Hunter

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 this 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.

After checking and cleaning the weapons, Brick stood and removed his shirt. After five years of retirement, Chaney could see that he had lost none of his bull strength.

"We'd better get outfitted," Brick said, slipping on fatigues. "Then we can settle in and hit the rack. We got a ten-hour flight and we'll eat twice. But we'll need some sleep before we hit the deck and requisition another bird."

Chaney glanced over the crate and felt a slowly growing sense of security. He didn't know if it was caused by Brick's cockiness or the awesome collection of hardware. But whatever it was, it felt good.

In twenty minutes they were outfitted for bear. In addition to the Casull and the double-barreled Weatherby, Brick had the M-79 slung across his back. At least ten M-79 grenades were on the sling. Chaney was amazed at how well he slipped back into the mode. It was as if he had never ceased being a marine, which in truth he hadn't. He remembered the code: once a marine, always a marine.

Chaney had opted to carry the grappling hook, thinking the extra weight would tire Brick out more quickly. But upon observing how easily the retired marshal moved about, fully armed and prepared for a meal, he realized that it had been a useless concern. Together they locked the crate and moved upstairs.

"All this recondo makes ya hungry," Brick grunted. "Let's grab some chow."

Chaney was behind him as they reached the short ladder that led to the storage bay of the jet. He was thinking about apologizing to the old man for dragging him into harm's way when Brick said, "Ain't nuthin' makes you feel alive like this stuff. By God, I'm in the field again."

Light splintered and beamed through trees and he moved with more caution, so close to the township. He could smell, even at this great distance, the stink of oil and electric circuits. He could taste their scent on the wind that lofted gently through the moving green leaves, and he angled for the deepest of day shadow.

It was not difficult to remain in stands so thick that no one could have seen him. The trunks were large and long, and provided thick cover as he moved, still unexhausted from his long, fierce run through the night.

Several times he had imagined what he might have looked like: a leaping piece of the darkness, fangs and feral eyes dancing in distant shadows, closing, grinning, passing, vanishing.

His mind envisioned the man — the hunter — who had tracked him so relentlessly. He imagined, over and over, the man's throat in his hands — as it had almost been but for the man's uncanny reflexes — and knew that he would not make the same mistake twice. Next time, he would strike with utter ferocity with nothing between them.

His passion compelled him to run — always run — as he closed on the last research station. Yes, the man would be there…

As the hours wore on he felt the first faint lightness in his stride. He did not leap and climb so easily, and realized without conscious thought— for he had little — that he must eat. Yes, kill and eat quickly, and continue. For the night would be upon him soon, and with night he must be strong so that he might feast on even more delicious flesh.

Dr. Hamilton was enjoying the sunlight, staring at the rapidly setting crimson orb, when he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He turned with a pleasant smile that faded instantly.

Stopping shoulder to shoulder, Nathaniel Hunter gazed silently into the mountains. He said nothing. Seemed as if he never would. And after a moment, Hamilton seized the opportunity.

"Well," he said pleasantly, turning away, "I suppose I should return to work…"

"I know what you did," Hunter said, not looking back.

Hamilton turned, smiled. "Excuse me?"

Hunter said the word solidly: "Luther."

The sun seemed brighter of a sudden, burning down from a wintry sky. Hunter listened but heard no retreating footsteps. Then there was a soft crunch. He waited.

"I'm sorry?" Hamilton asked, staring down.

Hunter was several inches shorter. Hunter didn't look up as he said, "I was talking about Luther. An old friend of yours. Talked to him the other day. He's having something of a midlife crisis. Said to say hello."

Hamilton thought his smile was unreadable — a self-deception he had unconsciously developed from years of conceit, when he assumed his charm and intellect were swaying his listeners.

"Young man," he began, "please make yourself clear."

Hunter turned to him. "He's an old friend of yours. He's changed a little over the years."

"You are mistaken. I do not know this man."

Hunter laughed. "I think you're going to, Hamilton."

A long pause. Hamilton smiled faintly. "You are on dangerous ground, Mr. Hunter. Very dangerous."

Blue eyes smoldering dangerously, like a storm sweeping in from an angry sea, Hunter spoke with cold contempt.

"You know who I am, Hamilton." He glanced to the side, ensuring that they were alone. "And I know what you've created. I've seen it, spoken with it, fought with it. And now you've put me in the position where I have to kill it. So I hold you responsible. I just thought you might want to know that. And something else. When this is over, I'm going to destroy everything that your work has brought. Because you've done something no man had a right to do. You set something free that should have never been set free. It had its time. Its chance. But it was over. It should have stayed over. Your arrogance brought it back to where it doesn't belong."

Hamilton was leaning back slightly. His smile was ultimately arrogant, even genuinely amused. He laughed.

"What…" He faltered. "Please, Mr. Hunter, what can a man such as yourself do to someone like me?" He enjoyed it. "Son, listen, you are stressed. I understand. You have suffered a terrible ordeal. I can easily arrange for you to have a — "

"Luther is as good as dead, Doctor," Hunter said. "Everything that you've done is dead." He shook his head at the facility. "All this. It's gone. I'll see to it."

Hamilton, despite his arrogance, knew enough to be shocked by this open defiance. His face changed almost instantaneously. In an eye blink his amusement was transformed into chilling hostility.

"You don't want to do that, Mr. Hunter."

"Oh, I do. And I will." Hunter smiled. It was his turn to be amused. "When I'm through, you'll be lucky if all they do is send you to prison."

Hamilton regarded him narrowly. "You realize, of course, that I am a very powerful man."

Hunter laughed. "So am I, Doctor — very powerful. Maybe you want to see how powerful."

A pause hung between them.

Hamilton reassumed an air of ignorance. "Really, Mr. Hunter, I don't know what you mean. Denial, you know, is quite an efficient defense. Especially when there is no evidence."

"There'll be evidence, Doctor. There'll be Luther's dead body."

Hamilton smiled. Nodding, Hunter walked away. He was ten feet gone when Hamilton tried to get the last word.

"Situations like these can get persons killed, Mr. Hunter."

Hunter turned back. He smiled, but his eyes were deadly.

"Nobody lives forever."

It was a strange gathering, Hunter contemplated, as they surrounded the professor's bed. Takakura and Taylor stood on one side, Hunter on the other. Wilkenson had been flown out for injuries, and they were grateful. For although none had spoken it aloud, they somehow knew that all considered him guilty of sabotage.

The professor began with a statement that reminded Hunter of the old man's wise perspective, his maturity and dignity. His voice was heavily laced with sadness as he spoke.

"I, for one, will greatly mourn the loss of those brave men who accompanied us into the mountains." The statement was followed by a pause, like a moment of silence to honor the lost. "But there is nothing we can do for the dead. The living are our concern. And that is why I have called you together."

Together, they stood in patient silence, awaiting the professor's direction.

"Chromosomal manipulation, my friends," he said.

Hunter and Bobbi Jo exchanged a glance. Takakura's burning black eyes never left the professor.

"That can be the only explanation," he continued, perilous fatigue in his voice. "I suspected it but was uncertain until Nathaniel told me that it spoke to him, even as we speak to each other."

Knowing of the meeting, Hunter had already briefed the others so that there was no shock. Hunter regarded the old man. "But it seemed to have trouble communicating, Professor. It knew, or part of it knew, what it wanted to say. But it had difficulty."

"Yes, that is to be expected." Tipler nodded. "Yes, to be expected." With visible effort, he composed himself. "My friends, again I thank you for your risk, and your sacrifice, to remove me from those mountains. I know that you engaged in extreme and unnecessary risk because you would not leave me. I remain in your debt. And now the time has come for me to tell you what this creature is, and where it came from, though I can provide no proof. But we are all weary, and perilously short of time. Forgive me if I may seem presumptuous."

Takakura spoke softly. "Speak, Professor. Among ourselves, we make our own rules."

With a smile Tipler nodded, seemingly pleased at the acquiescence. "My friends, I believe I know who, or what, this creature is. And you may find my theory both irrational and unbelievable, but I beg you to listen to me fully before you deliver judgment. And, perhaps, when I am done, you will be satisfied that my reasoning merits some small measure of consideration."

"Go ahead, Professor," Hunter said. "So far, you're the only one that has made sense."

Tipler laughed, then his face grew intense. "This creature that we have tracked and joined in combat again and again, it is not a creature that has ever before walked the Earth. It is… how do I describe it… an artificial species — a monstrous amalgamation of science and ancient man which should have been the work of God, not humankind. And I will explain to you how I have arrived at my observation. Clearly, the creature's habits, his faculties of strength, speed, need not be addressed. We have all observed them. That is sufficient. However, his faculty of speech is not in keeping with prehistoric man, as his physical attributes clearly are. Thus the mystery. Unless the creature is, in some dark manner, the genetic recombination of both ancient man and the modern mind." He gazed at each of them in turn.

"You see," he continued, "we now believe that ancient man was more beastlike than human. There is still a beastlike aspect to our nature, but it has been smothered and controlled by our higher faculties. No, this creature we now confront is not constrained by conscience or morality like modern man because, quite simply, it has none. Consequently it obeys all that it knows, which is the beast within. It is unhesitating, unconscionable, unrelenting, unafraid and unstoppable. It is the purest of all beings because it is totally unrestrained in its determination to fulfill its lusts for blood, or flesh, or vengeance, or any other motivation. Yet" — he waved a hand—"it speaks our language, which means it is not prehistoric or ancient man."

There was a long silence.

Takakura broke it. "And how would you explain such a phenomenon?"

The professor gazed at him. "Quite simply, I would surmise that DNA from prehistoric man survived in an icy tomb and was discovered in this barren land. It was somehow reconstituted and then implanted into a modern man."

Tipler allowed that to settle. Hunter said nothing. He wondered how complicated this would become. He was no scientist, but he had little trouble believing it.

"That is the only explanation," Tipler said. "I have looked at the facts, simply and dispassionately gone where science inevitably led, and arrived at this bizarre conclusion. I believe, my friends, that this creature was once a modern man. And these… these research stations… conducted an experiment which transformed it into what is neither ancient nor modern, but a hideous blasphemy of the two. It retains, however, somewhere within its once-human mind the power of speech, of primitive communication, and the emotions of vengeance, rage, and lust. It is totally dominated by the bestial character of man that was overcome ten thousand years ago." He stared at Hunter, focusing. "You do not merely challenge a beast, Nathaniel. You challenge the darkness within us all. A darkness that man overcame eons ago because it only wrought destruction, and death. Except, now, that darkness is coupled with a dark and terrible intelligence. Its rage has not changed. It is the same. Pure. Undiluted. Yet stronger. Because its major cerebral faculties are aided by some form of modern knowledge, however weakened by its transformation."

Hunter said nothing, holding the professor's stare.

He didn't really know what to say, except that he believed the old man's theory. Nor was he certain what the next course of action should be, since the professor was clearly too ill for an air transport. In a full-blown emergency, Hunter would risk it, but only then. Because the old man's heart would probably not endure the strain. Then Tipler relieved him of the burden of reply.

"Fantastic science is often difficult to believe, my friends." He lowered his head slightly, staring between them — at nothing. "But one tenet is certain: some things do not belong to man. And changing the fabric of humanity — the very stuff of which man is made — is a task best left to God."

Releasing a deep breath, Hunter stood off from the wall, met Takakura's glancing eyes. Focused again on Tipler. "Professor," he began gently, "you can't be moved. You said you want to leave, but to move you now might precipitate another—"

"I know what you are thinking, Nathaniel." He raised a hand. "But this is what I surmise. This creature, it will come. Probably tonight. Because it has been methodically assaulting these facilities, one after another which, in turn, means there is something it is searching for — something its human mind still seeks. And when it comes, it will leave no living thing in its wake. So anyone deciding to remain will be in grave danger with nightfall."

Hunter leaned closer. "Professor, I'm not leaving. I'm staying here because you have to stay here. So is Ghost. And these other people aren't going to abandon the facility either. They think they can defeat it and…I don't know…maybe they can. They're heavily armed with high-caliber rifles, and this facility is far more secure than the others. It won't be easy for that thing to get in here."

Glancing at the rest of them, Hunter continued, "I'm gonna find out what's so special about this place, Professor. And I will be here until I can get you out. Takakura and Bobbi Jo have my respect, no matter what decision they make."

"I'm staying," said Bobbi Jo squarely.

Takakura didn't even reply. His chiseled face and resolute gaze said it for him.

"Yes," Tipler responded. "Just as I presumed." He shook his head lightly. "Sometimes it is unfortunate to possess strong faculties for anticipation. It makes life so much more painful. But, nevertheless, this creature is coming, and each of you will be forced to battle it once more. So you must make yourselves ready, and remove my welfare from your mind so that you are not distracted. In contest against such a beast, who has already decided what it will do and is moving upon that impulse while you are debating the proper reaction, you can tolerate no hesitation. No fear. No mercy. You must become just as merciless, just as instinctive. Equally as animal. And you must accomplish all this without losing your faculties of higher reason, which may yet defeat it. Yes, you must be what it has become, and more, in order to destroy it."

Bobbi Jo stepped from the wall and laid a hand on his. Her smile was radiant. "That's okay, Professor. We're ready for it. You just rest and leave the killing to us." She winked. "Hell, that's what I look forward to!"

A slight raising of his eyes and Tipler made a compassionate sound — something between agreement and amusement. His voice was raspy when he replied, "Leave the killing to you — yes, it is beyond me now. But I wonder… What destroyed this creature before, for surely stood at the top of the ecosystem, virtually without enemies. And yet it was, somehow, wiped from the face of the Earth overnight. I wonder: What could have been its doom?"

Hunter said nothing, because he had nothing to say. But he raised his eyes to gaze out the window and measure the sun's dying arc. He didn't have much time to prepare, so he reached out and laid a strong hand on the professor's shoulder.

"Get some rest, Professor," he said confidently. "We're ready for it. And…it's like you said; something killed this thing before. Something can kill it again."

Takakura and Bobbi Jo entered the Armory after preliminary identification was made according to rules and regulations. Takakura wore jungle fatigues but Bobbi Jo had switched to solid-black BDUs. Her blond hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and she wore dark glasses to prepare her eyes for night vision; the less light she perceived between now and dusk, the sharper her eyesight would be in shadows.

Takakura's eyes raked the weapons as the master sergeant looked on, waiting. Finally, the Japanese spoke. "Give me the M-14 on the wall, the one with a Kreiger heavyweight barrel, a belt for ten twenty-round magazines and a .45 with four extra clips."

The sergeant laid them out on the counter. The M-14, a preferred weapon of navy SEALs because of its accuracy and formidable stopping power with the .308 round, was almost a work of art.

"It's glass bedded with a titanium firing pin for faster contact," the sergeant said easily. "And the .45 is broken in. You won't have any trouble with either of them."

Saying nothing, Takakura lifted the weapon and cleared it. He inserted an empty clip and removed it. "Where can I practice with it before nightfall?"

"Got a firing range at the back of the base. It's supposed to give one minute of angle at a hundred yards. That's as far as the course goes. You want a scope?"

"The eyes which I possess are sufficient," Takakura muttered, outfitting himself with belts, clips, strapping the .45 on with a thigh holster. When he was finished, Bobbi Jo said simply, "I need thirty .50-caliber rounds loaded hot for the Barrett. Seven extra clips. And give me a cleaning and gauging kit."

"No problem," the sergeant replied, and in a minute they were ready.

"I will meet you at the range," Takakura said to her. "I do not go into battle with an untested weapon."

"I'll meet you in a half hour." Bobbi Jo placed the ammo and clips and kit into a small duffel. "I've got to clean and oil the Barrett and gauge the headspace and scope mount. I think all the jostling has it out of alignment."

"Very well. I will await you. After we check the weapons we must prepare for tonight."

"How much time till sundown?"

"Three hours."

"That's enough. Thirty minutes."

As the big Japanese vanished out the door, Bobbi Jo scanned the racks for anything that might penetrate the creature's bullet-resistant skin. "What did the other team member, Taylor, acquisition?" she asked, unable to find anything that might prove useful.

"The big guy?"

"Yeah."

"The one with the scar on his face?"

"Yes," she replied, slightly perturbed. "Do you remember what he took?"

Lifting a clipboard, the sergeant loosed a long whistle. "Man," he began, "that mother cleaned us out. He got fifty depleted uranium twelve-gauge shotgun rounds, took the only .50-caliber Desert Eagle we had in stock and forty rounds for it. Then he checked out ten antipersonnel grenades." He looked up, fear in his eyes.

Bobbi Jo was reminded that the team, and what had happened to it, was not a secret among the rangers. By now, everyone would know that this thing had almost wiped them out in the mountains. She had noticed that everyone on the base was very heavily armed with large-bore rifles and handguns. Just like the master sergeant, who wore a .45 in a shoulder holster, another one in a hip holster.

Beside him, leaning against the wall against regulation, was a World War II Garand, probably the most powerful self-loading battle rifle ever designed. Yeah, everybody knew what had happened to them, and the rest of the stations. This place, if it went down at all, would go down hard and slow.

"Is this gonna be bad as all that?" the sergeant asked, his eyes narrowing.

Bobbi Jo paused, a frown lowering the edges of her mouth. She didn't look up as she nodded. "Worse than you can imagine." Then she looked at him. "And that old Garand ain't gonna help you, Sarge, if you want to know."

He was shocked.

"Well, what will?" he asked nervously.

She shook her head.

"Prayer."

The sergeant's mouth hung open.

Bobbi Jo turned away. "Save the last one for yourself. You don't want it to get its hands on you while you're still alive."

Dr. Hamilton stood outside the glassed-in ICU, staring at the sleeping form of Dr. Tipler. The old man was completely unconscious and heavily sedated so his blood pressure and breathing could be more carefully regulated.

Moving his hand slowly, a smile creasing his face, Dr. Hamilton carefully removed the syringe from his right pocket, feeling the plastic safety cap.

It would be over quickly, and no one would know, he told himself. He would simply inject the experimental serum into the professor's IV and then wait, observing the results. If the serum was perfectly isolated from the receptors and transmitter genes that caused monstrous mutation, then the professor's health would improve immediately. If not, then the genetic transformation would require that they kill the old man. It would be the loss of a human life, but a significant gain for science. Nor did he have any compunctions against sacrificing a few for the greater good of others. Namely himself.

When the serum was perfected, they would never release it to the masses, to the world. No, they would conceal its greatness in the corridors of power, where those who were chosen could become immune to disease and decay and even death.

Yes, it would be easy to build unconquerable power in such a time, to gain control over entire continents, living from century to century consolidating forces, laying plans and pursuing them with cunning determination to actualize a kingdom without peer in history.

Moving through the almost abandoned ICU — a single nurse sat at the monitor desk recording vital signs and making notations — Dr. Hamilton approached the room where Tipler lay sleeping. He nodded to the nurse and she smiled, returning to her work. She would notice nothing, so quickly would he work, and then time would be his only enemy because he did not know how long it would be before the serum assimilated the indigenous DNA.

The creature might, indeed, penetrate the compound and kill many. It might even be sufficiently powerful to shatter the steel portals above and massacre those within the facility, but his team would be well beyond its demonic reach within the vault.

With soft steps — he did not know why he was moving with such stealth because the old man was sound asleep — Hamilton entered the room where he lay and with his thumb carefully removed the plastic cover on the syringe.

Four seconds… that's all I need… four seconds…

He reached up to grasp the IV and found the injection port. He was smiling as he—

A blackness moving silently and quickly around the foot of the bed, a wild shape low and massive, made Hamilton turn and gasp as he saw a huge dog head leading a gigantic body. He took the sight in at once; black eyes blazing over shockingly white fangs already distended, ears standing straight and hackles rising on broad, thick shoulders. Huge and powerful, it stood solidly before him. An ungodly subterranean growl made the tiles tremble.

Already sweating and trembling, Hamilton backed away, attempting to call for a nurse but again found that he had no voice.

"Good… good God," Hamilton whispered, hands trembling violently. "I…my God…" He patted the air, slow and careful. "Stay, boy… Stay!.. Good dog!"

It didn't move.

The opaque eyes glowed like a leopard's.

Finally, since it had not killed him outright, Hamilton realized that it might not, and he found the courage to reach over and quietly press the switch summoning the nurse. In a moment she was at the door.

She focused on the wolf.

"Ghost!" she said sternly.

Not immediately, but within a minute, the wolf backed away the slightest bit, though the uncanny eyes never left Hamilton. The small retreat returned some of his courage. "Nurse," he managed, trying not to appear overly rattled, "what…just what… is that dog doing in the intensive care unit?"

"Orders, sir."

"Whose orders?"

"The orders of Colonel Maddox, sir."

Hamilton paused, taking deep breaths. "Is there some reason, I ask you, why the colonel ordered you to violate hospital safety standards and endanger your job by allowing a dog into ICU?"

"It's a wolf, sir."

"I don't give a damn what it is!" He glared at her. "What is a dog or wolf or whatever it is doing in ICU?"

A commando appeared in the door behind the nurse; a woman heavily armed with her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed in black fatigues, two pistols on her belt and a massive black rifle slung from a shoulder. She stared at Hamilton.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"No," Hamilton said sternly. "You cannot help me. I will speak to the colonel of this intrusion of the ICU and this blatant violation of hospital procedure."

"Ghost," she said, looking at the wolf. "Down."

Ghost didn't remove his eyes from Hamilton. And Hamilton seemed to know without doubt that if he moved one inch toward the old man, he would die horribly.

"Ghost!" the commando repeated. "Down!"

The wolf didn't move.

Her eyes narrowed on the great black form. "He doesn't like you, Doctor."

Hamilton's face twisted in true fear. "I am the senior medical staff member at this facility… uh…"

"Lieutenant," she said.

"Lieutenant," he provided. "Yes, well, Lieutenant, I am the senior medical supervisor at this facility, and I will instruct you that if that animal is not immediately restrained, I shall have him shot." He reached out, slowly, to grasp the phone.

Ghost growled.

"You would do well to restrain him," he added in a low, non-threatening tone, "before the guards arrive."

Bobbi Jo measured the raised hackles, the growl that continued to make the air shudder. For whatever reason, Ghost was fully aroused and she didn't know why.

"No, Doctor," she replied with the faintest worry, "I think it's a very bad idea to touch him right now."

The commandos eyes watched him closely as he dialed the phone. She looked at Ghost again, slight fear in her eyes. "Ghost!" she said sternly, "Go lie down! Go lie down, boy! Do it now!"

Ghost stood unmoving.

Hamilton spoke quietly into the phone and then hung up. His gaze switched between the two of them and he managed a thin smile. "Do not worry, Lieutenant. I have summoned someone to help with this situation. They should be here in thirty seconds. And they will promptly kill this animal."

A squad came through the door with rifles ready. Bobbi Jo jerked her head and saw six of them, fully armed with M-16's, running to Tipler's cubicle and sighting Ghost still poised.

She didn't move from the doorway and felt a wave of panic. As they reached the door she lowered her head to the side.

"Stand fast. Sergeant," she said. "I'm senior officer here."

"But…"

"But nothing!" Bobbi Jo shouted. "I'm senior officer! Get Maddox on the horn and do it now!"

The sergeant, a powerfully built soldier with the emblem of the 82nd Airborne sewn onto his left arm, stared at the wolf and jerked his head hard to the side. "Do as she says!" he ordered another guard and the soldier was instantly on the radio, calling for Maddox.

Then another form parted the soldiers like a ship slicing through water. Without announcement or permission Hunter boldly entered the cubicle and Bobbi Jo turned her head at the approach.

He passed her without a word. He didn't ask questions and paid no attention to the soldiers as he reached Ghost and grabbed the huge wolf by the scruff of the neck, forcibly pulling him back.

Ghost strained against the granite physical control for the briefest moment and Hunter bent, eye to eye with the wolf, before he spoke in an imperious tone: "No!"

Ghost did not move, so Hunter lifted him from the floor by the scruff of the neck and moved him to the foot of the bed. Then Hunter pointed at him, locking eyes.

"Stay there! Stay!"

Glaring at Hamilton, the wolf growled once more and shook its head in frustration.

Without a wasted second, Hunter approached Hamilton and stood in amused silence. He noticed the syringe, still exposed, in Hamilton's trembling hand. Then he reached out, slowly removing it from his grip. Eyes narrowing, Hunter raised it before his face, studying the amber-colored liquid.

"What you got here, Doc?" he asked with a wry smile.

"It is something for pain."

"Really?" Hunter smiled, glancing at Tipler. "The professor doesn't look like he's in too much pain right now." The smile faded. "Maybe I'll keep this for later."

"And you are qualified to make such a medical judgment?" Hamilton's force of personality was instantly enlarged. "For this interference in the treatment of a trauma victim I could have you forcibly removed from this facility. I could even, if I so chose, have you locked up in the brig."

"Oh, I doubt it." Hunter casually handed the syringe to Bobbi Jo. "But you could give it a try. Unfortunately for you, this facility is still under military jurisdiction. So I can't be removed without the approval of Colonel Maddox."

Hamilton was easily taller, though Hunter had the advantage in sheer muscularity over all of them. The physician used it to his advantage, stepping closer. "I want you to know that that animal attacked me. And for that, he will be destroyed."

Hunter laughed out loud. "If he had attacked you, Doctor, you wouldn't be standing in the ICU. You'd be lying in the graveyard. And if Ghost came to visit you at the cemetery, all those dead folks would be leaping out of their graves."

"It is a vicious dog."

"He's a wolf."

"I don't give a damn what he is! He interfered without cause or provocation in the performance of my duties. He is a dangerous animal and he'll have to be destroyed or removed from the base."

"Oh, he'll be removed, Doctor. Just as soon as I'm removed. Just as soon as the professor is removed. And, until then, he'll do just as he's told. He'll stay in this room and guard Dr. Tipler."

Hamilton sneered. "We already have guards, Mr. Hunter."

Hunter smiled.

A moment passed, and the physician's eyes narrowed. "So you are the one who led a team of professional soldiers into a massacre." He shook his head. "I cannot say that I am surprised by your recklessness. As I said, we already have guards but you insist on this insanity."

"You don't have a guard that never sleeps, Doctor," Hunter half-laughed at the ludicrous insult. "And if you have a problem with it, take it up with Colonel Maddox. He's the one who approved it."

"Be assured, I will."

Maddox came through the door, slightly winded. His face was flushed, as if he had raced from the other side of the compound. "Then you can speak to me right now," he said, coming forward. "What is the problem, Doctor?"

Pointing solidly at Ghost, Hamilton spoke with anger. "That animal is the problem, Colonel. This is a hospital facility, not a kennel. Certainly I need not remind you that it is both unsanitary and dangerous to have a wild animal inside the compound, and even more dangerous to contain it in a trauma facility. I advise you, as senior medical supervisor, to have it removed or destroyed immediately."

Maddox looked at Ghost, at Hamilton. "You don't appear to be injured, Doctor."

"The guards arrived in time to prevent an attack."

"I see." Maddox lifted his chin slightly. "So you were in fear of an attack?"

"Of course I feared an attack." Hamilton seemed offended at the tone. "Just as any reasonable man would have been in fear of an attack. Clearly, that is a dangerous animal. A wild animal. It belongs in a cage, not in an infirmary."

"Which is precisely why he is to remain beside Dr. Tipler until we airlift the hunting party from the facility, Doctor."

Maddox stopped Hamilton as he opened his mouth to reply. "There will be no more discussion on the subject, Doctor," he stressed with military bearing. "This is my command. And the wolf remains as a personal bodyguard to the professor until I receive contrary orders from my superiors. If you wish, you have my permission to contact them and discuss the situation."

Hamilton was enraged but spoke coldly. "I will, indeed, speak with them immediately, Colonel. I can assure you of that. We will see who is truly in charge here."

"You do as you see fit," Maddox replied.

Hamilton walked past him. "Believe me, I will."

Almost out the door, he stopped before Bobbi Jo and extended a dead-calm hand. "The syringe, Lieutenant."

"I'll take it," Hunter said as he gently removed it from her grasp. "Maybe the professor would like to take a look at it when he wakes up." He gazed, unblinking, at Hamilton. "Unless it's something you don't want anyone to see."

Hamilton's face flushed.

Without a word he walked out.

Watching him exit the trauma unit, Hunter's brow hardened. Bobbi Jo stepped up and looked thoughtfully at the syringe, at him. "Why did you do that?" she asked.

He once more raised the amber-filled syringe before his eyes. "Just thought about something an old man once told me about how I can tell if something is right or wrong."

"Which is?"

"He told me that if you can't tell if something is right or wrong, ask yourself if you mind people seeing what you're doing. If you'd rather keep it a secret, then maybe it ain't so right after all."

A crimson sun rose higher in the sky as Chaney lifted off in the modified Blackbird from Sparrevoh Airbase. He was immediately struck by the crimson dawn that domed the horizon in scarlet tatters and an atmosphere of eternal day.

But he knew it was an illusion created by altitude. For as long as they remained high, the day would last. It was only when you were trapped in the deep valleys and ravines that night settled so early and without warning.

Located ten miles from the closest township, the four-hundred-acre airbase was still more than five hundred miles from the as-yet unnamed research station. But the helicopter had a range of fifteen hundred miles at its maximum speed of three hundred miles per hour, so they would be there soon enough.

It had been surprisingly easy to commandeer the attack helicopter after the base commanding officer telephoned Washington to verify Chaney's orders. Then he and Brick had quickly loaded the chopper.

Chaney had used ten minutes with a qualified pilot to re-familiarize himself with the updated flight control panel and was impressed with how modern technology had changed what was basically a Huey into a flying limousine.

It was a well-crafted machine with a muffler that could be hydraulically lifted to virtually silence the twin turbos and engine. He also learned that, when cloaked, the only sound the chopper made in flight was that of rotors slicing air. It was also armed, doubling as a gunship. Yet Chaney didn't expect he'd need the 30-mm cannon so they had lifted off with only the armaments they'd brought, which seemed formidable enough.

They easily cleared the first jagged whitewall of mountains at nine thousand feet and the Magellan Navigational System kept them on a steady course. Chaney glanced at the displays as they gained even more altitude to ensure the craft was operating smoothly and not approaching the twelve-thousand-foot limit because the cabin wasn't pressurized. Plus, unless you were on oxygen at twelve thousand feet, a sudden loss of consciousness was a possibility.

With only a quick glance he saw that hydraulic pressure was steady, no overheating or cooling, and that the rotor speed and pitch were appropriate. Rear automatic stabilizers were computerized, and they automatically adjusted to wind and climatic changes.

Chaney had never flown a chopper with computer-enhanced rear rotor blades or anti-torque control, but it was easy to become accustomed to. He realized that he felt a sense of calm because, overall, the Blackhawk was a much easier chopper to fly than the crude but effective Huey.

"How long before we deck?" Brick spoke into his mike.

"It's five hundred miles… maybe two hours," Chaney replied into the headset. He could have used the cloaking device to dull the roar of the engine and the drone of the turbos, thereby making conversation easier, but the ceramic shields also increased hydraulic temperatures. He remembered that the sound-dampening system couldn't be used for more than fifteen minutes at a time because overheating, and possible engine damage, could occur.

"Good enough," Brick replied, eyes centered steadily on the vast mountains that reached up to the horizon. "We'll still get there with a couple hours of daylight. We'll use it to get a good feel for the place before you get down to your little chit-chat."

"Yeah, well, if I get the chance," Chaney responded. " 'Cause if they know we're coming, they're gonna be prepared. And I don't think the good doc is gonna take it lying down. He'll be on the horn with Washington at the first available opportunity and get some interference runnin'. And he'll probably make up some shit about how I'm hampering their precious research with my inane questions." He cocked his head. "As it is, we're already in trouble. They might throw us in jail for leaving that scene in Washington."

Brick grunted. "Yeah, they'll get us for that sooner or later, kid. Believe me. They'll have to. But don't worry about that now. And, in any case, we were smart to hit the road. If you'd stayed in Washington they would have tied you up for days or weeks with bullshit statements and forensics and probably a suspension 'til a shooting review board could be arranged. So you did the right thing. And when this little gig is over, I'll be there to testify for ya. I was a witness to the whole thing, so it won't be so bad. Really, we had no choice. We just didn't go by the book on the aftermath."

Chaney shook his head and frowned. "It doesn't really matter to me, Brick. Whatever's up here is a hell of a lot worse than whatever's back there." He paused. "But all things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

Laughing gruffly, Brick took a second before he focused hard on Chaney. "Just remember your job, kid. We ain't here to kill that thing. We're just here to find out what's going on, document it, and send paper up the ladder. All this hardware is for defense. Let them settle it out with lawyers and depositions and hearings." A pause. "But, then again, we do have a score to settle. 'Cause somebody needs to hang for what they did to those poor girls, and the hit on you. So once we got a good lead, or a head in our hands, we're outta there."

Chaney answered, "Might be easier to get in than out." He paused. "But I've come too far to back down, old man. Too far by half. Going back would be twice as bad as finishing this out. What do they call that? The point of no return? The place where going over is easier than to go back?"

Brick nodded his agreement and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as Chaney stared at the white-capped mountains looming up and surrounding them. He was reminded once more how harsh a land it was, how easy it was to die inside those valleys and ravines, snowfalls and glaciers. Then he thought of this man named Hunter who was reputed to be the greatest tracker in the world, the greatest wilderness expert in the world — a man who understood the wild like no other. And somehow, he sensed, Hunter just might be able to answer some questions.

Only one thing was certain: the enigmatic Dr. Arthur Hamilton would not have mentioned this mysterious tracker — who was so "unimportant" — if he had not, for some reason, feared him.