Hunter (58 page)

Dixon, trembling uncontrollably, closed his eyes, hands raised plaintively.

Remorseless and still emotionally traumatized by the professor's death, Hunter threw him back and turned angrily. A mushrooming orange balloon rose silently in the distance, a sphere of pure white fire expanding, rising, fading to red as it topped the trees.

The air filled with the roar.

"Hang on!" Chaney yelled.

The concussion struck them like a physical wave and the Blackhawk was hurled into a turn, whirling crazily as the helicopter shivered, quaking and trembling, spinning wildly.

Chaney s choked cries from the cockpit rose above it all and Hunter, thrown to the panels, saw the marshal struggling madly to regain control of the craft. He attempted to rush forward to help, knowing he couldn't, when a secondary shock wave—a wall of heavy air rushing overhead to fill the vacuum created by the explosion—smashed them from the opposite side and the helicopter pitched again.

With a curse Chaney righted the Blackhawk as the sky behind them brightened brilliantly, flame expanding to rise higher and higher, mushrooming in fire that only at the last darkened the horizon at once, fading slowly to silence with the dimming echo of roars rippling over unseen mountains.

Silence ...

And finally – steadiness
.

Flying steadily, Chaney was rigid and possessed at the controls, utter exhaustion evident from his profile. He said nothing on the intercom, nor was it needed. They were safe, and it was enough. And the suicidal atmosphere in the cabin was grim with exhaustion, relief, and a slowly gathering rage that each one of them fed in silence, knowing what they had to do.

Dixon, relief expressed in his slow words, spoke. "Where are we going, Hunter?"

Groaning, Hunter reached back and pulled a headset from the wall. He mounted it, adjusted the mike. "Punch in White Mountains Park into the Magellan," he said. "There's a creek there; it's called Fossil River. It runs between the north and south sides of the range. We need to head upriver to find a cave. I'll tell ya more when we're closer." He paused. "Are the others following us?"

Hesitation as Chaney checked the radar.

"Radar says some of 'em have decked for refueling," Chaney said. "But there's a shitload on our tail, just the same. I'm tracking about seven Blackhawks and six A-14's circling. Damn, they musta
’ had a cruiser off the coast or something. They ain't doing nuthin', though. Just circling. I guess 'cause they don't know what we're doing, yet." He paused. "Want me to tell 'em something?"

"Yeah. Tell them we have Dixon. Tell them to give a message to
whoever’s in charge that we know where it's gone. And tell 'em we're gonna put an end to this." Hunter blinked; so tired now, so deathly tired. "Tell them that if they want this thing brought down quiet, they need to leave us alone 'til it's over."

Staring at Dixon, Brick suddenly rose, grabbing the CIA agent and tossing him roughly to the front of the bay. Then the hulking ex-marshal felt along the back wall, searching.

"For combat missions," he whispered to himself, though Hunter somehow heard, "these things always got a stash."

Chaney's voice came over the headset: "They say they're just doing surveillance! But I gave 'em the message! Everybody knows the score! They ain't gonna do anything!"

Hunter lowered his head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. They had sent him out to die and he had survived, and now they both cursed and feared him. But this was the last of the game. Either
he
would die or
it
would die; there was no other way for this to end. Then remorse and affection struck him at once, and he gazed at Bobbi Jo.

She was waiting for it, was already staring at him.

What was spoken—and Hunter knew that she utterly understood, and agreed—was done without words or expression. Then she smiled—a sad smile—and he bowed his head.

Yeah, they'd finish it.

"I got it!" Brick shouted, and the back panel of the bay fell; a wall of steel lowered to reveal an entire arsenal of weapons.

Hunter saw stacked grenades, a flame-thrower, M-203's, rocket-launched grenades and two extra Barretts. The lower half of the compartment was packed with crated ammunition and extra napalm canisters for the flame-thrower.

Smiling or frowning, Brick looked down.

His voice was grim.

"Let's see the son of a bitch survive this," he said.

* * *

Chapter 21

A vast wall of rolling gray storm followed them through the canyon as if to terrify and isolate them during their final battle against the beast.

The air rippled with ceaseless lightning, causing the chopper to tremble with thunder, as the Blackhawk descended into a jagged valley of broken stone cut deeply by a river that whitened over rapids and swirled into strangely cut eddies that disappeared beneath heavy overhangs of stone.

Inside the craft they defiantly loaded weapons, each of them committed to the last battle with this creature that they had come to understand too well. Beaten and bloodied, they paid little attention to their wounds, taking time only to staunch the bleeding of their most serious injuries.

Hunter wrapped Bobbi Jo's torso in heavy gauze, using most of the surgical tape. Then she replaced her shredded vest with another, tightening the elastic straps to further secure the dressing.

All of them were covered with dried blood from their own wounds and the creature's, but Hunter was the most seriously marked, with uncounted contusions and abrasions.

A wide cut on the right side of his face—a vicious injury he didn't remember receiving in the last chaotic exchange—still bled. But there was no way to bandage it without compromising his vision, so he had cleaned it and left it alone.

His forearm where he had blocked the beast's last thunderous blow was severely slashed and blackened with blood, as if the creature's skin alone were a weapon.  He wrapped the forearm with what remained of the gauze and taped it; it would have to suffice. If they lived, he could attend to it more carefully later.

Rising from the bay, Hunter took the seat beside Chaney. He mounted the headset, dimly hearing the rest of them loading and preparing weapons.

Chaney was keeping steady distance on the storm, flying low and level. The radar revealed that the rest of the helicopters had detoured south, still close but avoiding the lightning-slashed sky behind them. His voice reached Hunter over the intercom system: "Could it have gotten this far so soon?"

Hunter barked a humorless laugh. "Yeah, it could have. Believe me."

Chaney took his word. "All right. So where is this cave that we're trying to find?"

"Further upriver." Hunter pointed. "It's probably somewhere around that bend. We're looking for a waterfall that comes out of a cliff face. And on either side there will be two rock faces that resemble ... I don't know, something like wolves. Tigers. It shouldn't be too hard to find."

Chaney continued in silence for a moment. "Tell me something," he said finally. "If this thing was around ten or twelve thousand years ago, how did it survive the Ice Age?"

"Lots of species survived the Ice Age," Hunter responded, searching the cliff walls intently. "And this ... this species, if it's as intelligent as it seems, could easily have found shelter in these mountains. Something like a cave where it could have weathered it out. Plus, it has a high degree of adaptability." He considered it. "Yeah, it could have survived easily enough. It probably thrived when the rest of this region was dying out. That's why they wanted it. For its ability to adapt to disease, its immunity factor, its genetic mutation factors. They wanted a species whose genetic superiority made it basically un
-killable."

Chaney grunted. "They did too good a job."

"What they didn't understand was that they had to take the bad with the good," Hunter said more slowly. "They wanted something that was un-killable. And what they got was something that lived to kill." He was silent a moment. "Stupidity. They wanted to live forever. And they killed hundreds to obtain it."

The helicopter moved upriver.

"Well," Chaney responded, "if these things stood at the top of the food chain, with no natural enemies, then why did they ever die out?" He stared. "I mean, something had to kill them off, right? But what could have done something like that? According to what I've seen, nothing that ever walked or crawled could have even killed off one of these things. Much less a whole race of them."

Meeting his gaze, Hunter said nothing. After a moment he stared away, considering. "I don't know," he said finally. "Maybe we're gonna find out."

"There it is," Chaney said suddenly, bringing the chopper to almost a dead stop as he swung it smoothly to face the south wall.

Hunter saw it instantly.

A waterfall at least three hundred feet from the valley floor cascaded heavily from the cliff side. And above that, slightly to the side, a fissure disappeared into darkness. On either side of the cleft, larger than he had anticipated, two jagged outcroppings seemed unnaturally cut into protruding stones.

Studying them closely, Hunter could imagine that thousands of years ago the fixtures had indeed resembled either tigers or wolves, but time and erosion had faded the finer features. A large section of the wall was completely smooth, and, gazing down, Hunter could see where it had broken away from the cliff long ago. Crumbled sections of granite, some weighing hundreds of tons, lay scattered across the valley floor.

At first glance the cave seemed inaccessible, but Hunter could see the remains of a trail, now unusable without climbing equipment, that had once led to the opening. Yet, while it would doubtless be a difficult climb for them, Hunter knew the creature could have easily clambered apelike to the entrance.

Rolling thunder rumbled over them and Hunter glanced back to see the storm approaching more quickly, streaking the black-gray wall of cloud with hazy lightning.

"We'll rappel from the top!" Chaney shouted, bringing the Blackhawk to a steady climb. "Looks like it's only about eighty feet, and we have gear for that!"

Removing the headset, Hunter walked into the bay to see Bobbi Jo and Takakura sitting somberly, holding fresh weapons. Bobbi Jo had armed herself with a dozen new clips and a Beretta 9-mm pistol. Hunter knew the sidearm would be all but useless against the creature, but he understood her thinking.

All of them were taking whatever they could find, mainly because they had little choice. Brick still carried the Weatherby, but the big ex-marshal was conspicuously low on rounds, with the bandoleer already half emptied. Still, he compensated for the shortage with the huge sidearm—a Casull .454—that would undoubtedly penetrate the creature's armor-like skin.

As the helicopter settled smoothly on the summit, shuddering slightly at a blast of gathering wind, Hunter turned to Takakura. He saw that the Japanese was armed as before. The katana, now well-used and proven to be an effective weapon against the creature, protruded from behind the Japanese's powerful right shoulder, and he carried a variety of primary weapons—a Beretta semiautomatic pistol plus at least six phosphorous hand grenades and a heavy rifle that Hunter didn't recognize.

Chaney angled into the bay and Brick threw open the port. Then Hunter bent, roughly lifting Dixon. Frowning with terrifying menace, Hunter reached over the CIA man's shoulder and lifted an M-16 and clips. Then he gave them to Dixon, knowing he wouldn't be stupid enough to attack them.

"It's game time," Hunter nodded, ignoring a half-spoken protest as he roughly shoved the agent out of the bay.

Hunter quickly grabbed a large Harris M-98 .50-caliber Browning sniper rifle from the bay. Similar to the Barrett, the Browning was a devastating weapon, easily capable of hitting targets at well over two thousand yards.

The .50-caliber rounds left the barrel at five thousand feet per second, and could penetrate an inch of steel plating. Plus, the gun's lethal effectiveness with the creature had already been demonstrated. But it was at least four feet long, with two-thirds of that in the barrel, so he had to make it more manageable for the close confines of the cave.

Reaching into a toolkit, Hunter lifted a lug wrench and unscrewed the bracing, sliding out the last seventeen inches of heavy barrel. The rifled extension is what provided long-range accuracy, but that kind of accuracy wouldn't be needed. The heavier section that was forged to the receiver would be sufficient for this kind of close-range fighting.

Then, working efficiently though it was an unfamiliar weapon, Hunter removed the scope and shoulder stock, leaving only the pistol grip. It took him two minutes, and when he was finished, he had a compact weapon that still held devastating power. As an afterthought Hunter reached back and attached two thermite grenades—phosphorous-fed incendiaries with a five-second fuse that vulcanized anything they touched—to his belt.

"Let's go!" Chaney said, quickly tuning the radio to a frequency beacon. "We need to get in there before this storm comes down on us! Everybody knows how to do this so we won't waste time! I'll go down first, and Dixon, you come down right after me! Hunter, you come next and let us know real quick if that thing is close or if it's even in there! I don't wanna be down there with my thumb up my ass when it walks up behind me!"

Slinging the Weather
by, Chancy shouldered a small Alice-pack loaded with flares and lights and was gone, descending over the ledge as if he'd done it every day for years.

It took them almost no time and then Hunter was standing deep inside the cave, staring at a tunnel that seemed to lead deep into the mountain. Behind him, flares burned red to the strong smell of sulfur, hissing loudly in a darkness made moist by mist.

Gazing down, Hunter saw where the shale had been disturbed by something passing this way. And he reached out, lightly touching the ground to discern the faint indentations.

Yeah, it was here . . .

He grinned faintly; he'd taken a chance, but he'd been right. It had retreated to the only place that it thought it could rest without being hunted and hounded. But they couldn't let it escape. For if they did, then it would only continue to kill without end or reason, feeding its lust for blood with more and more blood.

It had to end here. For each of them.

Chaney s voice was unnaturally subdued. "What do you think?" he asked. "Is it here?"

Hunter looked ahead into the darkness. "It's here. It didn't beat us by much. It's gone into the cave."

From the rear Brick growled, "How could it know the way?"

"A lot of animals can find their way back to where they were born," Hunter said, concentrating. "It's like they have some kind of genetic code that compels them to return to a certain place at a certain time. I've seen it before. It's nothing new." He rose and they moved forward, careful to keep the light as far ahead as possible.

As they moved, the tunnel widened, some corridors branching off into inky blackness. But Hunter could read the tracks now, even in the flickering half-light, and knew it was moving on a true course, deep into the vastness of this abyss. Its trail, occasionally marred by blood, was uninterrupted as the tunnel took a downward slant. No, the thing wasn't veering from side to side, distracted or confused by the connecting passages; it was holding a certain path.

Hunter realized vaguely that the thing's nocturnal vision was even more extraordinary than he'd guessed. And, unfortunately, that gave it a distinct advantage in this gloom.

"Wait," he said, lifting a hand.

No one moved or breathed.

"What is it?" Chaney whispered.

Hunter said nothing, staring hard into the darkness, and still they didn't
move. Rising, moving along the walls, shadows lent an eerie atmosphere to the broken stone. No sound but the hiss of flares weighed in the air. Hunter finally spoke.

"It's there," he whispered, lifting the Browning. "Somewhere far ahead. I heard it."

Takakura had edged forward. He didn't look at Hunter as he spoke quietly. "What did you hear? I heard nothing."

Shaking his head, Hunter scowled into the vast dark ahead of them, stretching out infinitely to defy their torches. "I don't know. It sounded like ... I don't know ... like it was
attacking
. Something like that, and it wasn't close. But it wasn't far." He paused. "Another mile. Maybe two. We'll find out."

Dixon's voice was tremulous. "Jesus Christ, people, this is seriously not a good idea ...
Look, let's just blow this place and bury the thing! You know, we
seriously
don't have to go
mano a mano
with this thing again!"

"I do." Hunter looked at him for a moment. "And that's what I've never liked about people like you, Dixon. You sent hundreds of people to their deaths, and yet you don't have any idea what death is. Do you know why you kill so easily, Dixon?" Hunter let the question settle. "It's because you do your killing with machines
– with
numbers
so you can spare yourself the blood and the horror and the work. And that's why you don't appreciate anybody's skin but your own." Hunter shook his head, leaning closer. "Whoever or whatever gave you the right, Dixon, to decide who deserves to live? That decision belongs to God – not man. And especially not you!" Hunter leaned back, openly revealing his contempt. "Fool."

The silence that followed was more condemning than Hunter's tone. And, shaking his head once more, he added somberly, "No matter what, Dixon, I'm gonna see that you're held responsible for everything you've done. That's a promise."

Turning away slowly, Hunter heard Brick grab the CIA man's shoulder and move him forward. The ex-marshal's burly voice had a grim intonation of doom. "Move on, boy," he growled. "You signed up to serve your country, didn't ya? So serve it."