"Dixon?" Chaney asked.
Hunter shook his head. "Hamilton. 'Cause this isn't a government issue. It's private, and has been from the first. The government only got involved on some kind of convoluted sublevel to cover various incompetent butts. I don't what unit is ultimately responsible but I know that Hamilton is the brains behind it. And he's civilian with a lot of interest in a lot of things."
Cocking his head, Chaney had no reservations that Hunter, no matter what form of justice was meted out by the system, would apply his own brand of wrath to those responsible. Although Hunter would probably not kill them, he would certainly use his considerable talent and awesome power to make their lives a living hell.
Brick came to life with that.
"Time's getting close for a killin'," he said abruptly.
Together they turned as the ICU door opened and Dr. Hamilton approached. Strolling slowly, hands comfortably cradled in the pockets of his white lab coat, he gazed with unconcealed amusement from Chaney to Hunter, as if he were singly master of the situation and always would be. Halting, he waited in silence.
Hunter knew it was a power display and he remained silent as well, despising the arrogance. Chaney, obviously, also knew that it was a manifest display of authority but wasn't in the mood for mind games. Staring hard into the scientist's eyes, he stepped close.
"Tell me something, Doctor," he almost whispered. "Why is it that a physician, a healer of men, is heading up an operation far better suited to geologists or computer geeks? And what was of such vital import that demanded your immediate presence here when I hadn't completed my investigation?"
In lieu of an immediate answer, Hamilton pursed his lips. He cast a brief, bemused glance at Hunter before saying, "I see that you have been listening to Mr. Hunter's outrageous speculation." His smile was tolerant. "To be truthful, I myself am in the dark as to the creature's past and his existence. However, I must disagree with the theory Mr. Hunter expounds."
"Which theory would that be, Doctor?"
Hamilton's eyes opened wider and he glanced briefly at Hunter, who remained stoic. "Why, I assumed, wrongly it appears, that Mr. Hunter would have already indoctrinated you about his 'creationist' theory."
"Which is?"
A laugh, and Hamilton gestured. "I'm certain that Mr. Hunter can far better illuminate you on that scenario, Marshal. I myself had trouble completely following it when he graced me with his advanced scientific perceptions."
None of the disparagement seemed impressive to his listeners. Hamilton recognized his diminished status.
"Yeah, he mentioned it." Chaney leaned back on a table. "But I'm not a scientist, Dr. Hamilton. Why don't you explain to me why the theory is so unsound."
"Well." Hamilton raised his eyes, quite humble. "I am not formally trained in anthropology or genetics, Marshal, as Mr. Hunter may be. I have only a rudimentary understanding of these things. But, and please correct me, Mr. Hunter, if I inadvertently misspeak your hypothesis. But I believe that Mr. Hunter suspects that this creature is somehow, ah, a product of science. He even intimated to me that perhaps these stations which are singly devoted to monitoring seismic activity might be somehow involved."
"And that's an outrageous theory?" Chaney stared at him.
"Oh, yes—well, I do not mean to insult Mr. Hunter—but yes, I would categorize it as a bit farfetched. Even if—and I remind you that it is not the case—these facilities harbored the undocumented goal of creating a .. . uh, a creature such as this, what would be the point? This creature has destroyed three facilities already and almost terminated the program. We will never recover from the episode because the congressional funding was a onetime venture that was almost vetoed in the line-item budget. No, for us to create such a thing only so it would cause the expiration of the program would be the most foolhardy of all endeavors." Hamilton's confidence, if Hunter hadn't seen what he had seen, would have been contagious.
Hamilton continued with only the faintest air of superiority. Apparently he knew he'd overplayed his hand and had quickly and gracefully retreated to a pedantic analysis of the theory. He could have been teaching a biology class at a university.
"Further, I have no idea how, in according with the laws of genetics as I understand them, such a thing would be possible." He hesitated, as if someone might offer an idea. "DNA, under perfect conditions, may sustain its molecular structure for two or three thousand years," he continued. "And, in fact, there are documented instances in which it has. However, if I am correct, this is a creature which Dr. Tipler presumes to be from the Pleistocene epoch, which dissipated an incredible ten thousand years past. Now, that is an amazingly long period of time for DNA to withstand destruction. And to be brutally frank with you and Mr. Hunter and, of course, Dr. Tipler, whom I hold with respect, I find it inconceivable that DNA, or even heme units of blood, could survive half that time."
He shook his head, as if estimating.
"No," he added firmly, "think what you will of me, gentlemen. I know that you hold me in suspicion of untoward activity. And, in a sense, your suspicions are correct. There are, indeed, some classified purposes of these research stations which I cannot reveal. Why else do you believe its supervising administration is secreted at Langley?" He smiled warmly before continuing. "However, there is nothing that involves the scenario I have perceived from Mr. Hunter. The most I can do for all of you is offer my opinion on the probability of such an event transpiring, and I would have to say that it is beyond calculation. It would be odds of one against many tens of billions that heme units would survive such a period of time. Then, again, it would be odds of trillions against one that these units could be reconstituted in some speculative, and probably quite immoral, adventure of science with such startling success. No, I begrudge Mr. Hunter nothing. We had a disagreement of minds, and for that I apologize. I will admit that, with a rude presumption of my own superior learning in the sciences, I treated you with arrogance. I am a man disposed to such arrogance, something I must constantly guard against. But to imagine such a phenomenon is...well, it is simply beyond me, gentlemen. I am at your disposal to assist in whatever means are necessary. But I cannot in good conscience agree with a theory for which I do not have verifiable evidence or even theoretical explanations."
Hunter half-smiled, shook his head. "And then there's common sense, Doctor."
Turning his head, Hamilton again appeared to raise an invisible guard. "Common sense," he said. "And why, Mr. Hunter, would common sense lead me to believe that something which I believe is scientifically impossible could occur?"
Hunter tilted his head toward the window where a gathering dark had already activated automatic security lamps on the wall. It would be another thirty minutes before it was dark enough for the gigantic spotlights that would sweep the compound through the night. He looked back at Hamilton without emotion.
"In the last week, Doctor, you've lost three one-million-dollar installations. Several hundred personnel. Some creature—and it's not an animal—has been searching one research station after another, looking for something that you have. Now, common sense tells me that these research stations are important to it. And so far, Doctor, you're the only one who has told me that these installations aren't so important. Why is that?"
Hamilton's anticipated line of retreat was more polished on its execution. "Mr. Hunter, I know you are not a fool. You are a learned man, a philanthropist, an expert on ecology, and an internationally respected survival expert. I am none of those. I am simply a scientist—nothing unique or special—who operates under a policy of full disclosure to the Senate Intelligence Subcommittee. To whom I report four times each year. You have theories, and they may be good theories, and you may even be correct. But the simple truth—if you accept that as common sense—is that I personally find your theory inconceivable and therefore honestly voice my disagreement." He accented it with a stare. "If you had one shred of evidence to support such a fantastic proposal, I would listen most passionat
ely. However, you only have a suspicion for which I find no verification. We may not practice full disclosure, Mr. Hunter, but we are not mad scientists conducting some irresponsible genetic experiment gone so terribly wrong that it cost several hundred innocent men and women their lives!"
Hunter said nothing, and Hamilton's expression revealed that he was finished, both listening and expounding. After a moment of dull silence he turned to Chaney. "Do you currently have any questions for me, Marshal? I came to ensure the welfare of Dr. Tipler, who appears to be recovering nicely. If you do not, then I shall return to the lab. They are conducting classified experiments which require a supervisor for verification."
"Just a couple," Chaney replied. "But I'll make it quick. How many floors are there to this complex, Doctor?"
"Well, there are three floors aboveground and one below, Marshal. It is only a storage area, or warehouse, you might say, for the facility. All of the scientific equipment is located on this floor, and the other floors are dedicated to offices and barracks for the military personnel and medical...uh, I mean, staff personnel."
"I'd like a tour of the basement," Chaney said. "I want to see what kind of equipment you're housing."
"Of course, Marshal. I have nothing to hide. I can also provide you with a tour of the barracks and science facilities if you so desire. I assure that you will have no suspicions afterwards." He lifted his wrist to examine his watch. "I still have a little time. If you like, we could do it now and get it over with."
"Right now is fine."
Hamilton exhaled, as if he were dealing with children that he must reluctantly indulge. "Very well, then. Though I doubt that you'll be able to conduct a full inventory. No matter; we can complete it tomorrow." He raised an arm to invite the tour. "We can begin now if you wish."
Chaney walked forward.
Hunter caught a momentary grimace on the doctor’s face. A flash - less than a tenth of a second – that was subdued by the friendliest of smiles. "It will no doubt be brief because there is nothing to see," he added. "Unless, of course, you enjoy skulking about seemingly endless rows of cardboard boxes filled with computer equipment, food, blankets, or replacement parts for vehicles. You can understand that, up here, so far into the mountains, we must remain quite self-sufficient. It is necessary to keep at least a six-month supply of everything available at all times." He focused with the air of a busy man too long detained. "Could we begin immediately, Marshal?"
"That's fine with me." Chaney nodded and looked at Brick. "Get a feel for the place. I can handle this."
Hunter turned his head to Ghost: "Guard."
Ghost rose on hind legs and put both paws on Tipler's bed, staring down, panting. The old man laughed, and the great black wolf began pacing back and forth before the door opening. Nothing mortal was coming inside without permission.
Hunter turned to Chaney. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go along. I wouldn't mind taking a look around that place myself."
"Got no objections at all," Chaney said, lifting the Weatherby .454 from the desk. He snapped open the breach to make sure two mammoth brass shells were chambered and closed it with a sharp iron click. Holding the weapon midway, in perfect balance, he said, "Let's go, Professor. You're the tour guide."
"I'm gonna stay with the professor," Bobbi Jo said to Hunter alone. "And when the nurse returns I'm going outside to take up position. Probably on the roof."
"All right." Hunter followed Hamilton from the room, but turned backwards for a single step—he didn't know why—to see her staring intently after him. Then she moved her lips to frame a silent sentence and Hunter knew exactly what she said. With a slight surprise, he realized that he'd expected it.
"Be careful. "
Takakura and Taylor scanned the compound, roaming. They checked the fence at one point with a small piece of steel, laying one end on the ground and letting the other end fall over so that the current grounded out. A split second later the automatic breakers reset and they knocked the steel aside with a long section of a severed two-by-four—a safe thing to do because wood can't conduct an electrical current—and resumed roaming.
Taylor had spent most of the afternoon, or what time was left after his debriefing by army intelligence, arming himself for the expected battle. Two bandoleers of shotgun shells, at least fifty per belt, crisscrossed his barrel chest. A semiautomatic street-sweeper—a short shotgun with a cylindrical twelve-round magazine—hung heavily on a sling. And he had a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun in a hip holster. The side-by-side barrels were barely eight inches long; the stock had been sawed off and sanded to allow a firm and comfortable pistol grip. He also had a .50-caliber Desert Eagle semiautomatic on his right hip with clips attached to his combat belt. Night-vision goggles hung on an elastic strap from his neck.
Takakura carried the katana on his back and the M-14 in his arms. He also was heavily armed, with a .45-caliber pistol on each hip and at least eight antipersonnel grenades in his pockets. He had used a thin strip of white tape to doubly secure each pin, thereby preventing the pin from being pulled prematurely. Although the tape made it twice as difficult to pull the pin, a man in combat, hyped on adrenaline and fear, might disregard it.
Glancing down, Taylor noticed the combat trick.
"Nice gig, securing pins like that," he said. "Reminds me of Panama when we were hooching the worst bush you'd ever seen. And some green puke, about two months in, was trying to work his way through a jungle of 'wait a minute' vines. I was at covering distance right behind him, maybe fifteen feet, and he was almost through the wall when the pin on one of his grenades got jerked loose by a vine." He cocked his head sympathetically at the memory. "Never did trust grenades after that."
Takakura grunted. "Precaution is always wise, especially in combat, where surprise is the last thing the dead realize. I suppose we will discover if we have taken enough of them."
"You really believe it's coming? Tonight, I mean?"
"Yes."
Silent for a moment, Taylor then asked, "What makes you so sure? I mean, look around you."
Takakura lifted his eyes to the ceiling and angled them to the darkened hills outside the compound. A stygian cloak seemed to absorb the light rather than be illuminated by it. "It will come," he frowned. "It comes for him."
"For Hunter?"
"Yes," Takakura said with subdued emotion. "For Hunter."
***
He had discovered the outside listening post by scent, disappointed that it had been abandoned. Then a distant, mournful howl carried through the night and he raised his head, laughing.
Yes, the wolf he had slain with a single slashing blow, severing the head and consuming the brain just for the primitive pleasure of it, had been discovered by its mate.
Killing was such sweet pleasure.
Feeling again the physical release he had felt when the wolf's body had fallen, so slowly, to the ground—its eyes blinking in shock as the head hung suspended in the air before it landed on a slope—he growled and turned back to his task, studying the structure.
Wooden logs covered with a thick layer of dirt and brush would have concealed the bunker from a visual search, but human scent thickly marked the air.
Only a small slit cut into the hill had allowed a narrow view. He knew that the entrance and exit would be in the back, also concealed. Yes, they were wise to withdraw within the safety of the fence, a fence higher than any it had yet encountered.
Crouching in darkness three hundred feet from the compound, he saw the soldiers, dogs, guns, and armed vehicles, the heavily manned towers in constant movement.
Frowning, he studied all that was here, memorizing the routine, the location of troops. With narrow red eyes he spied a large building located at the back. Even across the distance he could hear the drone of machinery as the machine powered the fence, the lights. Without the machines, they were helpless in the dark.
Rising slowly, apelike arms hanging with a fullness of refreshed strength, he inhaled,
and his mammoth chest swelled gigantically. Snarling, he prepared himself, rising on an internal tide of empowering rage, knowing this would be the most difficult of all.
And yet fear did not enter his animal mind as he turned, loping high across the surrounding ridge, constantly searching for the tiny wires that had injured him once before, because he had not known the danger. And quickly he was close to the building that roared with the turning electrical thing that he would destroy.
Creeping soundlessly across waist high bush, he moved in.
***
"What's this, Doc?"
Chaney's voice echoed across the near-silent underground chamber and Hamilton moved slowly toward him.
"Oh, that is a backup electromagnetic monitor," he answered. "We are trying to correlate any sunspot activity with the change in the tectonic plate shifts. So far, we have been unsuccessful in tracing any coordination. But it was an interesting theory, nevertheless."
Rising slowly, Chaney removed a crowbar from the wall. "Let's have a look."
"Of course, Marshal, you are in authority here. Feel free to examine anything you wish."
In a minute Chaney pried off the wooden lip and removed the cushioning Styrofoam and cardboard. He didn't lift it from the box, but felt the back, the front. Then he walked inside to examine the seemingly endless rows of food, fuel, spare parts, weapons, clothing. It was a virtual harbor of goods, and Chaney wore a displeased frown as he wandered about.
On the far side of the room, Hunter was utterly still. He hadn't moved more than thirty feet since he'd entered the lower level, though Chaney thought Hunter was also checking inventory.
No, he hadn't moved, nor did he plan to blindly wander the storage aisles looking for what he knew was not there. He was confident Hamilton would have never complied with their request if there were any evidence of guilt.
For certain, whatever they were searching for would be better concealed. And so he turned his mind to role-playing the prey, attempting to think as Hamilton. It was a trick he used when hunting elusive animals; he hoped it would help him now.
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