Hunter (40 page)

"And then you will go out to meet it," Tipler replied.

Hunter's face was cast in stone. He said nothing.

Tipler looked away. "Yes," he said, a sad nod. "I knew ...and I knew it earlier." He paused a long while. "You have been compelled your entire life, Nathaniel, to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. It is something I have always admired in you. It will always be the greatest, and is the rarest, of all human qualities. But...yes, I knew what you would do. It is no surprise. You needn't be concerned at my shock. Because there is none."

Hunter's brow hardened as Tipler smiled. "You expect me to say that it is suicide, and that you cannot survive," he said, smile turning to frown. "But you, alone of all men, may be able accomplish this. And if you cannot, then no one can." He paused. "I feel a measure of guilt as I say this, my boy. But if you cannot stop it—and it must be stopped—then nothing can stop it. I would, I admit freely, sacrifice both our lives if we could destroy it. But I am old, and weak . . ."

Hunter smiled, pushing him slightly back on the pillow. He shook his head as Tipler began to speak. Neither did Hunter say anything to end the discussion. He simply nodded, turned, and walked to the door. Then he looked at Ghost—so large he filled up a quarter of Dr. Tipler's cubicle.

Glaring down sternly, Hunter pointed at Tipler.

"Guard!"

Ghost padded over to Tipler, then placed both paws on the bed and
stood up. Even bent on hind legs, staring down on the professor, he was nearly six feet tall. Obviously happy, Ghost panted, glad to see Tipler again. The professor laughed.

As Hunter tilted his head, about to tell Ghost to get down,
Tipler raised a hand to cut him off.

"Leave him be, leave him be," he laughed, rubbing the huge black head. "I am glad to see my old friend."

* * *

Chapter
17

Chaney descended into the guts of the C-141, a jet-powered transport plane with double bays and a lower tier that cached all small arms and equipment, to see Brick bent over an ammo box normally reserved for rifles.

Brick was obviously running an inventory on the contents, counting and clearing weapons. His hands moved with professional familiarity and a quick dexterity as he cleared, worked the bolt, reset the weapon and obtained another, repeating the procedure with a reflex of trained muscle memory that was impressive.

Chaney realized it had been a long time since the old man had seen any real action, and he was as impressed by Brick's familiarity with the weapons as he had been as a rookie U.S. Marshal. He knelt beside the older man as he silently studied the crate's complete arsenal. Brick's lips moved as he counted to himself.

Chaney saw two M-79's—shotgun-type grenade launchers. They resembled a large single-shot shotgun and had a row of grenades attached to a sling.

On the black market, where Brick had no doubt purchased them, each of the grenades would have cost at least fifty dollars, if they could be obtained at all. Then Chaney saw two larger rifles, huge oversized weapons like double-barreled shotguns. He pointed to them.

"What the hell are those, Brick?"

Brick picked up one of them and Chaney saw that the wood was highly varnished, almost a collector's item. Yet the double bores were gigantic. No, not a shotgun.

"These babies are Weatherby .454's," Brick said in his heavy voice, cracking the breach. "They fire a .454-grain slug from each barrel at a velocity of four thousand feet per second. At a hundred yards the bullet will break the spine of a full-grown bull elephant. At closer range, if you get a shoulder shot, it would go completely through 'em, come out the other side and keep going 'til it hit a tree big enough to stop it. I worked with 'em last summer and,
just for fun, put one round through four solid feet of oak. There ain't nuthin' made by the hand of man that hits harder at close range."

Staring at the weapon—heavy steel construction, peerless wood stock and handle securing the two twenty-inch bores—Chaney believed it. "But it only gives us two shots, Brick, before we have to reload. What if we have to tight this thing at close range?"

Brick grunted and pulled out a large revolver. Chaney knew what it was when he saw it: a Casull .454 caliber.

It appeared to be just a normal six-shot revolver at first glance. But upon closer observation it was obviously a beefed-up version of the Colt Peacemaker. The cylinder was modified and heavier and only held five rounds with a six-inch barrel to allow a longer powder burn.

Chaney knew from his limited knowledge of weapons that it was a favorite defensive sidearm of back-country Alaskans because the Casull could drop a grizzly or a Kodiak brown bear with a single round. According to experts, it was the only handgun for practical self-defense in a wilderness inhabited by large predators.

He hefted the Casull when Brick handed it to him, instantly impressed by the exacting craftsmanship, the perfect alignment and tightness of the cylinder and barrel. He remembered that it had a reputation for being one of the finest handcrafted handguns in the world and was exceedingly reliable in adverse weather conditions.

"Nice piece of work," Chaney murmured, leveling and sighting on a piece of cargo to obtain a feel. "Good god, Brick, you've spent some money on this stuff."

"Not so much." Brick gestured, organizing. "You pick up a piece here, there, and after a few years you'll be surprised what you have. And the money is gonna be spent anyway, sooner or later. Might as well get something you enjoy. That's the way I look at it." He laid a box of .454 Casull rounds beside Chaney. "Anyway," he added, "how many armored cars you ever seen at a funeral? You can't take it with ya."

Chaney studied the rest of the contents of the crate. He saw a collapsible grappling hook with a thirty-foot knotted rope, ammo and ammo belts for the massive Weatherbys, hip holsters for the Casulls, straps for the M-79's, two pairs of black BDUs with black combat boots, and two load-bearing vests to carry the equipment efficiently. Then there were canteens, compasses, survival kits with sutures, morphine and adrenaline injections, uppers, downers, an amazing assortment of knives, and two pairs of night-vision goggles.

After checking and cleaning the weapons, Brick stood and removed his shirt. After five years of retirement, Chaney could see that he had lost none of his bull strength.

"We'd better get outfitted," Brick said, slipping on fatigues. "Then we can settle in and hit the rack. We got a ten-hour flight and we'll eat twice. But we'll need some sleep before we hit the deck and requisition another bird."

Chaney glanced over the crate and felt a slowly growing sense of security. He didn't know if it was caused by Brick's cockiness or the awesome collection of hardware. But whatever it was, it felt good.

In twenty minutes they were outfitted for bear. In addition to the Casull and the double-barreled Weatherby, Brick had the M-79 slung across his back. At least ten M-79 grenades were on the sling. Chaney was amazed at how well he slipped back into the mode. It was as if he had never ceased being a marine, which in truth he hadn't. He remembered the code: once a marine, always a marine.

Chaney had opted to carry the grappling hook, thinking the extra weight would tire Brick out more quickly. But upon observing how easily the retired marshal moved about, fully armed and prepared for a meal, he realized that it had been a useless concern. Together they locked the crate and moved upstairs.

"All this recondo makes ya hungry," Brick grunted. "Let's grab some chow."

Chaney was behind him as they reached the short ladder that led to the storage bay of the jet. He was thinking about apologizing to the old man for dragging him into harm's way when Brick said, "Ain't nuthin' makes you feel alive like this stuff. By God, I'm in the field again."

***

Light splintered and beamed through trees and he moved with more caution, so close to the township. He could smell, even at this great distance,
the stink of oil and electric circuits. He could taste their scent on the wind that lofted gently through the moving green leaves, and he angled for the deepest of day shadow.

It was not difficult to remain in stands so thick that no one could have seen him. The trunks were large and long, and provided thick cover as he moved, still unexhausted from his long, fierce run through the night.

Several times he had imagined what he might have looked like: a leaping piece of the darkness, fangs and feral eyes dancing in distant shadows, closing, grinning, passing, vanishing.

His mind envisioned the man—the hunter—who had tracked him so relentlessly. He imagined, over and over, the man's throat in his hands—as it had almost been but for the man's uncanny reflexes—and knew that he would not make the same mistake twice. Next time, he would strike with utter ferocity with nothing between them.

His passion compelled him to run—always run—as he closed on the last research station. Yes, the man would be there . . .

As the hours wore on he felt the first faint lightness in his stride. He did not leap and climb so easily, and realized without conscious thought— for he had little—that he must eat. Yes, kill and eat quickly, and continue. For the night would be upon him soon, and with night he must be strong so that he might feast on even more delicious flesh.

***

Dr. Hamilton was enjoying the sunlight, staring at the rapidly setting crimson orb, when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He turned with a pleasant smile that faded instantly.

Stopping shoulder to shoulder, Nathaniel Hunter gazed silently into the mountains. He said nothing. Seemed as if he never would. And after a moment, Hamilton seized the opportunity.

"Well," he said pleasantly, turning away, "I suppose I should return to work . . ."

"I know what you did," Hunter said, not looking back.

Hamilton turned, smiled. "Excuse me?"

Hunter said the word solidly: "Luther."

The sun seemed brighter of a sudden, burning down from a wintry sky. Hunter listened but heard no retreating footsteps. Then there was a soft crunch. He waited.

"I'm sorry?" Hamilton asked, staring down.

Hunter was several inches shorter. Hunter didn't look up as he said, "I was talking about Luther. An old friend of yours. Talked to him the other day. He's having something of a midlife crisis. Said to say hello."

Hamilton thought his smile was unreadable—a self-deception he had unconsciously developed from years of conceit, when he assumed his charm and intellect were swaying his listeners.

"Young man," he began, "please make yourself clear."

Hunter turned to him. "He's an old friend of yours. He's changed a little over the years."

"You are mistaken. I do not know this man."

Hunter laughed. "I think you're going to, Hamilton."

A long pause. Hamilton smiled faintly. "You are on dangerous ground, Mr. Hunter. Very dangerous."

Blue eyes smoldering dangerously, like a storm sweeping in from an angry sea, Hunter spoke with cold contempt.

"You know who I am, Hamilton." He glanced to the side, ensuring that they were alone. "And I know what you've created. I've seen it, spoken with it, fought with it. And now you've put me in the position where I have to kill it. So I hold you responsible. I just thought you might want to know that. And something else. When this is over, I'm going to destroy everything that your work has brought. Because you've done something no man had a right to do. You set something free that should have never been set free. It had its time. Its chance. But it was over. It should have stayed over. Your arrogance brought it back to where it doesn't belong."

Hamilton was leaning back slightly. His smile was ultimately arrogant, even genuinely amused. He laughed.

"What. . ." He faltered. "Please, Mr. Hunter, what can a man such as yourself do to someone like me?" He enjoyed it. "Son, listen, you are stressed. I understand. You have suffered a terrible ordeal. I can easily arrange for you to have a
– "

"Luther is as good as dead, Doctor," Hunter said. "Everything that you've done is dead." He shook his head at the facility. "All this. It's gone. I'll see to it."

Hamilton, despite his arrogance, knew enough to be shocked by this open defiance. His face changed almost instantaneously. In an eye blink his amusement was transformed into chilling hostility.

"You don't want to do that, Mr. Hunter."

"Oh, I do. And I will." Hunter smiled. It was his turn to be amused. "When I'm through, you'll be lucky if
all
they do is send you to prison."

Hamilton regarded him narrowly. "You realize, of course, that I am a very powerful man."

Hunter laughed. "So am I, Doctor – very powerful. Maybe you want to see how powerful."

A pause hung between them.

Hamilton reassumed an air of ignorance. "Really, Mr. Hunter, I don't know what you mean. Denial, you know, is quite an efficient defense. Especially when there is no evidence."

"There'll be evidence, Doctor. There'll be Luther's dead body."

Hamilton smiled. Nodding, Hunter walked away. He was ten feet gone when Hamilton tried to get the last word.

"Situations like these can get persons killed, Mr. Hunter."

Hunter turned back. He smiled, but his eyes were deadly.

"Nobody lives forever."

***

It was a strange gathering, Hunter contemplated, as they surrounded the professor's bed. Takakura and Taylor stood on one side, Hunter on the other. Wilkenson had been flown out for injuries, and they were grateful. For although none had spoken it aloud, they somehow knew that all considered him guilty of sabotage.

The professor began with a statement that reminded Hunter of the old man's wise perspective, his maturity and dignity. His voice was heavily laced with sadness as he spoke.

"I, for one, will greatly mourn the loss of those brave men who accompanied us into the mountains." The statement was followed by a pause, like a moment of silence to honor the lost. "But there is nothing we can do for the dead. The living are our concern. And that is why I have called you together."

Together, they stood in patient silence, awaiting the professor's direction.

"Chromosomal manipulation, my friends," he said.

Hunter and Bobbi Jo exchanged a glance. Takakura's burning black eyes never left the professor.

"That can be the only explanation," he continued, perilous fatigue in his voice. "I suspected it but was uncertain until Nathaniel told me that it spoke to him, even as we speak to each other."

Knowing of the meeting, Hunter had already briefed the others so that there was no shock. Hunter regarded the old man. "But it seemed to have trouble communicating, Professor. It knew, or part of it knew, what it wanted to say. But it had difficulty."

"Yes, that is to be expected." Tipler nodded. "Yes, to be expected." With visible effort, he composed himself. "My friends, again I thank you for your risk, and your sacrifice, to remove me from those mountains. I know that you engaged in extreme and unnecessary risk because you would not leave me. I remain in your debt. And now the time has come for me to tell you what this creature is, and where it came from, though I can provide no proof. But we are all weary, and perilously short of time. Forgive me if I may seem presumptuous."