Hunter

Chapter 1

"Vicious little beasts, aren't they?"

The words, spoken with ominous disaster, came from a white-haired old man in a white lab coat. Seated patiently, he watched as a host of red army ants, some as large as his thumb, attacked what he had dispassionately dropped into the aquarium. The ants overwhelmed the rat in seconds, killing it almost instantly with venom, then devouring it. In three minutes a haggard skeleton was all that remained.

Dr. Angus Tipler clicked a stopwatch, staring down. "Yes," he frowned, "utterly vicious."

He turned to others in the laboratory of the Tipler Institute, the leading crypto-zoological foundation in the world. His face portrayed consternation. "What are we to do with them?" he asked, almost to himself. "They kill with venom long before they dismember their prey." He looked back. "Yes, and so we must therefore devise some type of… serum, if for no other reason so that people will stop bothering us all the time. Has anyone concluded the molecular weight of the poison?"

A woman bent over an enormous electron microscope positioned neatly in the center of the room muttered in reply. "Not yet, Doctor. I need another minute."

Dr. Tipler said nothing as he turned back to the aquarium where the ants were safely — very safely — contained. The rest of the laboratory was filled with virtually every poisonous animal in the world, insect and mammal and reptile. There were black scorpions, Indian cobras, adders and stonefish, brown recluse spiders and the lethal Sydney funnel web, the most dangerous spider in the world. A single unfelt bite from the tiny arachnid would kill a full-grown man within a day. It was Tipler himself who had created the anti-venom.

"It seems this venom is neuromuscular in nature," he said in a raspy, harsh voice into a recorder. He waved off the video technician who had recorded the grisly episode. "The venom, no matter the location of injection, seems to infiltrate the ligamentum denticulatum, thereby bridging the pons Varolii to decussate the involuntary respiratory abilities of the medulla oblongata. Now, if we can—"

"Dr. Tipler?"

Tipler raised bushy white eyebrows as he turned, seeing a young woman scientist with long black hair. The Asian woman was obviously apprehensive at the intrusion, despite the old man's well-known patient nature.

"Yes, Gina?" His voice was gentle. "What is it?"

"There are some men to see you, sir."

Tipler laughed, waving a hand as he turned away. "There are always men to see me, lass. Tell them to wait. The commissary should still be open. They serve an excellent roast chicken. It is my best recommendation."

"I don't think these men will wait, sir." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. Her eyes widened slightly. "There are three of them, and they're wearing uniforms."

Tipler barked a short laugh. "Uniforms! What sort of uniforms?"

"Army uniforms, sir."

Tipler laughed again and shook his head as he rose. "All right, Gina. Assist Rebecca in discovering the molecular weight of this venom. And, also, if you would be so kind, extract venom from, oh… let's say fifty of these infernal creatures. Just sedate them with chloroform and use the electroshock method — the same procedure we use for the black widows." He removed his glasses with a sigh and stood up. "And I will deal with these impatient men in uniforms."

"Yes, sir. They're waiting in the observation room."

"Thank you, lass."

Upon seeing the three, Dr. Tipler stopped short. He had been told often enough that, upon first impression, he was not an imposing figure, so he had no illusions. At seventy-two years of age he was short and thick with a wide brow and snowy hair laid back from the forehead. But he knew that his eyes, blue like Arctic ice, distinguished him from other men both with their startling color and their equally startling intelligence. And equally their quickness to perceive the heart of a mystery. And it was that perceptiveness, a blending of art, science and intuition that had made the world's eminent paleontologist and crypto-zoologist.

Crypto-zoology was in itself an almost unknown area of biological expertise. Fewer than a dozen distinguished scientists in the world practiced it with any measure of dedication. And, for the most part, few scientists realized that it was practiced at all. But, in essence, it was a systematic and highly rigid system of investigation designed to determine whether species thought to be extinct still inhabited the planet.

Tipler had known significant success in various stages of his career, discovering the last surviving Atacama condors in the Andes Mountains of Chile in 1983, and later discovering a species identified as the blind stonefish, off the northern coast of Greenland. The deep-water fish had been thought extinct since the Paleolithic Period, but Tipler had pieced together a theory that they still existed in the south-flowing East Greenland Current, which drew directly from the Arctic Sea. He held even further suspicions that the fish existed higher in the Arctic Circle, protected by the vast ice caps of the pole. But a lack of funding had prevented further exploration.

However, his startling discoveries had earned him a modest measure of global recognition, which consequently delivered the attention of several wealthy philanthropists who deemed his unique nonprofit enterprise worthy of endorsement. So, with significant funding and a larger, better-trained staff, he had founded the Tipler Institute. Now, a decade later, he was recognized universally as the world's leading expert on unknown species, and their extinction or survival. Along the way he had also gained significant exposure to deadly snakes, fish, and spiders and discovered, to his own surprise, that he had a remarkable acumen for pinpointing the molecular characteristics of each type of venom.

Studying venom was, at first, simply a means of aiding those few medical institutions already overwhelmed trying to keep apace with the new strains of poison. But through a working relationship with the Centers for Disease Control, Tipler also joined the crusade, synthesizing over a dozen effective anti-venoms over the past decade. Nor did he find it distracting. Although he was an increasingly sought-after author, lecturer, and researcher, his greatest pleasure remained the simple pursuit of biological science.

From time to time, however, agencies not academic had sought his aid. And he had assisted. Once the Central Intelligence Agency had requested that he do what their physicists could not; develop a counteracting agent for a deadly poison in use by Middle Eastern countries. Tipler had succeeded and consequently heard no more of it. And last, the U.S. Army had asked him, rather sternly, if he could not identify a substance in their own anti-germ warfare serums that tended to incapacitate soldiers. In this, too, Tipler was successful, and modifications were made in the synthesis of the serums. Again, he heard no more of it. Yet he knew they would return, as they had.

A thin smile creased his squared face.

Before him, he knew from his World War II days as an infantryman, was an army lieutenant colonel, whose rank he identified from the silver oak leaves on his uniform. There was another man in uniform, a major, and an unknown representative who wore nondescript civilian clothes. But, as always, it was the man in civilian clothes who commanded Tipler's attention, for he was accustomed to subterfuge. Tipler greeted them as the man in the rear silently lit a cigarette, settling into a chair.

"Dr. Tipler, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Bob Maddox," the short, gray-haired man said distinctly. "This is Major Preston Westcott. And that" — the colonel gestured vaguely—"is Mr. Dixon. He's a liaison with the Department of the Interior."

Tipler smiled as he weighed the colonel; the army officer carried himself with an air of indisputable authority, as if his self-worth relied upon his rank. His insignia were so highly polished they couldn't be overlooked, even by civilians. His face was slightly pudgy and his stomach strained against his uniform. He held his hands behind his back as he spoke. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Doctor. I assure you that we won't take up too much of your time."

Something in the voice intimated to Dr. Tipler that he had no choice in the matter, but he revealed nothing as he moved to sit at a table directly opposite the mysterious Mr. Dixon. "Oh, I am always ready to assist the military, Colonel," he said with exacting courtesy. "In fact, as you are probably aware, I just finished working with an army research team to design new protocols for Arctic survival. So please, continue."

Maddox was obviously in charge, Tipler realized, and Prescott was present to verify the meeting or take mental notes. He hadn't yet concluded a purpose for Dixon.

"That's part of the reason we're here — your experience in the Arctic. We also understand that you're the world's leading authority on crypto-zoology." Maddox strolled before the table. "So we hoped you'd be able to help us with… a situation."

Tipler decided to play their game for now. He did not look at Mr. Dixon. "Perhaps," he replied casually.

Clearly, Maddox was proceeding with caution. "Doctor, we would like to ask you some questions about species of predators found in the Arctic Circle. Specifically, species that inhabit the deep interior of Alaska and the North Face region." He stepped forward, almost delicately. "Recently we lost several members of an elite military training squad to an animal. They were killed. And we want to determine what manner of animal it was."

Tipler absorbed it without expression.

"Surely," Tipler said finally, "Alaskan wildlife officials can be of more use to you than an old gaffer such as myself. And I am not certain in what aspect my credentials in crypto-zoology are related. Crypto-zoology is the study of animals long presumed to be extinct but which are, in fact, not. Such as some of the marine reptiles like the one the Japanese fishing vessel, the Zuiyo Mam, snagged on a line nine hundred feet below the surface of the Pacific near Christchurch, New Zealand, in 1977. Or," Tipler could not resist adding, "perhaps like the beast of unknown species that attacked the U.S.S. Stern in the early 'eighties, disabling its sonar system with hundreds of teeth driven deeply in the steel. It was documented with the Department of the Navy and the ship was examined by the Naval Oceans Center. They reached the fascinating conclusion that damage to the sonar was caused by the attack of a large and unknown ocean-dwelling species."

Maddox stood in silence. His face tightened. "Yes, Doctor. We are aware of those incidents. It is certainly verification of…something. But those cases are not why we have come."

"I presumed." Tipler smiled. "So, shall we get to the reason? I am a bit overwhelmed by my work."

Gravely, even apprehensively, Maddox laid a gory series of full-sized color photographs on the table. And Tipler precisely set glasses on his nose, leaning on broad hands to examine them. So total was his concentration, it was as if, in seconds, he had physically removed himself from the room.

The old man made no sound as he studied the photographs, but his brow hardened frame by frame. His lips pursed slightly and he began to take more time with each, returning often to the first, beginning over. Finally he lifted a single eight-by-ten and studied it inches from his face, peering at the details. "Colonel," he said, casting a slow gaze over the massacred bodies. "These wounds, were they all inflicted by the same creature?"

There was no hesitation. "Yes."

"You are certain of this?"

"Yes, Doctor, we are certain."

"And how can you be certain? In science, certainty is determined by exceedingly strict criteria."

Maddox grimaced slightly. "There were obscured video images. Nothing too revealing, but it gave us glimpses of whatever this was. We couldn't make out the species. And, despite what I said earlier, we can't be, uh, absolutely certain on whether it was one or two of them. It's just that the evidence, except for some of these photographs, seems to indicate that."

Without reply, Tipler shifted several of the photographs of massacred soldiers until he had the most vivid, the ghastliest. He placed a hand on it and touched the image of wounds as delicately as if the soldier were before him. Finally, he mumbled, "This is not the work of Ursus arctos horribilis."

Clearly, Maddox was trying to be patient. "Could you be more specific, Doctor?"

"This is not the work of a… a grizzly." Tipler was again staring at the photo he had lifted, a close-up image of tracks leading across hard sand. The elongated footprints moved in a straight run down a strand to disappear in the distance, but some of the tracks were disjointed, as far as three feet to the side. It was not a straight line of tracks, though clearly the creature had been running straight. Rocks littered the stream.

"Now… " the old man continued in a genuine tone of confusion, "this is somewhat curious."

"What?" Maddox asked.

"The way that the tracks are broken."

"That's what our own trackers said, Doctor. I mean, despite the cameras, we want to know about this. Do you think there could be two of them?"

Tipler took a long time to consider. "I am not an expert in tracking, Colonel Maddox. I cannot say. But I do not think that there were two creatures involved in this… this catastrophe."

"Then how do you explain the way some tracks are so far to the side from others?"

"As I said, sir, I cannot explain such a phenomenon."

Maddox concentrated. "You're certain this isn't the work of a grizzly, Doctor? Or maybe a polar bear? A tiger, maybe?"

"No, not a grizzly, nor a brown bear," the professor expounded in a low tone. "For one matter, a grizzly has five claws. And whatever did this had four predominant claws, and a smaller one. But the paw print is distinctly…humanoid. Now this," he paused, "is damn peculiar." A long silence lengthened. "No, gentlemen, not a bear of any kind. Perhaps them tigers could have caused this much carnage to your team, but the tracks are… just… they just appear to me to be somewhat too manlike. In fact, far too manlike."

"But clearly no human being could do something like this, Doctor." Dixon spoke for the first time.

Tipler raised his eyes, gazing over bifocals. "I would not make a determination of any fact until I had obtained the information necessary to make the determination of that fact, Mr. Dixon." He smiled. "That is the discipline of science."

Dixon leaned back, smoked in silence.

The army officials were, indeed, leaning forward as Tipler raised a magnifying glass from his pocket, studying the photograph more closely. Finally he lowered it with the glass, but continued to stare profoundly. His voice was quiet. "These tracks… how far did your men follow them, gentlemen?"

"Why?" Maddox asked.

"Because they do not 'register.' "

"Register?" the colonel asked. "What does that mean?"

"They… they are not in line." The scientist gestured. "A tiger, which is the only terrestrial beast that could have struck with such fury, registers when it walks or runs. Which is to say that both paws on the left side are in a line, as they are on the right. There should be two paw prints set closely together, in a straight line, left side and right side. And, clearly, they are not the tracks of a grizzly, though they resemble one in size."

"Yes," Maddox said. "Our military trackers told us that. But they lost the trail when it moved to high ground. They said no one can track across rock. This animal seemed to know it was being hunted."

"Most creatures are more intelligent than we presume, Colonel," Tipler replied, casting a narrow glance at Dixon, who was smoking quietly. "No," Tipler added finally. "It was not a tiger. The fury of the attack is commensurate with a tiger, but it is not feline or canine. Nor is a larger species of Ursus. No. Whatever did this… was distinctly bipedal."

They waited, but the old man merely placed his glasses back in his lab coat pocket. Then he bridged his fingers, capping them, allowing them to continue the conversation.

"Bipedal?" Dixon asked without friendliness. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

"Quite probably," Tipler smiled. "It means that whatever killed your men walks on two legs, Mr. Dixon."

"That's preposterous." Dixon leaned back again. "Humans are the only animal that walks on two legs, Doctor. What do you suggest left these tracks? Bigfoot? This thing must have been registering. It's just that the tracks are too difficult to read."

"Difficult, yes," Tipler scowled. "But not impossible. Is that why you called me here? Because your men have already told you that they know of no creature that could have done this? And now you wish to know if, perhaps, there is an undiscovered species?"

"To be honest, I'll admit it occurred to us," Maddox replied. "And let me add that this is a situation of some seriousness, Doctor. We've got dead soldiers near secure facilities and we want to know how they died. We want to know why they died."

Tipler gazed over the photos of carnage. "I cannot give you the answer, gentlemen," he said finally. "There were species of beasts that are presumed to have been exterminated hundreds of thousands of years ago, yet we still find evidence of their continuing existence. But I am not familiar with this paw print, or footprint." He paused and strolled a short distance away before turning back. "In order to answer your question — to even attempt to answer your question — we would need a scientific expedition, saliva samples, blood samples, plaster casts of the prints, hair samples, video surveillance records. If you are willing to fund an expedi-"

"We can't do that." Dixon stood up. "There are factors which preclude that option. We just wanted your best opinion, Doctor." He paused for effect. "We still do."

Tipler held the stare.

"My best opinion, Mr. Dixon, is that whatever did this has the strength of a grizzly, the speed of a Siberian tiger and, quite probably, the stalking skills of a tiger. Which happens to be the most skilled predator on Earth. Further, if it managed to evade the initial pursuit of your military, I would confidently surmise that it has unnatural intelligence."

"So," Maddox asked, asserting some kind of vague authority, "what do you think it is? I want your best guess."

Tipler sighed once more and glanced at a photo of the tracks. "Your best guess will be revealed by these tracks, Mr. Dixon. But I don't understand why some of them" — he pointed at several—"are so far to the left of these others. It makes no sense that I can see."

They exchanged glances as the old man stared over them. Then, after a moment, they began wordlessly gathering papers.

"Will you be hunting this beast again?" the scientist asked, interested.

"Yes," Maddox replied solidly. "We will."

"Then I suggest you find a man who can possibly track it," said Tipler.

He hesitated, as if scientific passion and personal loyalty were competing with something more hidden, staring at the photograph.

"I know the man," he said softly, "who could do this? If anyone could. But I do not know if he will cooperate. He has his own reasons… for why he does things."

Maddox stepped forward. "Who is he?"

Tipler stared slightly to the side, brow furrowed.

"His name," he said finally, "is Nathaniel Hunter."