Fatalis

Chapter Sixty-Two

"The blips are moving again!" the copilot exclaimed as the Chinook neared the mountain. "Which way?" Gearhart asked.

"Out of the cave-only now there are five of them!"

The sheriff was once again standing in the cockpit doorway. The Chinook had collected fifteen soldiers and six deputies from four separate sites and was rushing to the cave on Monte Arido. The sheriff was peering out the front window at the distant peak.

If the cats were out of the cave, why weren't the soldiers and Deputy Bright firing? Realizing that he might not hear the gunshots because of the rotors, Gearhart grabbed a pair of binoculars from the equipment rack to the right of the cockpit. He looked out the window. Though the chopper was shaking and the magnified view was unsteady, he didn't see any flashes. But he did think be saw movement behind the rocks.

"Get your man on the radio," Gearhart said.

"Sir, the sergeant asked for radio silence-"

"Now," Gearhart insisted.

The copilot obliged. Gearhart continued to look out the window. He wasn't surprised when the copilot informed him that there was no response from the field unit.

"Get us over there fast," Gearhart said.

"Yes, sir," the pilot said.

Gearhart went back into the main cabin, a cargo hold that had been fitted with canvas sling-seats hung from the ceiling. There was also a winch beside the door and a sling for lowering equipment. He grabbed a rifle from the weapons rack toward the rear of the cabin. Then he went back to the outside door, which was located behind the cockpit. He slipped a harness around his waist, fastened himself to one of the hooks beside the door, and opened it. He wasn't going to lose these bastards again.

The Chinook dove and picked up speed. It was moving at about 120 knots. The wind was rough, the chopper was slanting down at a twenty-degree angle, and Gearhart had trouble standing. It would be tough to aim and fire from here. He wished he had fucking Sidewinders; he'd light the rockets and blow the entire mountaintop to hell.

Then Gearhart saw his enemy for the first time. He saw long, slinky golden figures moving through the sharp afternoon light. They appeared to be carrying things.

Prey?

No, Gearhart realized. Not just prey.

Bodies. Bodies dressed in drab green. The entire Monte Arido unit.

Gearhart slung the binoculars around his neck.

"Wilson!" he yelled over his shoulder.

The portly, balding first sergeant in charge of the armored unit hurried over. "Sir?"

"Sergeant, pass out weapons and send three men over here now."

"Yes, sir."

The door was wide, though three men was all Gearhart felt the doorway could accommodate without them falling over or shooting each other. As the chopper neared the cliff, three guns lined up behind Gearhart. The sheriff turned so he could be heard over the rush of the wind.

"It looks like the entire unit has been taken out," Gearhart told them. "When I give the order, fire at any animals you see on the cliff. Shoot to kill; use multiples to clean up any vital signs."

Gearhart turned back to the door. The animals were halfway between the cave and the boulders where the soldiers had been. Because they were slowed by the weight of the bodies, the sheriff was able to see them more clearly now. They were definitely tigers of some sort.

The chopper was about one hundred and fifty feet from the mountaintop. Gearhart leaned into the cabin.

"Hold us here, steady as you can!" he shouted at the pilot.

The Chinook slowed and leveled off. Gearhart raised his rifle.

"Fire at will!" he shouted to the men behind him.

The air exploded with short, hot pops from the Ml6s. The cats were peppered with fire and began twitching, hopping, and snapping at the air as sprigs of red exploded from their shoulders, backs, and hindquarters. The gunfire was constant, some of the animals taking four and five hits as the gunmen shifted targets and their fire overlapped.

The two cats nearest the cave went down almost immediately, their backs and hind legs chewed apart, their skin hanging like bloody rags. Shots to the neck and skull finished them both off. Two other cats, wounded in the rear haunches, dropped their prey and tried to drag themselves forward, only to be pinned to the ground by additional fire. The last cat went down when it paused and used its fangs to scratch at a bloody hole in its right shoulder. It was hit by a succession of bullets that caused it to stagger sideways, though it managed to stay on its feet until it tumbled over the side of the mountain.

When the last cat went down, the other men lowered their rifles and high-fived each other. But Gearhart continued to watch the site as the Chinook hovered. After a long moment the last cat climbed back onto the ridge. It was moving with obvious difficulty.

"You should've been less loyal, you sonofabitch!" Gearhart yelled.

He watched and waited until it was back on top. Then he put a bullet between the cat's large, luminous eyes. Its great head flew back and then the cat dropped forward, its front legs splayed.

The site was still.

"Let's go down and see to our people," Gearhart said.

Gearhart looked at the ridge as they descended. The dusty tan surface was mottled with blood. Some of it in pools and some in threadlike streams. The pools were spreading and the streams were crawling forward, mixing the blood of man with the blood of cat. Except for the blood, the dark brown scrub, torn clothing, and fur stirred by the rotors, nothing on the ridge was moving. They would land, gas the cave, and make sure there was nothing moving inside either. Though Gearhart was saddened by the cost in human lives, he was satisfied that the objective had been achieved. He didn't know whether these tigers were throwbacks, mutations, or animals made from spliced genes. He didn't really care. That was for Grand and his kind to figure out. All that mattered to Gearhart was that the animals wouldn't be leaving that ridge under their own power.

There would be complaints about the fact that these animals were killed rather than captured. But there would be far more complaints if the animals had been able to lose themselves in the hills for days or maybe weeks more.

There would be mourning for the men who died here, though much less than if the cats had been allowed to prey on dozens of other people in Santa Barbara and adjoining counties.

There would be criticism, but there would also be praise. The most important thing was how Gearhart felt.

He had done what he'd set out to do.

He had ended a lethal threat.