It hardly mattered.
The day was ripe and full of promise, and he was here for a hunt.
He had traveled a very long way to get here, had planned and prepared for this. There were contingencies and redundancies. There were weapons. There were maps. There were devices for cleaning his prey and preparing them for display.
He had time, as well. He had all that was needed to ensure that this was a successful hunt.
Of course, others had believed that before, and come back disappointed or simply not come back at all. That was the thrill of a good hunt. The best hunts, the ones that mattered, were the ones where there was an element of danger. Hunting prey that could not hunt back was like stalking a plant that could not move or defend itself.
If he wanted to be a farmer, he would grow crops.
He wanted blood. He wanted the thrill of a target that could bare its teeth and strike hard enough to kill. There were creatures on this planet that thrived on bloodshed. How could that not be a thing of beauty?
A few buttons pushed on the wrist gauntlet, and his ship was hidden away.
He was tempted to take off his war mask and breathe the air here. According to his father the atmosphere was thin and tasted of pollutants, because the locals were still not wise enough to care for their own world. There had been a time when the whole planet was cooler. It had been harder to endure the climate then, and find a good hunting spot, but these days it was almost as if the local inhabitants wanted to be targeted, hunted, and killed.
Sometimes the prey made it easy to find them.
In the distance an avian let out a high, loud screech. Closer by, a primitive motor pushed a vessel over the surface of a local waterway.
Behind his war mask he bared his teeth in a battle grin.
The hunt was on.
* * *
The heat was staggering. Neal Foster had grown up in Florida and had lived near the Okefenokee his entire life, but he couldn’t remember a time when the heat and the sticky humidity had mixed together so perfectly, to leave every person covered in a layer of sweat.
Next to him on the skiff, Cooper Monroe was scratching at the back of his neck. He moved so violently that the boat actually shifted a bit.
“One more goddamn mosquito bites me,” he growled loudly enough to be heard over the motor, “I swear I’m burning everything in sight.”
“I told you to put on the repellant. Do you listen to me? No.” Foster knew the truth. Coop was happiest when he was bitching.
“I put the shit on my skin,” he protested. “Then I sweated it off. Fuckin’ rip-off.”
Foster chuckled. “Well, maybe you should move back up to North Carolina,” he said. “Won’t catch any ’gators, but you won’t sweat quite as much, either.”
“Just as hot there as it is here.”
“That’s a certified pile of bullshit.” If there was a certain sense of pride in Foster’s voice when he talked about how miserable it was to live in Florida in this kind of heat, it was only because he’d endured it so many times over the years. The Okefenokee in the summertime held a promise of a special sort of misery, and the mosquitoes were a part of it, of course. The nasty bastards should have been claimed as the state bird, especially in this area. His mom used to joke about the damned things carrying babies away late at night. He figured she wasn’t too far off the mark.
“Might not be true,” Coop said, “but it’s close.”
Foster peered out over the water. “We might have to go home—even the ’gators are staying away in this heat.”
“What? And waste three hours? We still have beers.” Coop was grinning as he spoke. That was one of the things Foster liked about the man. He had the right priorities, and a proper sense of humor. Even bad jokes were funny if you had enough beers in you.
They moved in under the cypress trees, into the shadows that danced on the water. Coop turned his head sharply and he frowned. It wasn’t a look of anger or disappointment so much as it was concentration. He had what Foster’s mom had laughingly called his “resting psycho face.” Whenever he started thinking, he looked like he wanted someone dead.
“What’s up?”
“Hang on. I think I saw something.” There were cypress trees all around them, and the area was half obscured by the veils of Spanish moss draping across the northern branches of the things. Down and up alike they were heavy, and the stains of algae on the water were clear to the naked eye. Nothing moved in that water— Foster would have seen it.
He looked at Coop and followed his gaze to where the man was staring. There was nothing to see.
“You think it’s a cop?” He kept his voice low. Alligators were technically on the endangered list. They weren’t exactly supposed to be hunting for the massive reptiles, strictly speaking, and there were ugly fines and jail time to be considered.
“Not unless cops move in the branches.”
Foster grinned. “Most of the cops in Coyahunga County couldn’t climb a tree if they had to.” He wasn’t completely wrong. Maybe half could do it, but they’d be pissed off about it. The other half tended to be a bit out of shape. Not obese, exactly, but working in that direction. Southern cooking did that to a man.
“I’m telling you I saw something,” Coop replied. “Might be those bastards are using drones to film us.”
Well, shit, that was a serious consideration. Photographic evidence and all that. He gestured for Coop to hand him the bag with the shotgun. He wasn’t exactly an Olympic-level skeet shooter, if such a beast existed, but he could take down a drone if he had to, and would if they spotted one.
“I don’t like that idea, Coop. Not even a little.” The shotgun came out and was loaded in a matter of seconds. He could have done the job with his eyes closed.
“Ain’t going on my list of top tens any time soon.”
“I’m guessing we should head home. This just isn’t the right day for ’gators.”
“Isn’t the right day.”
From ten feet away, to the north, he heard the words echoed very clearly. The sound came from above him, and something was off about it. Without even thinking about it Foster took aim with the double barrels. He didn’t pull the trigger, though—he wasn’t stupid, just a little paranoid now that drones were a consideration.
Three points of red light struck his left eye and he squinted against the unexpected glare.
What the hell?
Coop shouted, “Don’t move! They’ve got a laser sight on your head.”
“From a goddamned drone?” he said, panic running through him. “What? Is it armed now?” Still, he listened. Better not to take any chances.
Then the light was gone, and a second later three points of red were painting the side of Coop’s head.
“Jesus, Cooper. What the fuck is that?”
“Isn’t the right day,” came the voice again, and Foster looked up.
Something moved above them. The branches of the cypress tree groaned audibly. Whatever it was, he couldn’t see it—it must have been camouflaged. There was motion, but his eyes wouldn’t focus on anything. The branches and the green and the cloudy blue sky were all there, but distorted, sort of like a bad picture on a computer screen.
Foster adjusted the shotgun a bit. “Whoever’s out there, I’m not playing with you,” he said loudly.
“Not playing.” The words were closer now, and he swung the shotgun around, aiming almost directly above them. Wood creaked and the leaves above his head rustled. There was something on the closest branch of the heavy tree, or maybe just above it. Maybe it was a drone, with a loudspeaker. That would explain the weirdness of the voice.
Enough. He had no intention of getting tagged by the cops.
The report from the 12-gauge was like thunder. It was just a warning shot. Several birds took flight at the sound, and at the same time, the shotgun was ripped from Foster’s hand, causing him to bellow in pain. He wasn’t a weak man, and he’d had a firm grip, but the weapon was wrenched away an
d his index finger—still tucked in the trigger guard—snapped in half.
Then his chest was torn open as twin metal trenches appeared in Foster’s torso, and blood started to spurt out. At first it seemed surreal, and he didn’t feel anything, then the pain slammed through him. His limbs stopped working and he fell backward in the skiff. Through dimming eyesight he saw his friend.
Something violent happened to Coop’s throat.
4
The general was speaking and they listened. It was the same old business. More preparation, more possibilities of covert ops to keep them ready for when the time came. The old man was stressed. They could all see it, but no one said anything.
“So that’s where we stand, gentlemen,” Woodhurst said. “I’m heading back to DC again to work out the details of our funding. In the meantime, as always, you keep up your training with Mr. Elliott.”
The general did not have to give a sign that he had finished. They knew him well enough, and so as one they rose from their seats.
“Yes, sir!” they said in unison. A moment later Woodhurst was gone, and they settled into their seats again to listen to Elliott. The look on his face was even more telling.
“The general’s being nice, he’s not saying how bad it is. There’s a serious chance of getting our budget cut again, and that means there’s a decent likelihood that Stargazer will be eliminated.” He stopped to let that sink in.
Traeger didn’t say a word. None of them did. They weren’t supposed to, and they knew it.
“I got a report or two already from your last visit out of country. All I can say is, good work. That’s a nest of snakes that won’t bite anyone again.” He looked pleased now, then his expression changed. He seemed to be searching for something he wanted to say.
“So, listen, straight shit time. I know what all of you signed on for, and I want that, too—more than you know. I want us to find and capture one of these aliens. I mean that. I’ve seen one, I’ve fought one, and I’ve watched the bastard kill a lot of good men.” His expression hardened. “We need to get our hands on one of them just to level the playing field. Forget all the rest of it—we need a win, boys, and I don’t mean a win for the Agency.
“You’ve been doing a damned fine job, and making me look good in the process.” Elliott smiled. “But we need the real deal, and there’s nothing you or I can do about that. We don’t have any secret way of contacting the aliens— picking up our goddamned smartphones and calling them. If we did this would all be easier. I’m just…” He paused a moment, and looked around the room, making eye contact with each member of the team.
“Just make sure you stay ready,” he said. “That’s all. I have a feeling. It’s damned hot out there, and I think sooner rather than later we’re going to be hunting one of these bastards down. At least I sure as hell hope so.”
Elliott rolled his shoulders and shook his head.
“Go get some rest while you can.”
Tomlin nodded and stood up. It was another variation of the same speech they’d had a dozen times before. “Be prepared, hurry up and wait.” Military speak for “sometime, maybe soon, maybe not.” He could see it in the expressions on the rest of the Reapers. They felt the same way—except for Strand, who looked ready to get drunk and wild. He wouldn’t go far, but odds were the man would soon be killing a few thousand enemies on a video game while he knocked back a twelve-pack.
It was time for them to blow off steam, and Tomlin decided to let it go. He could have reminded them that technically they were always on call, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good. He couldn’t push too hard when downtime came around.
Pulver, Burke, and King headed for the mess hall, and Tomlin thought that sounded like a mighty fine idea. Chow and coffee were two of his favorite ways to relax, and he could do both while he finished filling out the reports.
Hill would do what Hill always did—a shower and then off to work out. He could hardly be number one if he was idle. Orologas was already chasing after Elliott and hoping that, maybe, somehow, the old man had found another sound bite to play with.
The communications specialist came to a stop when Traeger showed up. The man in the gray pinstriped suit and crisp white shirt held up one hand, and Orologas put on the brakes. Traeger had the clothing and all the right expressions and gestures to come across as a smooth operator. He always had a smile and flawlessly paid attention to whatever it was someone was saying to him. He was courteous and polite, efficient and friendly.
Tomlin trusted him not at all.
Traeger was too smooth, too friendly, and just a little greasy under his six-hundred-dollar suit. Generally he wore fatigues, but not when he was traveling. Smiling a silent thank you to Orologas, he moved over to Elliott with a confident stride.
“Just making sure I got this right, Pappy,” he said. “I’m going to DC with the general?”
Elliott nodded his head. “I can’t be in two places at once, and last I checked you were the man with the ability to sweet talk an angry mob.” He smiled at his own joke. “They may not be angry, but the subcommittee is definitely a mob.”
“Just making sure,” Traeger responded. “The general said it, but you know I answer to you.”
Elliott smiled indulgently. “It’s you. We need a push. They’re trying to cut us apart, William. I can’t go in there and work a group of politicians as well as you can. We should always know our strengths, and we definitely need to know our weaknesses, so if you could do this for me, I’d appreciate it.”
Traeger smiled. “Like I need an excuse to get out of this heat?” He let out a small chuckle. “I’ll be on the next plane.”
“I appreciate you, William.” Elliott clapped the younger man on the shoulder and headed for his office. “Never doubt that.” As he reached the door, he turned and said, “Remember, though—that place is built on a swamp.” Then he disappeared out into the hall. Once in his office, Elliott would sit there and wait patiently until Tomlin delivered his report.
That was one reason Tomlin always tried to be prompt.
When Elliott was sitting alone in his office, there was a chance he would do something foolish. It had only happened twice, but Tomlin was aware that Pappy liked to take a nip now and then to calm his nerves. Nothing major, never enough to cloud his judgment, but that wasn’t the point.
He had a reputation among certain people for being a whack-job. He was a damned fine instructor, and he took his work seriously, but just as the people in Washington were having trouble with the idea of aliens, a lot of the folks around Stargazer had trouble with the notion that Elliott was alive when he’d lost an entire team in a combat zone.
No one really said anything, but they didn’t need to, either. Anyone who worked in the military long enough learned how to read faces. It was the side glances and small expressions that people made when Pappy walked past that told Tomlin what he needed to know.
Despite his desire to take Tomlin’s place, more than once Hill had expressed concern over those looks. To Tomlin’s knowledge Hill had never caught that whiff of alcohol on the man’s breath. He wondered how Hill would react if he did.
Alcoholism was a bad thing. It might be a disease, according to a lot of people, but there was no place in the military for men too weak to control their baser urges. At least not if the men were in charge. It was a weakness in the eyes of most, and Elliott suffered from that weakness. Tomlin intended to make sure it didn’t bite the man too hard, at least not before the Stargazer group was set up to last.
It was a situation that needed watching. To that end Tomlin hustled himself to the commissary with his iPad and got down to the business of eating and writing reports.
* * *
Elliott didn’t need to write any reports. He’d already handled that before he sent the Reapers into action. The plan was direct and when it was all said and done, the Reapers had done their job.
He would forward the paperwork from Tomlin and Hill, and add a note if he needed to,
but probably he wouldn’t waste his time. The boys knew what they were doing. If he’d had any part in teaching them the importance of their work, so much the better.
His hands were shaking. He hated that more than he could ever express. It didn’t happen every damned time the weather pushed over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, but it happened often enough. Roger Elliott was a man who was haunted by his past. He knew it, and so did the people above him, but there were benefits that compensated for the risks of his situation.
For one thing, he was the only man they could convince to work with them who had ever run across one of the hunting aliens and lived to tell about it. That alone had made him indispensable—up to now.
Elliott sat down on his bed and considered that while he grabbed a smoke. It was a damned stupid habit, and he’d given up cigarettes a dozen times, but now and then he’d get a bad case of the shakes and it was tobacco or booze. The demon alcohol was harder to break free from, so the cigarettes won again.
He felt himself wheeze as he took in the smoke, but held it just the same and let the nicotine soothe away the worst of his frayed nerves. The head rush was enough to make him want to close his eyes and sleep, but that wasn’t an option. Instead he lay back and he remembered the reason he was here.
Hanoi had been enlightening.
Saigon was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measures. People got dead over there. People got changed over there.
Roger Elliott got changed.
* * *
How long had they been in the jungle? He couldn’t begin to say. All he knew was that the Viet Cong were getting closer and it was his job, along with a small handful of others, to make sure their friends in the south repelled the bastards.
To that end they were training a select handful of Vietnamese in the fine art of terrorist explosives, and educating the same lot on propaganda and psyche techniques. It was grisly work, but somebody had to do it.
The Predator Page 3
