Prey (26 page)

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Jacall was still staring at the telephone in his hand when Alex Chareaux came bursting into the living room.

"What about Sonny?" he demanded.

"A man just called," Jacall said quickly, frightened by the look in Chareaux's reddened eyes. "He said Sonny got in a fight, in a bar, and the police have taken him to jail."

"Sonny is in
jail?"

"Yes," Jacall nodded his head frantically, "but this man, he said that Sonny gave him this number and asked him to call you and tell you that the pilot is cool."

"What!" Chareaux exclaimed, blinking in confusion. "What do you mean by
cool?"

"That's the word he used." Jacall shook his head. "Maybe the pilot is okay, so that means that the man in the truck might not be a government agent after all."

"Not an agent?"

"Alex, if this is true, you must stop Butch before—"

But Alex Chareaux was already out of the living room and running for the door.

"Butch, wait!" Chareaux yelled out in the darkness, and then kept on running until he was at the doorway of the dimly lit warehouse, looking around with the long folding knife still in his hand.

"Over here," a voice whispered weakly on the opposite side of the truck, and Chareaux moved quickly, coming around the back of the truck, the knife blade exposed and ready, only to see Henry Allen Lightner sitting on the floor of the warehouse, leaning back against a steel I-beam pillar that was about three feet away from the back of the truck.

To Chareaux's absolute amazement, Lightner was holding his blood- soaked shirt against the bloodied and swollen face of Butch Chareaux, who was sprawled out on the floor with his head in Lightner's lap.

"What happened?" Alex Chareaux demanded, dropping down to his knees and staring first at his unconscious brother and then at the equally blood-streaked face of Henry Lightner.

"He was trying to help me out of the truck," Lightstone explained in a weak whisper, "but he slipped in the blood, and I think his foot caught under the bear-—" Lightstone pointed over at the bear carcass that was hanging half out of the truck. "He couldn't catch himself and he fell and hit his head on this post. Sounded like he hit it hard. Like a goddamn melon," he added, laying his own aching head back against the solid pillar.

"Is he alive?" Chareaux asked as he felt for a pulse, still disoriented by the sight of his brother sprawled out on the floor.

"Yeah, he's breathing, but I think
..."
Lightstone paused to catch his breath. "I think he's hurt pretty bad. Need to get him some help. Tried to call you guys, phone over there," he mumbled, making a weak gesture in the general direction of the wall phone, "but I couldn't figure . . . how to call the house. Kept getting a busy signal. Thought you'd never get here."

"We have to get him to a doctor," Chareaux said, his mind racing as he tried to keep all of the confusing pieces together.

"No, it's okay," Lightstone mumbled softly, looking as though he was about ready to slip back into unconsciousness at any moment.
"
Already
..."

"What? What did you say?" Chareaux demanded, bending down closer to try to hear what Lightner was saying.

"I said I already
..."
Lightstone tried again, but his words were drowned out by the sounds of the paramedic truck that came roaring into the driveway and headed directly toward the open warehouse door with all lights and sirens blazing, closely followed by a fire rescue truck and two sheriffs' patrol cars.

". . . called them for you," Henry Lightstone finished, smiling weakly up at the stunned and shocked face of Alex Chareaux.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Monday June 3rd

At precisely ten thirty-five hours on the following morning, in the armor-plated control room that overlooked the Whitehorse Training Center's expansive underground LIFET (Live Fire, Evasive Target) Range, Dr. Reston Wolfe was standing next to Lisa Abercombie and Command Sergeant Major Clarence MacDonald when an aide quietly entered and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yes?" Wolfe said absentmindedly, keeping his eyes focused on the bank of color monitors mounted on the far wall.

"Phone call, sir."

"Who is it?"

Wolfe wasn't the least bit interested in taking a phone call just then. He had been watching live-fire exercises by integrated German, Japanese, and American ICER teams through the bulletproof observation windows and the banks of color monitors since eight o'clock that morning, and was far from tired of it. Each of the increasingly complex exercises had been fun to watch from the safety of the protected booth (a considerable improvement over the tiny tree platform on Tom Frank's West Texas hunting ranch, he reminded himself.) It was the follow-up to yesterday's highly successful late-afternoon hunt.

"It's your message service, sir."

Wolfe continued to ignore the young aide, thinking instead about the growing heat from Abercombie's body as she stood close to him, lost in the drama being displayed on the screens before them.

"Ah,
sir ..."

Both Wolfe and Abercombie were now focusing their attention on the oversized monitor in the far corner of the control room that was showing—in slow motion and from the robotic target's point of view— Gerd Maas, in night-vision assault gear, diving into a darkened room, twisting away to avoid the small, high-velocity, paint-pellet rounds and then "killing" the humanoid target with a single shot to the forehead.

"Tell them that I will take my messages when the exercise is completed," Wolfe said firmly as he shifted his gaze over to the adjacent monitor, which was replaying the humanoid robot's futile efforts to track its target—the white-bearded Maas—at its programmed but clearly limited "human reaction" speeds before its finely tuned servo motors went dead in response to the kill shot.

Caught up in the simulated drama on the color monitor, Lisa Abercombie brushed her arm up against Wolfe and briefly squeezed his wrist.

"I tried to tell them that, sir," the aide said in a quiet, differential tone, "but apparently one of the people who called in was very insistent. He wants to talk to you immediately."

"After
we're finished here," Wolfe said emphatically, determined not to leave Lisa Abercombie's side.

Not now.

Not when she was clearly starting to comprehend the nature of the ICER team that
he
had put together.

"I'm supposed to tell you that the caller's name is Alex and that the message appears to be very important, sir," the aide said, standing his ground.

Wolfe blinked and turned to look at his nervous but still determined young assistant.

"When did he call?"

"At quarter after ten this morning."

"Do you know what the message is about?"

"No sir, I don't. All I know is that the call is from Alex and that it's
very
important."

Wolfe turned to Lisa Abercombie. "I have to go," he whispered. "I'll be back in a few minutes." He quickly followed the aide out the door, oblivious of the fact that Abercombie—her dark eyes still glued to the monitors—had barely noticed his departure.

Hurrying into one of the small offices adjacent to the much larger command-and-observation center, Wolfe closed the door behind him and immediately reached for the phone.

"This is Wolfe," he spoke into the mouthpiece. "I understand you have something for me?"

Then Reston Wolfe stood in absolute silence, the color draining out of his face, as the duty operator carefully repeated Alex Chareaux's message, word for threatening word.

At precisely twelve thirty that afternoon, Executive Director Reston Wolfe and Special Executive Assistant Lisa Abercombie ran to the helicopter that was waiting to transport them immediately from Whitehorse Cabin to the Bozeman Airport, where—at that very moment—a private jet was being fueled for a nonstop flight to Washington National Airport.

Command Sergeant Major Clarence MacDonald and Master Gunnery Sergeant Gary Brickard stood at the edge of the heliport, watching through the rain.

To MacDonald's left, a ground controller held a pair of red signaling lights in his outstretched hands as he talked through his helmet microphone to the pilot of the jet Ranger.

"Flight Yankee Four, this is Whiskey-Charlie One. All priority passengers are now on board."

"Roger, Whiskey-Charlie One," the pilot responded as the cabin door of the Bell Ranger was pulled shut and the speed of the sweeping rotor blades began to increase. "We've got a couple of extra seats. Anybody else out there want a ride into town?"

The controller looked at MacDonald and Brickard, who were monitoring the radio traffic with hand-held radios. Both men shook their heads.

"Whiskey-Charlie One to Yankee Four, that's a negative," the ground controller responded. "Lousy day to fly."

"Roger that," the combat-qualified pilot acknowledged. "Flight Yankee Four requesting clearance for takeoff according to flight plan. Directional heading zero-niner- zero. Climbing immediately to fifteen thousand feet. Final heading three-three-zero."

The ground controller switched frequencies on his short-range helmet radio to consult with his counterpart, who was manning Whitehorse Cabin's concealed radar system, and then switched back over to the pilot of the Bell Ranger. The controller was acting as the go-between in order to minimize control-tower radio transmissions—much more powerful and therefore more easily detected and monitored by other planes or stations.

"Whiskey-Charlie One to Yankee Four, be advised that there is negative traffic in the immediate area. Just you and the ducks. You are clear for takeoff, zero-niner-zero, fifteen thousand, final heading three- three-zero. Repeat, you are clear for takeoff."

Then, after receiving a thumb's-up from the pilot, the controller used his signaling lights to send the powerful aircraft rotating up and outward into the dark, cloud-filled sky.

"Any idea of what that's all about?" Brickard asked as the two veteran soldiers secured their radios and began walking back to the main cabin, completely unmindful of the lightly falling rain.

MacDonald shook his head. "They've been using a scrambled T1 line to communicate with the outside, but I got the distinct impression that our executive director received some bad news this morning."

"Yeah, I thought he looked a little pale," Brickard observed. "Think maybe the rabbit died?"

"Tell you the truth, I don't think a rabbit would last five seconds with those two," MacDonald grunted. "You see the artillery they came back with last night?"

"Yeah, they dropped it all off with Thomas. Told him they wanted everything cleaned and ready for tomorrow." Brickard chuckled. "Way I heard it, John was just about ready to tell them to blow it out their ass when he saw the make on the double barrel. Guess he'd never held a rifle before that cost more than his house."

"A three-seven-five Rigby and a four-sixteen Holland and Holland." MacDonald shook his head. "That's a lot of firepower for a couple of desk jockeys."

"Yeah, especially when they come back at twenty-three hundred hours with blood and hair all over their brand-new cammies."

"No shit?"

"Dumped everything in the laundry," Brickard nodded. "Same instructions. Wanted everything ready for tomorrow."

"Gonna turn old John-boy into a pretty good butler at this rate," MacDonald commented. "He run a wash this morning?"

"Yep, sure did. Everything washed, folded, and stacked on their beds, just like they were a couple of brigadiers. Only thing is, John kinda made a mistake and washed a couple of brand-new sets instead. Hell of a job though. Can hardly tell they just come off the shelf." Brickard smiled.

"What did he do with the dirty ones?"

"I told him to wrap 'em up in brown paper bags and put 'em in the freezer, hair and all."

"Think it's going to tell us anything?"

"I don't know," Brickard shrugged. "But I've got a buddy who works in the Army Crime Lab in Georgia. Thought I might give him a call, see what he can figure out with all those fancy microscopes and shit."

"Might turn out to be useful," MacDonald nodded. "Sure as hell can't hurt."

"You really think they're doing something illegal?"

"Gunny, I've got some serious doubts about this entire operation, but what do I know?" MacDonald snorted. "Hell, I'm still trying to figure out who the bad guys are in this deal."

"I sure as hell wouldn't want to take these ICER characters on in a fair fight," Brickard said. "You see the latest computer scores?"

"No, how'd it go?"

"For the most part, pretty much the way we expected. Osan, Saltmann, and Aben were way up there with two- point-seven, two-point- eight, and three-point-one. Everyone else is in a pretty tight group from one-point-eight to two-point-six."

"Two-seven for Osan? That's a hell of an improvement," MacDonald commented.

"Yeah, she's quiet, but she learns quick," Brickard agreed. "Which reminds me, I think Kobayashi's in love. Osan tagged him this morning with a reverse back fist coming out of a spin kick. Nearly took his head off. Never saw him smile like that."