Hunter (43 page)

They easily cleared the first jagged whitewall of mountains at nine thousand feet and the Magellan Navigational System kept them on a steady course. Chaney glanced at the displays as they gained even more altitude to ensure the craft was operating smoothly and not approaching the twelve-thousand-foot limit because the cabin wasn't pressurized. Plus, unless you were on oxygen at twelve thousand feet, a sudden loss of consciousness was a possibility.

With only a quick glance he saw that hydraulic pressure was steady, no overheating or cooling, and that the rotor speed and pitch were appropriate. Rear automatic stabilizers were computerized, and they automatically adjusted to wind and climatic changes.

Chaney had never flown a chopper with computer-enhanced rear rotor blades or anti-torque control, but it was easy to become accustomed to. He realized that he felt a sense of calm because, overall, the Blackhawk was a much easier chopper to fly than the crude but effective Huey.

"How long before we deck?" Brick spoke into his mike.

"It's five hundred miles ... maybe two hours," Chaney replied into the headset. He could have used the cloaking device to dull the roar of the engine and the drone of the turbos, thereby making conversation easier, but the ceramic shields also increased hydraulic temperatures. He remembered that the sound-dampening system couldn't be used for more than fifteen minutes at a time because overheating, and possible engine damage, could occur.

"Good enough," Brick replied, eyes centered steadily on the vast mountains that reached up to the horizon. "We'll still get there with a couple hours of daylight. We'll use it to get a good feel for the place before you get down to your little chit-chat."

"Yeah, well, if I get the chance," Chaney responded. " 'Cause if they know we're coming, they're gonna be prepared. And I don't think the good doc is gonna take it lying down. He'll be on the horn with Washington at the first available opportunity and get some interference runnin'. And he'll probably make up some shit about how I'm hampering their precious research with my inane questions." He cocked his head. "As it is, we're already in trouble. They might throw us in jail for leaving that scene in Washington."

Brick grunted. "Yeah, they'll get us for that sooner or later, kid. Believe me. They'll have to. But don't worry about that now. And, in any case, we were smart to hit the road. If you'd stayed in Washington they would have tied you up for days or weeks with bullshit statements and forensics and probably a suspension 'til a shooting review board could be arranged. So you did the right thing. And when this little gig is over, I'll
be there to testify for ya. I was a witness to the whole thing, so it won't be so bad. Really, we had no choice. We just didn't go by the book on the aftermath."

Chaney shook his head and frowned. "It doesn't really matter to me, Brick. Whatever's up here is a hell of a lot worse than whatever's back there." He paused. "But all things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

Laughing gruffly, Brick took a second before he focused hard on Chaney. "Just remember your job, kid. We ain't here to kill that thing. We're just here to find out what's going on, document it, and send paper up the ladder. All this hardware is for defense. Let them settle it out with lawyers and depositions and hearings." A pause. "But, then again, we do have a score to settle. 'Cause somebody needs to hang for what they did to those poor girls, and the hit on you. So once we got a good lead, or a head in our hands, we're outta there."

Chaney answered, "Might be easier to get in than out." He paused. "But I've come too far to back down, old man. Too far by half. Going back would be twice as bad as finishing this out. What do they call that? The point of no return? The place where going over is easier than to go back?"

Brick nodded his agreement and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as Chaney stared at the white-capped mountains looming up and surrounding them. He was reminded once more how harsh a land it was, how easy it was to die inside those valleys and ravines, snowfalls and glaciers. Then he thought of this man named Hunter who was reputed to be the greatest tracker in the world, the greatest wilderness expert in the world—a man who understood the wild like no other. And somehow, he sensed, Hunter just might be able to answer some questions.

Only one thing was certain: the enigmatic Dr. Arthur Hamilton would not have mentioned this mysterious tracker—who was so "unimportant"—if he had not, for some reason, feared him.

* * *

Chapter 18

Hunter raised his eyes to the horizon to measure how much light remained. There would be a pale moon tonight, but the base would be brightly illuminated by the thirty-million-candlepower spotlights strategically positioned along the perimeter and inside the compound itself.

From their angle and proximity, Hunter estimated there would be very little shadow, though he doubted that it would deter the creature from attacking. It had attacked them in daylight already, indicating that it did not fear the light so much as before. They had convened on the range so Bobbi Jo and Takakura could sight in their weapons.

Takakura had been especially diligent, firing over a hundred rounds through the M-14 in thirty minutes to break the weapon in and gain confidence in its reliability. But Bobbi Jo had only fired thirty rounds before she was certain that she had the scope adjusted for close-quarters battle.

Strangely, the Barrett was less accurate at a hundred yards than a thousand. Nothing severe, perhaps only a half inch off point of aim, but enough for a sharpshooter to notice.

Bobbi Jo explained the differential in accuracy by saying that, at a hundred yards, the supersonic bullet was still "washing" in the air, or swaying slightly. Then, when it stabilized at two or three hundred yards—a distance reached in one-tenth of a second—it settled down and flew true, stabilized by the rifling-induced spin.

Hunter was impressed by Bobbi Jo's skill and mastery over the huge sniper rifle from the beginning. But as she honed the scope and rifle into a
unit, he was even more impressed as she talked, rather abstractly and with remarkable emotional detachment, about how the rifle had to perform.

She spoke about shots fired in past combat situations. Such as scoring a headshot on a Palestinian sniper at nine hundred yards as he risked a quick glance over a wall. "It was like hitting the stamp on a postcard at three hundred yards," she remarked casually.

Then she had spoken of how she once decimated all ten members of a Shining Path death squad with a hail of .50-caliber rounds fired at twelve hundred yards from an elevated position. Even with a 12 X 3 Tasco sniper scope, it had been akin to shooting flies at fifty feet.

When she was through reminiscing, Hunter held her in high regard not only because of the professional manner in which she described the acts, but because of her almost encyclopedic understanding of ballistics, windage, bullet speed, placement, and fall.

Seated side by side on a table while she cleaned the Barrett with easy familiarity, Hunter wondered how she felt about last night. He wanted to ask, but found himself silently watching Takakura finish his last twenty-round magazine. He was uncomfortable—mostly because love was something he had never known before, but also because he felt himself becoming more and more dependent on her.

Although he had never known a woman with her background and training, he had discovered that beneath her professional veneer, she was, indeed, very much a woman with the same softness, eagerness for intimacy, intuition, and sensitivity as other women. He contemplated where the relationship would proceed, or if it would at all, and felt a pang of loss at the latter. Then out of his peripheral vision, he saw a slight grin cross her face. She spoke as she continued to clean and oil the Barrett.

"You were all right last night, Hunter." She smiled mischievously. "Especially for a man who was all beat up, physically exhausted, emotionally wasted and wounded." Then she laughed; a good laugh. "Yeah, I'd give you a ten, all right. Ha. Dead drunk, I'd probably give you a ten."

Raising eyes slightly, Hunter smiled. "I thought it was a good idea to do my best. Didn't wanna get whacked in my sleep."

She was enjoying it, and Hunter could see she had no regret.

"And," she added, "I don't know if you know it, but you talk in your sleep."

Hunter froze. "What?"

"You talk in your sleep," she repeated, enjoying it more and more. "Gotta tell you, it was pretty interesting, too. You've led quite a life."

"Well, uh ... what did I say?"

"Oh, you talked about hunting. About tracking, about how you won't let this person die, or that person die. You talked to some of the kids that you rescued. 'I got ya, kid, I got ya
... It's okay.'” Smiling slightly, she began inserting the six-inch-long brass rounds into the oiled magazine. "Then you talked about blond hair. And love. That kind of thing. Kept me up, for sure."

Hunter realized his mouth was open.

"So." She laid the rifle against the table and propped her chin on her hands as she gazed at him with mock seriousness. "When do you want to get married?"

Hunter laughed and glanced away to see Takakura walking toward them. The M-14 was smoking from heat and the Japanese seemed pleased. Hunter looked back at Bobbi Jo: "
How about today? Or is that too soon?"

Her open laugh joined his. "You know, Hunter, I never figured you for a romantic. But you are, in a way."

Shaking his head, Hunter understood that she was relieving some of the pressure from last night, and the night to come. She was not relaxed, she was only trying. He knew too well from experience that it was impossible to stay at a high pitch of concentration constantly. Everyone needed a moment to breathe easily before an unavoidable battle.

Takakura arrived at the table and reached for the cleaning kit. "It is sufficient," he said, and noticed their sudden silence. "I
... uh, did I disturb something?"

"Not at all." Bobbi Jo smiled. "Did you sleep well?"

The Japanese cast a narrow glance at Hunter before he smiled openly. And it got Hunter's instant attention because it was only the second time he had observed anything other than duty or obligation on the sharply chiseled face.

Dark eyes narrow with amusement, Takakura added, "Not, I suppose, as well as some whom I know. But, then, I had nothing to distract me." He nodded to himself, as if he had discovered something profoundly pleasing. "Yes," he added, "it is amazing how the crucible of war can bring hearts together. For you can discover more of a person in a few hours of combat than in years of casual acquaintance. And when the battle is over you realize that you have glimpsed into a heart. I have seen lives
forever changed by such things."

Bobbi Jo said nothing, but her smile didn't fade.

Glancing over at her, then at the range, Hunter said, "Guess you're right. Never really thought about it."

"Until now," Takakura said, finishing disassembly of the M-14. "But it is a lesson worth learning, and remembering. I can tell you that the closest friends I possess are those who fought beside me in war. And the only people I truly trust are those who have, out of honor and courage, risked much for me.

"Anyone can be brave in the day, when you feel warm and safe and protected. But one must first walk in the night, alone and unaided, before he can say he is not afraid of the dark."

Without another word he began cleaning the weapon. Even at a distance Hunter could feel heat emanating from the barrel and receiver, but Takakura seemed not to notice as he efficiently swabbed the bore. In fact, the Japanese seemed not to be thinking of anything at all as they tell silent.

A distant drone coming out of the southwest caught Hunter's attention and he turned his head, searching the sky. Then a small speck like a metallic dragonfly rose from the far side of distant bluffs and he looked closer, recognizing the distinct forward silhouette of a Blackhawk flying fast and low.

"Looks like we've got visitors," he remarked.

Bobbi Jo rose, shielding her eyes from the light of the dying sun. "It can't be more troops," she replied. "They've already got almost a hundred guys here." She was quiet, gazing steadily. "It's not a gunship. They're not racked and they're not carrying missiles. I wonder ...you think it's another hunting party?"

"No," Hunter answered, "they're not going to do that again
anytime soon. They've already got some kind of plan for capturing, or killing, this thing. I figured that much out. I don't really know what they would need ...unless it's some VIP."

Takakura had ceased cleaning the M-14. He scowled as he watched the chopper close on the compound and then set down gently on the pad. A moment later, two men, one big and heavily armed, the other smaller but obviously in good condition, exited and walked slowly toward the station. After flashing some sort of credentials that demanded immediate respect, they gained entrance and vanished within the steel door.

"Curious," Takakura mumbled. Clearly, he did not like what he had seen. "Two soldiers to add to a hundred. It is not enough to make a difference, should the others fail to defend the compound."

The Japanese scowled, eyes squinting at the helicopter as the four-bladed rotor finally stopped spinning. Abruptly he looked at Hunter. "Perhaps we should investigate this," he added. "Clearly, we are among those that we cannot trust."

"Where's Taylor?" Hunter asked as he picked up his Marlin. "He'll need to know about this."

"You think they're hitters or something?" Bobbi Jo asked as she lifted the massive sniper rifle. "They didn't look too friendly, for sure. In fact, they kinda looked like professionals, if you ask me."

"Professional what?" Hunter addressed her.

"I'm not sure." She shook her head. "But they sure know how to handle themselves. Plus, that Blackhawk isn't a Chevy. It takes six months to learn to fly one and the only ones qualified are military. Marine or army."

Hunter analyzed the situation before addressing the Japanese commander. "Why don't you find Taylor? Bobbi Jo and I'll try and find out what this is all about."

"
Hai
," Takakura replied, reassembling the M-14 before he had completed the cleaning. "I will notify him. Then we will meet back in the intensive care unit in thirty minutes. No more."

"Sounds good," Hunter walked forward. "See you in thirty minutes. And it might be a good idea to look sharp. This place is dangerous, but what's out there"—he lifted his chin toward the darkening forest—"is more dangerous. As dangerous as anything gets. And it's coming. Coming tonight."

***

Eyes slitted like a cat's, he watched the helicopter descend. His vision, almost perfect even in total blackness, followed the two of them until they were inside the building, and then he looked over the rest of the expansive, fenced-in compound.

There were more soldiers, dogs, and guns here than at the others. He considered the large contingent that was visible and searched for a suitable place of entry. Then, as twilight faded to what would soon be night, and the huge lights ignited to blaze as day, he knew that there would be only one means of penetrating the complex.

He was grateful that he had fed, for he could feel his fibers absorbing the nutrients, making him stronger by the minute. Yes, he was at the peak of his strength, and would need eat no more until he attacked. Then, as before, he would devour as he slew, methodically working his way through the compound until he shattered the steel portals and gained entrance, slaying still.

Rising on legs thick and hard as oak, he stood in shadow. His hands, clutching involuntarily, made sharp clicking sounds as the long talons grazed each other.

Soon ...

By the time he had crept close enough for exposure to the bright lights, which he would have to disable, the darkness would be complete. And after he cast them into darkness he would become their lord, master, and destroyer. As always.

He did not recognize fear as they recognized fear. No, he could feel nothing but the super
-oxygenated blood coursing strongly from his chest, providing him with enhanced and all-but-matchless might. His shoulders swelled with chemicals that accelerated his speed and dulled whatever pain he might receive. His bare feet pawed the ground, toes clenching cold dirt and the decayed, cast-off leaves of many seasons.

Glowering, he bent and glided over a hidden grassy path, using the trees to disguise his silhouette from their night-vision devices, for he still understood these things somehow—how they used things to see in the dark. These things would not be enough to stop him.

Even darkness was as day to him, now that he was almost complete. And with the moon, the woods were white fire and pale shadow. And the presence of every living thing that had passed this way for weeks, and even months, hung heavy in the air.

And yet, still, he was not perfect.

But he knew what was protected within that facility—the purest part of his blood that would make him even greater than his brothers, would complete the transformation. Yes, greater, for then he would have the full power of the ancients plus the higher faculties of man himself—enhancing his glory.

And when his system reached its zenith he would be as nothing the world had ever seen, or wanted to see. He would be without limits, an indestructible and wrathful god come to deliver a dark judgment upon the earth. Their flesh would be his for the taking, their lives and their deaths existing only for his amusement, the brutality of his pleasure.

Hiding his steps under the whispering wind, he crept on monstrous strides—a Goliath etched against skeletal trees, shadow moving from shadow—fangs distended in a hideous smile.

Soon, he knew, he would not need the wind.