Hunter

Chapter 5

As they descended the slope it seemed unseasonably hot — a blinding sun blazing in a sky beyond blue — and Hunter felt his blood whitening with adrenaline as he tracked claw marks on stone.

By the time he and Ghost reached the base of the ravine he had already regressed to a pure and primal state of being. He was only dimly aware of Bobbi Jo moving quietly a few steps behind him.

He knew the others were farther back, letting him do his job, holding him with a measure of contempt because they believed no one could do this job as well as the military. But it was enough that they moved without speaking because animals — including their prey — would instantly pick up the alien sounds. And in this terrestrial environment the sound of a soft human voice would have the same effect as a shotgun blast.

No, they had to move as silently as possible if he was going to pick up anything from the forest itself. But he felt slight reassurance because of Takakura s presence. The team leader seemed ready to give unqualified cooperation. For now.

At the base of the slope, Hunter raised a hand and Bobbi Jo stopped, crouching quietly. Then Hunter himself crouched, studying the muddy ground, measuring its solidity, its composition, water-grade level — a dozen elements that would reveal to him a great deal more when he found this things prints.

Overall there was little growth in the area, only scattered vegetation. Scanning, he found a slight pool of water as large as his foot. But only one: a single depression. He placed a hand down to feel the slight ridges concealed by the muddy water.

It was the right age for a track; maybe a day. But the water had already eroded what was important so he would have to go without a direction. Bobbi Jo was moving so silently behind him, despite her boots, that he had almost forgotten she was there. He turned, motioned for her to move to the left, and he moved to the right. Together, twenty feet apart, they entered a long, wide glade covered with tall grass.

It took Hunter five minutes to find the second track angling on slightly higher ground. But it, too, was in poor condition from drainage. It was covered with leaves and he almost missed it but for the deep slicing of claw marks left in the harder soil. Those had not been eradicated by the storm and remained readable.

He turned, looking still and straight at Bobbi Jo, waiting to see if she would peripherally catch his sudden lack of movement, and she did. Slowly, she turned her head and he nodded once.

Not having sight or scent of prey, Ghost roved close behind him, sniffing, searching unsuccessfully.

Hunter moved up the slope and bent to study the old track. He was feeling a slight frustration. There was one long row of a forward pad with claws digging deep for traction, and what resembled the impression of a human heel. The next track on the slope — the left foot — was more than twenty feet away.

This thing had leaped twenty feet with a stride.

No way…

No way that it could have done that…

Even a tiger would have had trouble covering more than five feet on this slope. And it gave Hunter pause, forcing him to recheck, to make sure he hadn't missed anything. But after careful study he was certain. No, the forest doesn't care what you want or what you want to believe…

Clearly this thing had leaped twenty feet.

Hunter tried to convince himself that it was only a temporary strength induced from the overflow of adrenaline that had been coursing through its system at the time. And when Bobbi Jo came up close, he moved forward again. He still couldn't identify the print, but knew it wasn't anything he had seen before.

Maybe something he never wanted to see.

At the Tipler Institute of Crypto-zoology and Paleontology, Rebecca Tanus and Gina Gilbert stared side by side, hands resting on chins, at the plaster cast that had been couriered to them by a military official. The cast, almost sixteen inches long, rested on the table. Their faces only barely concealed the fact that they were profoundly confused.

Rebecca, laboratory director until the return of Dr. Tipler, sighed. "I have a doctorate from Cambridge in ecosystems, a master's in paleontology. I graduated first in my class in historical geology and molecular theory of fossilization. I've spent a year at the most prestigious institute on earth under the tutelage of the greatest paleontologist of our age." She paused, her face only inches from the cast. "And I don't have the foggiest idea what this is."

Gina said nothing; silence lengthened.

With a quick breath that blew a lock of auburn hair out of her eyes, Rebecca continued, "Good grief, Gina. I don't even know where to start." She pondered it, tapping a foot. "Well, it looks human. But it has five non-retractable claws. So, it has claws, ergo — it's not human."

"No," Gina mumbled. "It's not human. But, then, it's not an animal. Because it looks human."

"Uh-huh," Rebecca murmured. She began tapping the table. "So…it's not human. And it's not animal." Her smile had no humor. "I guess that doesn't really leave us a lot to consider, does it?"

Again, silence.

"Okay." Rebecca roused herself. "Let's try and think like the doc. When he can't identify a fossil, he categorizes it according to the number and shape of appendages, size, location, and age. He places it in a category or phylum and begins to find its family. Then he works down from there. Usually it's a related species of some determined genus we're only vaguely familiar with."

Gina joined in. "Okay. Let's do that. Species: Homo sapiens. Age: One week old."

Silence.

"Well, that didn't really get us very far," the older woman mused. "Look at these." She pointed with a pencil. "Those are five single claws. Big ones, too. Five clawed appendages on what appears to be the foot of a species related to Homo sapiens. Not too likely. So what other species has five appendages?"

Gina didn't really need to think. "Well, there's Homo-habilis, Homo erectus. Then there's apes and big cats and bears — grizzly, Kodiak, brown and black — and, oh, most of the lower terrestrial mammals like wolverine, raccoon, chipmunk, squirrel, porcupine—" Her voice assumed a droning tone. "Then there's beaver, mink, skunk, badgers—"

"Okay, okay." Rebecca cut her a glance. "I got it already."

Neither spoke for a while.

"This is what we'll do," Rebecca started. "We know what it isn't, right? So we'll begin at zero and assume it's an unknown species."

"Like the old man does."

"Yeah, like Doc does. We'll take this and run a phosphorescent scan on it for any tracings that might have been picked up by the plaster. The plaster is already contaminated, so unless we find an actual hair or trace of hemoglobin, we'll never get a DNA trace. But let's look for it anyway. We'll start at the top of the list and work down. Then we'll worry about classifying it."

"Just go by procedure," Gina chimed in.

"Right. Just go by procedure. Like the doc says. But this is a rush job so put everything else on hold." Rebecca stood as she spoke, staring down at the mystery. "If we find a piece of this thing no bigger than a grain of sand, we own him."

"Chaney!"

Asleep at his desk at the U.S. Marshals Service in Washington, Chaney raised bloodshot eyes. He saw the haggard face of Marshal Hank Vincent, or "Skull" as they called him for his merciless expression, approaching. He could see that Skull held an expense voucher in his hand, crumbling it into a tight wad.

Chaney muttered, "Oh, shit."

Suddenly finding themselves needed elsewhere, a dozen Deputy U.S. Marshals surrounding Chaney's desk began wandering in separate directions. With a remarkable air of calm, Chaney said, "Hey, Chief, I was just about to talk to you about that little—"

Skull held the voucher before Chaney's face. "Explain to me," he said carefully, "how you can spend five thousand dollars on gas in a single month when you never left the city? I want to hear this one. It's got to be a classic."

"Travel expenses, boss."

"Travel expenses?" Skull stared, as if he'd never heard the term. "Travel expenses? Is that the best you can do?" He pointed. "I want to see you in my office." Without waiting for a reply he turned away.

Chaney rose slowly, making a vague attempt to straighten his tie. Then to a chorus of murmured "good lucks" he walked slowly into Marshal Vincent's office, quietly closing the door. He stood with hands clasped, all dignity, and Skull stared back. Slowly, after a moment, the marshal shook his head. A thin smile creased his lips. It was a rare moment. He tossed the voucher on the desk and leaned back, shaking his head.

"So, travel expenses," he said finally. "But then you busted that cartel last week didn't you, Chaney? Arrested Lau Tai when he was cutting one of his better deals."

Chaney nodded, then looked away slightly as Skull lifted another invoice. "Says here that you maxed out your snitch allotment almost six weeks ago. How long you been working that case?"

"Six months, sir."

"So how did you buy off your snitches in the last month to find the location of the deal?"

After a pause, Chaney said, "Well, boss, I relied upon creativity and resourcefulness. Like we're supposed to."

At that, Skull actually smiled. "Yeah, Chaney, I'll bet you did." He waited a moment, barked a short laugh. "That," he motioned to the door, "is called 'street theater.' I did it because everyone knows what you did and I don't want them following your example.

"You took a big chance, Chaney, and you pulled it off. But you pulled it off only because of your street contacts, and there's not too many that have that. It's a forgotten art. So someone like you could take a chance and win. But the rest shouldn't even try." He frowned a little. "Some of them would, you know. They'd go for broke, spend the money, and still not get their puke. Then they'd burn for it. Even worse, I'd have to burn them for it. 'Cause I wouldn't be able to protect them."

Skull waited; Chaney was silent.

"You know." Skull contemplated a pen. "I caught some heat over that Lau arrest."

"Heat over it? Why? It was a good snag."

" 'Cause Lau was the responsibility of the DEA." Skull gestured with the pen as if, in truth, he really didn't give a damn. "Jurisdictional disputes…that sort of thing."

"He was a known fugitive from justice, boss."

"Then he fell under our people in the Fugitive Program," Skull said, suddenly more serious. "Hell, Chaney, you're in intelligence and counter-intelligence. You were supposed to be investigating whether there was a current covert American intelligence operative working with the Golden Triangle heroin bands, not chasing rucking Lau. If you hadn't used your own special brand of creative writing in your weekly reports, I would have been on you a lot sooner. And to make it worse, the FBI is saying that you violated Lau's rights because you interrogated him pretty rough, trying to make him spit out his contacts. Then, cherry on the cake, he claims you didn't even read him his rights." He paused. "They're saying that you blew the entire arrest and that we can't charge him at all. They want a formal investigation."

Chaney revealed nothing but strolled forward to gently touch the desk nameplate. It was dark maple with "Marshal Hank Vincent" stamped squarely in the gold plate.

"Well, you know, boss," he began, "we don't need to charge Lau for this crime. He's a fugitive from justice with three other federal convictions. If he hadn't escaped from Lompoc, he was gonna do another fifty years without possibility of parole. Which he will, as soon as I escort him back. I admit, uh, that I interviewed him alone, and I may have even forgotten to read him all his rights, but now we have the names of all his American contacts." Chaney hesitated, shrugged. "We can make a dent with this information, boss. It was a good snag."

Skull crossed his arms. "And he wound up at the ER because…?"

Raising hands to the sides, Chaney responded, "Well, hell, he resisted arrest. Simple as that."

"Uh-huh." Skull let the moment hang. "I'll take care of the college boys, Chaney. I'll tell them we're not initiating any Article 31 investigation, and if they don't like it, they can kiss my freckled butt." He shuffled papers. "All right, I've got another assignment for you. I want you on it right away."

Chaney was silent. It was one of his habits, when speaking to superiors, to say as little as possible. He figured it was hard to incriminate yourself when you don't talk, though he often rode the crest between caution and rudeness.

"This is it." Skull laid the file out. "It seems that we've had a military incident up in Alaska that—"

"The army?" Chaney looked up. He couldn't conceal his surprise. "They have their own marshals. What does that have to do with us?"

"Just hear me out." Skull gestured, uncommonly patient. "It seems that some oh-so-slightly more than classified research stations have had some serious trouble. Like dead people. A bunch of them. I want you to look into it."

"Why me? More important, why us?"

Skull said nothing for a moment, then rose slowly to stare out the window behind his desk. In the distance Chaney saw traffic moving slowly along the Beltway, which bordered the rear of the facility.

"Because some of our friends in Congress are worried about a rumor that the research stations may have been doing some off-the-books biological warfare research," Skull said finally. "That's not the jurisdiction of the FBI. It's not our jurisdiction, either. But the Hill wants us to take it."

"And you want me to take it?"

"Yes."

There was something about this that Chaney didn't like at all.

"Well, just what, exactly, am I supposed to investigate? I don't know anything about biological warfare. I wouldn't know a cold virus from Ebola. I could be up there investigating for a year and not find anything that—"

"Your assignment is in Washington," Skull said.

Chaney didn't even try to conceal what he felt. "Washington?" he asked slowly; the pause lasted a long time as he studied Skull's downcast face. "What's going on here, Marshal?"

For a long time, Skull was silent.

"Chaney, if someone is using government resources to develop biological weapons illegally, then that means people at the highest levels are involved in covert activity that directly countermands not only the mandates of the President but the 1972 United Nations agreement prohibiting the experimental development of such weapons systems." He paused. "I presume you understand the implications of that?"

A cold feeling settled on Chaney's spine. "Yeah, I understand. So you want me to investigate the Pentagon, the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency to determine if they're running a black operation in direct contravention of a presidential directive."

Skull nodded.

Chaney took his time to respond.

"All right," he said finally. "But I'll have to go outside procedures for this. Way outside. I want unlimited funds and my own crew, all of 'em handpicked by me. I also want written preceding authority to travel wherever I want, both me and my crew. And I want my own check vouchers." He was studious. "Plus, I want marshals in each district instructed that they will cooperate with me without hesitation, no matter what my requests entail. And, no offense, boss, but I want all that in writing or you can give the job to someone else." Chaney nodded. "That's my deal. You know what you're asking me to do."

The words hung heavy in the air.

Skull was obviously reluctant. "You've never let me down, Chaney. But I'll have to clear something like that with the Chief."

"Take all the time you want. We can talk about what a jerk I am later. If I live." Moving away, he paused at the door as Skull called after him.

"Hey, Chaney."

Chaney turned back.

"You asked why I selected you for this job." Skull's gaze never left Chaney's face. "The reason is simple. I got lots of guys smart enough to be a cop. I only got one smart enough to be a crook."

Hunter spun like a panther.

What he glimpsed — outlined in distant shadow for the fierce single beat of a heart — was unmistakable. Before it was gone.

Eyes narrowing at what was no longer there, Hunter stared with a frown at a ridge over a half mile distant. He knew that eyes could play tricks at that distance, with shadow and foliage joining to throw a myriad of threatening shapes amid the waving brush of movement. But something deeper told him no; he wasn't mistaken.

He had caught the most frantic, fleeting glimpse of a faraway shape — a manlike form that stood in the gloom and purposefully stared back, challenging. Engulfed in foliage, it was there and then turned — gone in a heartbeat as Bobbi Jo came up tiredly behind him, kneeling to rest. She had seen nothing, he knew, nor would he share the knowledge.

"What is it?" she whispered, sweating in the humidity.

He stared down a moment, shook his head.

"Take a break," he said without tone. "Have some water. You're gonna need it." He moved away as she recovered from hauling the monstrous sniper rifle through the deep brush.

Considering the horrific sight, Hunter shook his head: None of this was right. Whatever he had seen had stood upright. But nothing, nothing did that. Not if it could rip a steel door off hinges and separate a man's head from his body with a blow. Hunter tried not to let his consternation show.

Takakura and the rest, Dr. Tipler straggling slightly, came up beside them. The doc seemed to be narrowly holding his own, despite his age. But Takakura seemed slightly fazed by Hunter's unrelenting pace. And that spoke of extraordinary conditioning because Hunter hadn't yet rested, though it was nearing late afternoon.

Hunter himself didn't even feel the strain, and he had long ago ceased to wonder of his endurance, knowing that it was a specific kind of strength perfected by a brutal life. Just as he knew that he could go sleepless for days without feeling any effects or cover a hundred miles in a day by foot if needed. But he didn't expect that from others and was forced to remind himself frequently to slow down.

Takakura bent, fatigued, but glanced at the ground as if searching. Hunter smiled; even the Japanese was slowly learning to track. Then he glanced around the ridge, back at Hunter. "We are closing on the creature?" he asked.

"Yeah," Hunter said, debating what else to say.

He wouldn't withhold information to the point of endangering the team, but he wouldn't speak before he was certain. Losing credibility in this outlandish place, and under these conditions, could endanger the entire team.

"Hai, this is good," Takakura grunted, resting the rifle.

He knelt, staring out, and what Hunter saw in those coal-black eyes assured him that the Japanese, no matter what secrets were concealed in this mysterious operation, had only one purpose. The Japanese was a man committed to his work. He would do his duty, even if it killed him.

Remembering what he had discovered in the research station, scanning the rest of the team, Hunter was pleased there was at least one member he could trust.

Exhausted, Taylor sat and raised his head to see Hunter on the ridge. The tracker was unmoving, talking in muted tones to Bobbi Jo and Takakura.

The old professor was off to the side, wiping perspiration from his face. And the big wolf lying at Hunter's side was, as always, alert with black bat-like ears standing straight up.

Another team member, Buck Joyce, came up beside him and laid an M-203 on a jagged stump, the remnant of a lightning-blasted tree. Buck was much smaller but six years in Special Forces had burned him down to a lean wiry frame.

Taylor wiped sweat from the back of his neck. "That guy never stops," he mumbled, glancing at Hunter's powerful frame. "I ain't covered this much ground in a single day since I qualified for damn Delta. Fifty miles with a full pack." He shook his head. "That guy'd burn Bragg instructors to the ground in a week."

Buck laughed, glancing easily at Hunter and Ghost silhouetted on the ridge. "Yeah." He released a tired smile. "And that dog is something else, too."

"It's a wolf, moron."

Buck smiled. "Hell, Taylor, I know what it is." He laughed again, genuinely amused. "Biggest damn wolf I ever saw, that's for sure. Meanest looking one, too. I ain't getting close to it, myself. You can't tell about them things. They can turn on you."

Taylor's scarred face twisted as he shaded his eyes, measuring the height of the sun. "We gotta make camp and set up a perimeter in less than three hours or we're gonna lose this light. Dark comes fast in these mountains. I been here before."

"Yeah?" Buck was interested. "When?"

"Ah, back in the late 'eighties." He spit to the side. "Some big recon thing on the North Ridge. I didn't know what we was doing. Supposed to be looking for a cavern or something. We found nothing and froze our butts off."

"Well, you're back in the saddle again, my man." Buck stood as Hunter and the rest began moving from the ridge toward the valley below. "But then, chances are, with the way that thing moves, we won't get a shot at it anyway."

Taylor grunted. "Buck, you idiot. Don't you know nuthin'?" He gestured up the hills. "You're SF and you can't tell by now how good that guy is? That mother… He is tough." He took a second to shoulder his shotgun. "Ain't never seen his kind and I seen army trackers; they're supposed to be the best but they can't do in a day in the sun with what this guy can do in fifteen minutes. He reads everything, son. And I mean everything." He paused. "No, he ain't gonna let it get away."

Casting a last glance at Buck, he moved forward.

"You better lock and load, son."

Hunter was staring at the ground as Bobbi Jo knelt beside him. When he spoke, his voice was so low she could barely hear it. Somehow, she realized, he had used the sound of rushing water in the stream to cover the words.

"This morning, they started out okay," he whispered. "Now they sound like a herd of buffalo." A pause. "Happens like that. People get comfortable. Then they get careless. They cross a stream ninety-nine times and don't see a snake. Then they don't look down for the hundredth time 'cause they think it's safe. And that's when it's there. And that's when it hits them. Habit. It gets you killed out here."

She gazed about, then turned to see the team on a far slope. She could hear nothing from their direction, but the sound of the creek dominated in the descending light of day. As she watched, it seemed that they still moved in silence, carefully placing their feet in a standard single-file advance, each man ten feet apart.

Wondering what had Hunter so alarmed, she moved up carefully beside him, leaning close. He was studying everything around him in silence. She saw a single track in the hardened bank and nothing else. It was as if the creature had simply disappeared from the face of the Earth.

Hunter turned his head slightly to the side.

"Ghost," he said softly.

Moving with uncanny grace, the huge black wolf crept forward, head bowed with a kind of eerie calm. Bobbi Jo couldn't help but clutch the rifle slightly tighter at the savage profile, the wide head and the black eyes that revealed no life at all.

Pointing to the track, Hunter said, "Search."

Within a moment the wolf vanished around a bend in the river, lost to the lesser blackness of this seemingly infinite forest. Bobbi Jo waited but Hunter said nothing more as he continued to stare intently at the print. Then, taking a chance on this man who seemed so at home in the forest, Bobbi Jo spoke. "What is it that's bothering you?"

Hunter didn't reply for a time.

Then, "It doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

"The pressure release marks in this track." Hunter looked to the right, ahead of them. "This thing moved to the right, but there aren't any tracks to the right. Just that ridge."

A sharply angled rise was beside them, over a hundred and fifty feet high. It was edged shale, revealing no path. They could free-climb it easily enough but there were no signs that the creature had used it, so there was no purpose to follow.

Bobbi Jo whispered, "You know, Hunter, it's been staying close to water all day."

"That's what bothers me."

"What do you mean?"

"Animals this size don't stay close to water during the day," he said, using the water to cover his voice, and then she understood how he was doing it. He was altering the pitch of his voice to blend with that of the current, modulating his words to fit the slightly lower rushing of the water beside them. She was amazed that he could so perfectly blend into the environment. It was as if he himself were part of the wild.

He continued, "Big animals always drink at dawn, then they drink again at night like clockwork. And they don't stay close to water during the day. During the day they hunt and feed."

"But the thing hasn't fed yet," she responded, trying to lower her voice so it would blend in with the current. "It's been moving fast."

"Yeah," Hunter answered. "That bothers me too. It's moving too fast. And a big animal doesn't do that. They cover maybe… three, five miles an hour. But this thing is making serious distance. None of this is right."

She leaned even closer. "Hunter, I think I might have a good idea on this. It's been moving beside water all day."

"Like a man would do," he said, not lifting his eyes.

She paused. "Yeah, well, maybe. But the fact is that it tends to stay close to water. And that's probably what it's doing now because it's not going to suddenly change its habits. This thing is strong beyond belief. But I think it's gonna continue doing what it's been doing."

Slowly, Hunter turned his head to look up the ridge, inch by inch. His mouth hung slightly open and his face was frozen, as if with revelation.

"No," he whispered, "this would do something…else."

His hawk-like eyes roamed the ridge.

"Tell you what," Bobbi Jo said, "how about if I cross-trail about a hundred yards out? I'll be careful not to mar any tracks if I find them."

She waited a long minute before he spoke.

"Yeah," he murmured, studying the jagged ridge. "You do that. I'm gonna have a look around here." He turned back to her, face hardening. "Don't go any farther than that."

"I won't." She rose with the words, stepping lightly from rock to rock, moving down the stream.

Hunter studied the cliff for a long time, reading ridges, slabs, and crevasses. A good man could climb it in about twenty minutes. Then he stepped forward and grabbed an outcrop, hauling himself easily over the edge. He effortlessly picked a path up the ridge, setting his feet firmly, testing the rock before placing his weight on it, choosing the easiest route.

The procedure was in effect just an extension of the method he used for moving in silence. He knew that in order to move through the forest without sound you had to set the ball of the foot down first, then settle the foot slowly, front to back. Also, it was important that you knew the step wouldn't make any sound before you placed your weight upon it by choosing solid ground. And if nothing but twigs were present, placing the foot down parallel with them.

Cautiously, he reconnoitered the rock, searching, reading every disturbance of the gray-brown dust that settled on the rock. And after twenty minutes of careful investigation he found it: a deep impact of claws branded in rock.

Crouching, Hunter turned his head and gazed down at the stream. He measured the distance and shook his head at the overall, overpowering impression before he calculated the leap to be at least thirty feet. It was an incredible distance for any creature to jump, even a tiger.

To confirm that he was correct, he looked around and found claw marks clicked in stone, marks of incredible clenching strength. He saw where it had climbed from a hundred infinitesimal signs that would have easily been overlooked by an inexperienced tracker. He nodded; yeah, this is why there weren't any more tracks in the streambed.

He moved up the cliff, climbing surely to the summit. Staring down, he observed Takakura crouching at the head of the team, still far away.

He waved them closer and waited until Bobbi Jo entered the open from the far side of the stream. When he saw her, he waved an arm and she nodded, coming toward them.

When the team arrived at the base of the cliff, Hunter simply pointed to the top, and together they began climbing.