot-tall, rightward-leaning gash in the face of the mountaintop. It was about five feet wide at the bottom and three feet wide at the top. There were boulders on either side and a ditch in front worn to underlying rock by the recent rains. In front of the cave was about an acre of flat ridge, barren except for dirt and low, tangled scrub. Beyond the cave the mountaintop continued up another thousand feet; around it, on either side, was a light blue sky free of clouds. The air was cool up here, a combination of the ocean wind, the height, and the chill of rainwater that had evaporated during the early afternoon and was beginning to condense.

Private, first class, Arnie Ruhf was the small group's communications officer. Two minutes before he'd been notified by the Chinook copilot about the movement in their cave. He'd immediately informed the other two people at the cave: May; Private, first class, Markle; and Deputy Bright of Sheriff Gearhart's team. The men were told that reinforcements were being rushed to the site.

They took up predetermined positions behind boulders, picked up their rifles, and aimed at the cave. May was on the left end of the line with Ruhf beside him. The sergeant felt a little anxiety coming from Ruhf and Markle, but he himself felt confident. He was an excellent shot and even at twenty-five miles an hour there was enough distance between the men and the cave-about one hundred yards-to give them time to aim and fire.

"We verify the identity of the target and the nature of its intentions before firing," May reminded the others. They were clustered in a fifteen-foot arc directly in front of the cave. "No one fires without authorization from myself or a direct attack-"

"Sergeant!" said Private Ruhf. "I see something."

"Where?"

"Right side of the cave, about three feet up."

May looked over. He saw it too: a pair of large, golden-white eyes hovering near the wall.

"Confirmed," said the sergeant. "Report to the sheriff, then wait until it tries to escape or to attack. Otherwise, hold your fire. Let's try to wait for the armored guys to get here."

Ruhf did as he was ordered. He settled uneasily into his firing stance behind the boulder, one leg bent, the other knee on the ground.

"What the hell is in there?" Private Markle murmured. "I've never seen eyes like that."

"Quiet," May said. He raised his rifle and looked down the site. "Remember. If they come at us everyone keeps to his line of fire. If you cross-shoot we may end up double-firing at the same target."

The men fell silent, a fire wall of guns and determination.

After a very long moment the two eyes were joined by two more, then two more. The eyes didn't move from the shadows. May wasn't able to see more than the floating orbs and an occasional downward-pointing tusk, a sliver of brightness against opaque black. The animals were remarkably quiet, though the blood rushing through May's ears drowned out any sound the creatures might be making. He thought he heard squeaks coming from the cave, but they sounded like bats. Maybe they didn't like the intruders either.

After nearly two minutes of waiting the men heard the distant beat of the Chinook's twin rotors. Part of May wanted to move in now, shoot the animals and take the score home on his résumé. That would mean a lot in the security world, where he wanted to go after this. But there was the well-being of his men to consider, so he waited for the chopper. He'd have to settle for the assist.

Because of the noise of the approaching Chinook, and because of the attention the men were paying to the eyes in the jagged cave opening, none of them heard the two cats come up behind them. The only indication May had that the unit was under attack was when Ruhf suddenly cried out, lurched backward, and disappeared down the slope.

Sergeant May spun to his right. He was just in time to see a pair of tusks-much larger and nearer than the ones in the cave-flash down at him, a green haze of motion.

There were strong punches on either side of his neck. They drove May down so that he was sitting. He whimpered and his arms shook uncontrollably; he dropped his gun without realizing it. There was hot breath in the young man's face and where he'd felt the punches there was now sharp, deep pain. May wanted to scream, but he couldn't breathe as his breastbone was torn outward.

He was dead before a sheet of blood splashed up from his shattered chest, covering his face and goggles.

As soon as the man went down the cats that had attacked them were joined by the others from the cave. The giants came quickly, sinking their fangs into the bodies, lifting them from the mountaintop, and turning back toward the cave.

They paid no attention to the bright star that came early in the southern sky.

"The blips are moving again!" the copilot exclaimed as the Chinook neared the mountain. "Which way?" Gearhart asked.

"Out of the cave-only now there are five of them!"

The sheriff was once again standing in the cockpit doorway. The Chinook had collected fifteen soldiers and six deputies from four separate sites and was rushing to the cave on Monte Arido. The sheriff was peering out the front window at the distant peak.

If the cats were out of the cave, why weren't the soldiers and Deputy Bright firing? Realizing that he might not hear the gunshots because of the rotors, Gearhart grabbed a pair of binoculars from the equipment rack to the right of the cockpit. He looked out the window. Though the chopper was shaking and the magnified view was unsteady, he didn't see any flashes. But he did think be saw movement behind the rocks.

"Get your man on the radio," Gearhart said.

"Sir, the sergeant asked for radio silence-"

"Now," Gearhart insisted.

The copilot obliged. Gearhart continued to look out the window. He wasn't surprised when the copilot informed him that there was no response from the field unit.

"Get us over there
fast
," Gearhart said.

"Yes, sir," the pilot said.

Gearhart went back into the main cabin, a cargo hold that had been fitted with canvas sling-seats hung from the ceiling. There was also a winch beside the door and a sling for lowering equipment. He grabbed a rifle from the weapons rack toward the rear of the cabin. Then he went back to the outside door, which was located behind the cockpit. He slipped a harness around his waist, fastened himself to one of the hooks beside the door, and opened it. He wasn't going to lose these bastards again.

The Chinook dove and picked up speed. It was moving at about 120 knots. The wind was rough, the chopper was slanting down at a twenty-degree angle, and Gearhart had trouble standing. It would be tough to aim and fire from here. He wished he had fucking Sidewinders; he'd light the rockets and blow the entire mountaintop to hell.

Then Gearhart saw his enemy for the first time. He saw long, slinky golden figures moving through the sharp afternoon light. They appeared to be carrying things.

Prey?

No
, Gearhart realized. Not just prey.

Bodies. Bodies dressed in drab green. The entire Monte Arido unit.

Gearhart slung the binoculars around his neck.

"Wilson!" he yelled over his shoulder.

The portly, balding first sergeant in charge of the armored unit hurried over. "Sir?"

"Sergeant, pass out weapons and send three men over here
now
."

"Yes, sir."

The door was wide, though three men was all Gearhart felt the doorway could accommodate without them falling over or shooting each other. As the chopper neared the cliff, three guns lined up behind Gearhart. The sheriff turned so he could be heard over the rush of the wind.

"It looks like the entire unit has been taken out," Gearhart told them. "When I give the order, fire at any animals you see on the cliff. Shoot to kill; use multiples to clean up any vital signs."