Hunter's blinked. "Go home, old man. I will hunt this ...Iceman. I will kill him for you ... for your grandson."
"This I believe." The old man's eyes squinted against a sudden, slicing gust of wind. Hunter knew that what he said next was a warning. "It has killed many men."
"I know," Hunter answered. "And it will kill many more if it is not itself killed. So go home, old man. It is cold in the night. And when you He beside your fire, pray for me. Pray that I will kill this man from the ice ... before it kills us all."
Hunter approached the camp from the heights in the last hour before dawn, moving in silence. He didn't worry about Ghost, knowing the great wolf always moved without sound.
He knew the creature had been severely wounded by the fall and the throat cut more than anything else, and knew that they would be relatively safe until dawn, but he still traveled at a relatively brisk pace. Battered and exhausted, he approached the campsite, Ghost trailing beside him, and all of them whirled, alert to the movement. Hunter was also too tired to care if they accidentally fired.
Takakura was the first to reach him. Hunter didn't see where Bobbi Jo was positioned. The Japanese searched his battered form with surprising concern before he hazarded, "And ... so?"
"It's alive." Hunter knelt and picked up a can of MREs, eating a small bite. He made a face and gave it to Ghost, who devoured it in seconds. "I led it west, south, lost it for a while. It caught me. I put it off a bluff. I think we need to get moving. It'll heal up fast."
Takakura's voice had relief. "We will move immediately. But we must proceed slowly. Dr. Tipler is tired. And we would call for an emergency extraction but ..."
Not shocked, Hunter approached him, staring the Japanese hard in the face. He didn't need more to know that the radio was no longer functional. After a second he shook his head, trying to rein in the anger. Yeah, his suspicions had been correct.
"You spoke of this," Takakura said in an unnatural tone. "How did you anticipate this?"
Without even responding, Hunter walked past him, moving to a hastily erected tent where he suspected they had laid Tipler. The old man was inside, and his face was white and sweating. Bobbi Jo was at his side, administering an injection. She tilted her head to indicate they should move outside and discuss the situation just as the professor sighted him.
"My boy!" Tipler cried, overjoyed. "I knew it! I knew you would do it!" He tried to give Hunter an awkward one-armed hug. "Ha! Ha! Ain't no man that ever lived who could ever track my boy!"
The outrageous exclamation was so uncharacteristic that Hunter almost laughed. He moved slowly to the cot, bent gently. His voice was calm. "How ya doing, old man?"
Upon seeing Hunter's battered body more closely, Tipler reached out and gripped him. "You are well?"
"Yeah, yeah, you know me. I'm always fine." Hunter smiled. "A few bruises. But you and me have seen worse." A laugh. "Especially you. I've seen you weather everything."
"Oh, this is hogwash, that's all," Tipler laughed gustily. "I had a slight palpitation. Had them for years. I am about as concerned about it as I am about the fact that my second-grade teacher died forty years ago. You get used to things."
Hunter laughed. "All right, you just take it easy. I'm gonna go outside for a minute and then I'll be back. I'll talk to you in a few minutes. 'Cause we gotta get you out of here." Tipler raised a hand but Hunter said, "No objections, old man." A wink. "You did all you could. Time to rest. I'll be right back."
Outside, a crimson dawn cast a golden halo around Bobbi Jo's silhouette, and Hunter stood motionless—a monument of dignity and strength. He waited only a second before she began. "His blood pressure is lower now than a few hours ago. But his pulse is still in the nineties. He can walk if we go slow, if we don't push him, but we have to get him serious medical attention. He could arrest at any time. I gave him something to thin his blood just a little and to boost his energy. But it's not a good idea to try and control this condition with what I have. We have to get to the research station as fast as we can move him."
"We'll put him on a stretcher," Hunter said instantly. "I'll have one made in fifteen minutes." Then he turned to Takakura. "What in the hell happened to the radio?"
"I do not know," the Japanese commander said plainly. "It is disabled somehow." There was a moment of pause before Hunter turned away and then back again, almost in Takakura's fearless face. "When we get back, I'm going after this thing alone, 'cause something is wrong with this mission. I've seen that from the first. So I'm gonna get you back to the research station, but not for you or this team. I'm getting you back for that old man in there."
He walked into the bushes, past the aristocratic Wilkenson, who said only, "I believe he will be all right until night, Mr. Hunter."
But Hunter wasn't in a mood for replying. He went into the woods, drawing his bloodstained Bowie to swipe two seven-foot length poles of poplar sapling. The trunks were about an inch in diameter, and strong because they were still green. With that and the leather twine in his pack he would quickly have a stretcher constructed.
They had broken camp when he finished gently loading the old man, who protested but finally conceded to Hunter's stern reproof. And then they were walking.
Takakura and Wilkenson guarded the rear. Buck and Riley had the first duty of carrying the professor through the difficult terrain, and Taylor was point. Hunter found himself walking beside Bobbi Jo, lost in his thoughts.
Until she spoke.
"Tell me something," she asked with the tone of someone who wanted to lighten the mood. "How did you get involved in something like this?" she looked at him, clearly curious. "They told us in the briefing that they'd found the best tracker in the world. Said you weren't military, but that you could track a squirrel across rock. But how would they know? Have you worked with them before?"
"No, not really with the military," he said finally. "When I was a kid, I found a place out in Montana. High. Cold. Isolated. Thought I might settle there. I didn't have much, but I could live off the land. So I trapped, hunted, survived pretty well. It looked a lot like this." He gestured toward the woods. "Anyway, I had a ham radio, just in case I was hurt or something. And I was listening to it one day when some kid got lost in this wilderness area below me. It was November, a cold front coming. They had tons of people in the woods, but they couldn't find this kid. I knew those mountains – how cold they got. I knew he wouldn't survive the night."
"And so you went down the mountain and started tracking him," Bobbi Jo said, without doubt or surprise. Hunter grimaced, half-shrugged before he continued.
"Yeah. And it was a tough track. Took me all day. The little kid was so tiny he hardly left a print. And he was wearing these flat-soled shoes that didn't have a pattern. I thought I lost him a dozen times." He smiled, shook his head. "Kids. They're something else the way they wander. You have to be careful. It's easy to lose them. And if you lose them, they'll die quick. They don't know how to find shelter. How to keep warm."
"So, did you find him?"
"Yeah. He was half-frozen, but I built a quick shelter and warmed him up and fed him. Then, the next day, I carried him out."
"He's okay now?"
He nodded. "Oh yeah, heard from him a while back. He's doing great. We write each other pretty often."
Silence.
"That was a lot of pressure," she said. "I mean, to find a little kid lost in a wilderness when the tracks were old, everyone had trampled on them." She thought about it a second. "So little left to go on, you have to get into their mind."
"Pretty much."
"And after that?"
A shrug. "Well, after that things just sorta’ happened. Whenever someone was lost, they'd call me. Then people in other places started calling me to hunt down camping parties, to find people." He rolled his neck, loosening. "I guess I've tracked just about everywhere. Mexico. Canada. Up north. Out west. It's always different, but the same. I've found most of them. But there were some I didn't find until
it was too late."
"And what's that like?" She waited patiently for an answer. "To fail, I mean."
He took a long time to reply. "It's hard when I find the body, and it's too late. But all I can do is my best." A pause. "The first time I found a kid, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And I was right. Each time is as good as the first."
"I'll bet it is." She smiled. "I wish I could track like that. But that kind of skill is beyond anything you can learn. You have to have a gift. You have to be born to it."
"Maybe," he said. "I don't think about it."
"You just do it."
"I guess," he mumbled, casting a brief glance back to check on the professor. "Something like that."
She paused a long time, smiled. "You're a strange man, Mr. Hunter. You don't seem to like people. Don't even seem to like being around people. But you risk your life to save them. Why is that?"
His face was unreadable.
"Don't know," he said. " 'Cause I like the ones I find, I suppose."
***
Rebecca leaned over the table, attempting to gain the reluctant attention of the CIA physicist at Langley. Tall, white-haired, and aristocratic in attitude, Dr. Arthur Hamilton did not look up from the DNA printout.
"Doctor!" she stressed. "You're not paying attention! Look at the integrin matrix! They're ...they're like ...like scaffolding to an aggregate of molecules that form an adhesion that includes actin, talin, vinculum, and o-actitin. It's not like any regenerative properties we've ever witnessed. Not even in invertebrates that are innately immune to carcinogens!"
Dr. Hamilton's voice was soothing. "And your point is, Rebecca?"
She stared.
"My point?" She laid a hand on the DNA printout. "My point, Doctor, is that this reveals that this creature has a unique ability to activate quiescent integrin molecules so that they adhere to proteins—including fibrinogen—which makes a very powerful bridge for platelets. Then all the systems work together for enhanced healing, no matter the site of infection or injury. It's like this creature's entire extracellular matrix is expressly devoted to some kind of uncanny healing ability." Rebecca went to the edge. "Doctor, I would say that this thing, whatever it is, is completely immune to disease."
Dr. Hamilton stared at her and slowly replied, "That would be presumptive, Rebecca."
"Read the leukocyte level!" She leaned forward, feeling heat from the confrontation. "That printout, which is dead accurate, says this thing has trails to sites of infection like nothing we've ever seen. Look at the reperfusion molecules! The oxidant levels! The molecular adhesion to prevent restenosis! We've never seen anything like this. Not ever! And in that, Doctor, I know what I'm talking about. That's not presumptive!"
He frowned deeply as he studied the printout. "I suppose you have copies of this," he murmured.
"You bet I do."
"Please ensure that you preserve them," he added with greater interest, focusing again on the page. "Will you allow me to run my own analysis tonight? I would like to confer with you in the morning after I have time to collate a breakdown of the D-4 through D-10 to determine a mitosis level."
Rebecca stood back. "All right. Tomorrow. But I want this information in Dr. Tipler's hands by morning. He needs to know."
"Of course. I will see to it personally."
She picked up her briefcase and moved for the door. He spoke after her. "Is there anything the Agency can provide for you, Doctor, while you are staying in the city?"
"No." Rebecca turned back. "I can take care of myself."
"Of course."
Dr. Hamilton watched her close the door quietly and waited a moment before picking up the phone.
***
Brick shut the bank vault and moved with his familiar, unhurried, bull-like stroll, blacksmith arms falling past his sides at slight angles, to a gun crate.
He poured a glass of Jack Daniel's for Chaney, a larger one for himself. Chaney looked bemusedly around the vault as he took a sip, remembering that Brick had gotten it for a song six years ago from a local bank scheduled for demolition. It was the only place in the house where a conversation couldn't be surveilled by electronic listening devices.
"I don't like what I hear, kid." Brick grimaced as he swallowed a large, stinging sip of the whiskey. "Hoo-wee!" He held the glass up before his face, staring hard. "Man, it's been awhile! Must be gettin' old! But better old than dead, I guess." He sniffed, warming to it. "Which is just what you might be, boy, if you poke around."
Silent, Chaney held the rock-hard gaze. Brick usually spoke with a plainness that obtained immediate attention and respect, but rarely with such a dark grimness to the tone.
"Am I being set up?" Chaney asked.
Brick took a smaller sip, shook his head. "I don't know. All I know is that nobody claims to know much. Which means they do! They just don't talk about it! If they were ignorant, they'd be asking me questions instead. Yeah, for sure, people in this biz can't stand thinking that they don't know what's going down."
Brick's light-blue eyes, arched by bushy white brows that bristled in the dim light, went dead-flat on Chaney. "Why don't you go slack on this one?" he asked quietly. "Tell 'em you can't find nothing. Give it back and go on to something else. You're G-4, so you ain't gonna go much higher, anyway. You only got eight to fill. It won't hurt you to take a little heat."
Chaney blinked; it wasn't a bad idea. Marshals did it all the time, but something about this affair intrigued him. "What did you find' out, Brick?" He took a larger sip as he listened.
Brick sat on a crate of AK-47's. Thousands of rounds of NATO 7.62 ammo were stacked against the wall behind him. The rest of the vault was similarly stocked with shotguns, semiautomatics, pistols, gas masks, food, emergency medical kits, smoke markers, portable ham radios, and two crates of antipersonnel grenades. Brick's career as a marine, plus two tours in Vietnam, had made him a seriously connected gun lover.
Freshening his glass, he continued, "What I got is sketchy. But I know that two platoons of marines are listed as lost in a 'training exercise.' "
"In Alaska?"
Brick waved dismissively. "Don't matter two frags where. That's just how it's done. But they were marines, don't forget that. Not shake-and-bakes who can't do an air force push-up with a gun at their head. The dutch is that they were assigned a real special tour to guard some kinda research station and got wiped out."
"A military research station? Those are only located along the Bering Strait, aren't they?"
"No, it wasn't military." Brick shook his head glumly. "This was some kinda spook job, up near the North Ridge. I don't know what they were doing. The CIA hasn't had any research stations inside the Arctic Circle in thirty years. I can't even remember when they closed down the last one. Anyway, the word on all that is pretty low. I didn't push it."
For a while Chaney digested it. "That could make sense," he said finally.
Brick grunted over another sip. "To you, maybe."
"No, it does. Imagine this, Brick. Some CIA research station up where it shouldn't be. Okay, but for what? What was it doing up there? How did they get the funding? What could be so important about Alaska's North Ridge that would justify a budget?"
"Cussed if I know."
Chaney stared. "They found something," he said.
"Found something? Like what?"
"Son, I don't know." Chaney shook his head, looking away. "Something they want to keep secret. But something they have to stay close to. Something they're protecting." He strolled slowly around the room. "Were all these guys killed at the same station?"
"No. I did get that much. Seems that there's several of those things up there." Brick paused. Clearly, he didn't like any of it. "Something bad is in the wind, son. And nothing in the news. But somethin' shoulda’ leaked. So somebody with power has shut down the pipe." He looked around thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna stock up the bunker."
Chaney laughed, let it settle.
"So, several
research stations are attacked," he continued. "Which means that these people, whoever they are, didn't know where to look. They only knew that it was somewhere in one of the stations. I can see how that might make sense. They've got something up there, and somebody else wants it."
"There ain't nuthin' that important, kid. Killing two platoons of marines would be considered an overt act of war. Even though we ain't in the Reagan years no more, there's only so much that folks out there in God's country will take. The people would make us hit back, no matter who it was against. And the good ol' boys would be lining up at the recruiting office, just like they did after we kicked butt in the Gulf."
Chaney hadn't considered that; yeah, killing two platoons of marines probably would be considered an overt provocation act of war unless ...unless. . .
"Unless . . ." he said slowly, "we killed them ourselves."
Brick didn't move.
Releasing a heavy breath, he stared at the wall.
"This is unreal," he said.
*
Chapter 10
Staring intently at the topographical map with Takakura sweating and glowering beside him, Hunter tried to find an easily negotiable route to the research station, located on the south side of the White Mountains, a massive range over thirty miles long and completely impossible to clear in time to help the professor.
His brow hardening, Hunter looked at Takakura, and the Japanese just shook his head, still breathing hard from the last hard knoll they'd had to clamber across carrying the stretcher.
This was obviously not good country for a man to get injured, nor one in which to portage a man out. The terrain was becoming increasingly difficult and rough-cut, and the map indicated that it was about to become even more severe.
As a team, they would have had only moderate difficulty clearing the north ridge of the mountains bordering Fossil Creek, a misnamed river that ran the length of the range. But with a wounded man in uncertain condition this was no longer a strike mission; it was a rescue mission.
They couldn't scale, couldn't push the pace at double time when they mercifully reached a rare level area. So far, the longest level path had been about a hundred yards and ended in a long descent that a strong man could negotiate with caution, but only with the greatest difficulty while carrying a wounded man.
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