He assumed the center of the facility was some sort of laboratory, but he had somehow caught the scent of fresh earth somewhere, and suspected that the heart of the station was underground. Possibly several layers beneath the surface. Every door was a metal he had never seen, but seemed impregnable. The hinges were concealed and protected by stainless-steel walls.
The Ranger contingent was at least seventy men, possibly a hundred. They were exceedingly well armed with heavy weapons—Barretts and single-shot Grizzly .50-caliber rifles—very unusual—and wore a sort of high-tech body armor that Hunter had never seen before. It appeared to be molded plastic, but upon closer observation, even without touching, he could tell it was a space-age blend of ceramic and metal, molded in a unique wraparound protective shell. They wore kneepads and elbow pads and specialized helmets that appeared to have night vision built into a visor that could be lowered, as a pilot lowers a visor on his helmet.
Despite his fatigue, Hunter was impressed; whoever these guys were, they certainly had the best equipment. And he knew something else; they were expecting something big to go down here, and were well prepared for it.
Wearing his wool pants, knee-high moccasins and a black BDU shirt, Hunter walked casually through them as they changed shifts. They gave him little attention, but he knew that the easy atmosphere was the result of a well-arranged briefing. If someone without clearance had stumbled into this complex, they would have been arrested before taking three steps. Then in a moment he was inside the commissary, Ghost moving close to his side, and settled down to a relaxed meal while Ghost devoured four large steaks.
He noticed that anyone entering or leaving the chamber had to run an ID card through a wall-mounted security device. And he was intrigued that all the doors between his chambers and the commissary had been wide open. Yeah, they would let him wander, but only where they allowed him to wander. He thought back on the cat-burglar stunt he had pulled last night and smiled. Even technology could be defeated.
He heard an approach and knew who it was from the stride. He didn't turn as he addressed the intruder. "Tight outfit you have here, Maddox. Real secure place."
The colonel sat down before him with a nod, a smile. "We do our best, Mr. Hunter. You're certainly up early."
"I don't need much sleep."
"I can see that." Maddox placed his hands openly on the table, conversational. He smiled. "So, how are your friends?"
"I don't know. How arc my friends?"
The colonel opened his eyes a bit wider. "I talked to the night shift and they said that the professor is much stronger. And, as you know, Takakura and Taylor are fine. Minor burns. Some cuts and bruises. They'll live. Wilkenson was rather badly burned in that explosion, but he'll have a complete recovery, I'm told. They're flying him to a hospital this afternoon." Maddox cleared his voice, hesitant. "I suppose you wonder what the status of the operation is?"
"Haven't thought about it."
Maddox seemed taken aback. "Well ...don't you know what we're going to do with you and the team?"
"Couldn't care less what you do with your team, Colonel. I'm done with the army and this so-called mission. Soon as the professor is all right, I'm going."
"Going where?"
Hunter stared him in the eye. "I think I'll do some hunting."
Clearly, Maddox wasn't sure how to respond. Finally he seemed to craft a careful reply. "You, uh, you realize, of course, I could place you under arrest for interfering in a situation of national security."
It wasn't anything Hunter did purposely—it could have been initiated by his sudden stillness—that brought Ghost fully to his feet. But before Hunter could stop him the black wolf had emitted a low, threatening growl that seemed to blacken the atmosphere until it vibrated with the soul of the purest animal viciousness and power. No fear, no pain, no regret, and no hesitation could be known in the rumbling aura that made the entire chamber seem to fade away.
Maddox paled, lifting a hand. "Now ... now ... I didn't do anything, Mr. Hunter. I, ah, I was just ... just thinking out loud. And ... and for your own good, I wanted to tell you."
Without a glance at Ghost, Hunter said, "Don't ever threaten me again, Colonel."
"B-B-But ... I didn't!"
Maddox was trembling now, and Ghost's low rumbling had faded to an even lower growl that was, incredibly, even more menacing. Hackles had risen on his back, and his canines, more frightening than knives, were out in the open. Hunter knew he would have to restrain him in a moment but he let the wolf make a point: it was enough.
"Ghost," Hunter said, a sharp glare.
Sullenly, the wolf settled back. But his eyes remained fixed on Maddox.
"Good God," the colonel whispered, wiping sweat from his brow. He appeared chilled. "That was quite ...quite unnecessary, Mr. Hunter. Quite unnecessary."
Hunter had resumed eating.
"It was you that did it, Maddox. Not me."
"But I didn't do anything!"
"Well," Hunter said slowly, "he's sort of sensitive to someone's attitude."
Maddox took a moment to compose himself. He didn't look at Ghost as he resumed, but Hunter could too easily read that the colonel was following the wolf intently.
"Hunter, what I was ...attempting to tell you ... is that this is a matter of national security. When you operated under our supervision, you were restrained by a contract of security. If you operate independently, you won't have support."
"Never did."
"But...but if you attempt to hunt this creature alone, then you will surely meet the same fate as your team members who were killed in action. Clearly, no man is a match for it."
Hunter took a slow sip of coffee. "My load, Colonel, not yours." He set down the cup with deliberation as clear as his words. "Whatever I'm gonna do, Colonel, Ghost and I do alone. So you keep your military boys under your command, and leave us the hell alone. I'm gonna stay until the professor is shipped out on a med flight, then I'll be thanking you for your courtesy."
Maddox had composed himself; Hunter knew he was no fool. There was simply something about Ghost's terrifying presence that chilled the colonel to the core.
"Hunter," he began, "I want you to know that I have been honest with you since the beginning of this assignment. Whatever happened out there, it was not my doing. A man in my position has to make hard judgments at times, and sometimes I must send men on missions that I know they will probably not return from. But I have never, nor will I ever, send a man out on a mission that I myself have sabotaged. I have gotten full reports from Takakura and Taylor and Wilkenson. Bobbi Jo refused to be debriefed. I only came over to tell you that, if indeed there was sabotage, I will do everything within my power to discover who it was and bring them to justice."
Hunter had always trusted his instincts. So he paused, listening to that inner voice. For a long time he was still. Then he looked up. His face wasn't pleasant, but his tone was friendly.
"Colonel," he said, "I honestly believe that you don't know what the hell is going on here. I think you're an honest man. But you've been used. And you don't have the foggiest."
Maddox looked at him, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Without intention, Hunter realized that the conversation had turned into an interrogation, with Maddox being the interrogated.
"Colonel, just what do you think these facilities are used for?"
"That is classified, Hunter."
"Secrets work both ways, Colonel."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it hurts you and helps you. Too many secrets, too many lies, and eventually even the good guys—the guys who keep it all together— don't know what's really going on." He stared. "How often have you visited the laboratory here, Colonel?"
"I don't believe that information is within your need-to-know," Maddox replied.
"You've never seen it," Hunter said bluntly.
"And ... if I haven't? Do you have some point?"
"Yeah." Hunter shifted. "My point
is they're doing something here that you don't know about. Something nobody knows about, really. And, because of all these secrets and need-to-know, you're helping protect a lie."
"A presumption, Hunter."
"Have you tried to gain access to the laboratory?"
"No," Maddox answered solidly. "I am under specific orders not to interfere in the laboratory."
"Why?"
"That's classified."
Hunter took a moment, pondering. "You know, Colonel," he began thoughtfully, "I didn't ask you to come over here and sit with me, and it's amazing how things happen. Sometimes a chance meeting can change everything. Why don't you do something for me, Colonel? And for yourself." Hunter paused to allow time for any objection; it never came. "Why don't you try and gain access to the laboratory under some pretense. Just ... make it up. Anything at all that would keep you out of trouble. I guarantee you that they won’t let a lieutenant colonel of the United States Army into a facility he is bound by duty to protect with his life. But they will let civilians in there, Colonel."
Hunter let that settle.
"You're the top man at this facility, Colonel," he continued. "If anyone has a right inside that facility, it's you. You don't work for the damn NSA. You work for the United States Army, and it's your responsibility to ensure that this entire facility is safe. And that includes the laboratory."
A long silence followed.
"What is your point?" Maddox asked, at last.
Hunter felt genuine sympathy.
"My point, Colonel, is that Dr. Hamilton, whatever his real name is, has played you for a fool."
Maddox's face froze.
"My point," Hunter continued, knowing he couldn't hurt the man any more deeply, and not enjoying it at all, "is that Hamilton is performing experiments in there that are illegal and immoral and unethical and against presidential mandates and you are unknowingly aiding him in his crimes. My point, Colonel, is that if you, with the full power of your rank as a colonel in the United States Army, a colonel who is risking his own life to protect this facility, are not allowed into any area of a facility that you are assigned to protect, then someone is attempting to usurp your rank and play you as a fool, sir."
Maddox's face went scarlet with rage. Rising from the table, he casually straightened his coat.
"We shall speak of this again," he said coldly.
Walked off.
***
Hunter didn't find any portals sealed between the commissary and the infirmary, but every doorway had two uniformed guards with M-16's at port arms. They didn't say anything to him and he said nothing to them. He entered the ICU and found the professor sitting on the edge of the bed. Tipler raised excited eyes as Hunter paused, but a quick glance at the heart monitor told him the beat was steady. Tipler gazed at Ghost and smiled. Yet when he looked back at Hunter, his expression instantly altered, hardening until the pale blue eyes burned in a bloodless, exhausted face.
"We must leave this place, Nathaniel," he said, heaving a single deep breath. "If we do not, we will be dead by morning."
Hunter approached the bed. He grasped the old man's arm and squeezed it. "Listen, Professor," he began, "there's nothing you can tell me that I don't know. I know more than even you do, at this point."
Tipler stared.
Hesitating, keeping the heart monitor in view from the corner of his eye, Hunter said quietly, "It spoke to me, Professor. It spoke. No matter what it is now, once it was a man. Something ... happened here."
Hunter had expected surprise, shock. Instead, Tipler's mouth closed grimly. He nodded almost imperceptibly. In a moment he gazed at the wall as if he were gazing at the whole facility.
"Those fools," he said.
Relieved that he didn't have to explain, Hunter leaned farther forward. "You know, just like me, that it's coming here." He waited until the professor nodded. He added, "I'm going to try and get you out of here. The rest of the team will fly out with you. They'll protect you."
"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 th
is 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.
Hunter Page 33
