Hunter

Chapter 3

It's where the map ends; an unforgiving, heavily forested frontier of permafrost, tundra, glacier and air that froze skin at the touch. Hunter had been here once before, and knew it was an easy place to die.

Countless hikers, adventurers, and even native Alaskans had lost their lives in the merciless terrain of the Brooks Range. And Hunter didn't underestimate its brutality. He knew that it was through respect and caution that a man stayed alive in these mountains. And a lack of either would have only one outcome; the land was littered with legends of those who failed to heed advice and went unprepared into the high country, never to be seen again.

Hunter knew what equipment was essential for the average trapper or camper: a large-caliber scoped rifle, a shotgun, plenty of ammunition for both, an oversupply of preserved food, an ax, hatchet, sheath knife and a smaller folding blade for skinning, a tent, topographical map of the areas with federal emergency stations marked, a compass, rope, rain slick, matches and flint for making fires, a ball of leather twine, emergency medical equipment, grain for two pack mules and a horse, and a radio.

But Hunter traveled light, trusting his life to his skills. He never challenged the forces of nature, he respected them. But he knew he could effortlessly live off the land for weeks at a time and could improvise shelter in even the most hostile weather. So he carried all he needed in a compact belt rig that rested at the small of his back. He also had a pouch on a leather strap that went over a shoulder in the style of ancient Apaches. Inside it he carried air-dried beef jerky, herbal pastes for either cooking or wounds, a compass and map, and lesser-known tricks of the trade for tracking — chalk, a marking stick, pebbles.

He had a single canteen on his right side, though he rarely used it because he would drink at almost every stream, knowing dehydration was a lightning-fast killer this high. A large, finely-honed Bowie knife and hatchet were on his belt and he carried extra cartridges on the strap of the un-scoped Marlin 45.70 lever-action rifle that he carried over his shoulder.

He wore wool pants, a leather shirt and jacket, and knee-high moccasins lined with goose down, and carried no other clothes. The extra insulation in the moccasins would protect his feet against the cold, dry quickly, and allow him to move soundlessly. And he always wore leather while tracking because, unlike polyester or cotton, it made almost no sound when it scraped branches or leaves.

Long ago, inspired by an idea he'd obtained from studying ancient Aztec priests, he had sewn a double hood for the shoulders of his jacket. The lower layer protected his shoulders from rain. The upper layer, descending over his broad shoulders like a short cape, could be drawn up in a hood to prevent excessive heat loss from his head, which accounted for sixty percent of heat loss in the open air. It was a unique and functional design, and Hunter had learned from experience that a hood was indispensable in frigid temperatures.

Traveling so light, he resembled an early American frontier scout — an appearance made all the more apparent when contrasted to the high-tech profile and weaponry of the Special Response Squads he often worked beside.

For shelter and food he would simply live off nature. He would forage as he went, kill quickly and efficiently when necessary, but always moving. At night he would take fifteen minutes to rig a simple but effective fish trap in a stream which would capture a half dozen mountain trout for breakfast before morning. The fish that he didn't immediately eat he would eat as hunger came on him through the day. From years of practice he had discovered that it was a simple, effective means of traveling quickly across cold, high country.

He assumed that this mysterious military team would bear the standard forty pounds of survival gear necessary for Arctic survival. In general, that included a load-bearing vest, or LBV, probably armored with Kevlar. Then they would have a small backpack that held individual water purifiers, cold-weather tents, Arctic sleeping bags, extra clothes and socks, dehydrated food, propane ovens, field radios and microphones, night-vision equipment, teargas, and flares, as well as bionic listening devices — either those worn as earphones or the laser-guided sort for pinpointing distant disturbance.

In addition to that, they would be heavily armed with a variety of weapons from M-16's to Benelli shotguns and MH-40 cylindrical grenade launchers. And, doubtless, they would rely upon the Magellan Global Positioning System for orientation — a fist-sized device that triangulated off satellites to provide exact location, accurate to within six feet. It was standard equipment for maneuvers.

Hunter was familiar with the technology and had used it himself. But it was still a machine, and machines could break down in primitive conditions. So he preferred to rely upon a map and compass and had cultivated his skills at dead reckoning so that he could accurately navigate using only the sun and stars, or nothing at all.

But Hunter knew that the most essential ingredient for survival in this land wasn't something so simple as equipment: it was mindset. For it was all too easy to panic when disaster struck and there was no one to rely upon for assistance.

He had learned long ago, mostly by necessity, to be supremely self-reliant under any circumstance. And up here there would be no substitute for a lack of strength or willpower.

He remembered a conversation he had with a grizzled old trapper during his first trip to Alaska. As he was preparing to venture into the mountains, he asked the old man if it was possible to survive a winter in the mountains with only a knife and rifle. Experienced with the lethal brutality of the wilderness, the trapper had taken a surprisingly long time to reply.

"Well," he said finally, turning a weathered face, "I reckon it could be done." His tone indicated that he had no intention of trying. "But you'd have to have Injun in you. You'd have to be an animal. 'Cause there ain't no God nor mercy up there, boy. Damn sure ain't." He paused. "When I go up high, I got my horse and two pack mules, 'cause a mule is worth any three horses in them woods. I break camp late and set up early, and I don't break at all if it looks like a hard cold might be settin in." He chewed a toothpick. "You ain't planning to try nuthin' like that, are ya?"

"No," Hunter assured him. "Just asking."

The old man nodded slowly and pointed toward the mountains. "The big ol' Out There ain't no place for a human bein', son. I seen some go in and winter it out, and them that made it home… well, they wudn't the same. It changes a man, more ways 'an one."

Hunter knew the words were true.

There were few areas in the world as brutal with rain and cold, and as unforgiving of fools. He knew that if he was injured and forced to survive in those mountains for months, sheer determination would be his greatest ally. Pain could be ignored but any wound must be very carefully tended. Just as food would have to be attentively protected and harbored; it would be endless work to stay alive.

Patience and discipline would be vital, as would whatever tenuous grip he managed to maintain on his sanity. Although under the current conditions of this trip there would be little chance of a disaster, he had learned to always be prepared: conditions, no matter how certain they seem, could change completely and without warning.

As Hunter surfaced from his thoughts he was suddenly aware of the dull thundering engines of the military C-141, its four huge jet engines roaring outside the fuselage.

He smiled at the sudden awareness, for absolute concentration to the point of ignoring everything else was a faculty he had unconsciously perfected. And it was a vital skill when he was tracking.

Amazingly, although Hunter could effortlessly ignore a loud conversation directly behind him, he could simultaneously pick up the whispered clicks of a woodlark a quarter mile away. To the uninitiated, the sound would mean nothing, but it could tell Hunter what the bird was experiencing, what it was looking at, whether it was searching for its mate or just frightened, and of what.

For instance, the woodlark, more than any bird, hated water snakes like cottonmouths. So when a viper was moving in the water the woodlark would virtually set the forest on fire with that distinctive, hysterical high-pitched cry — a sound far different from its other songs and calls.

And, just as Hunter could identify the call to know that a snake was moving close, he knew that particular snakes would not be moving at all during certain times of the day unless something was forcing them. So, in a thousand ways similar to this, the forest could tell you about hidden movement and unseen activity. One had only to know the language of the forest, the native calls of the wild.

Ghost, sleeping soundly, lay beside him on a tarp and Hunter reached out to caress the wolf's thick mane.

Military officials had refused to allow Ghost among the other passengers, fearing the massive wolf's potential for violence if, for some reason, he decided to demonstrate his prowess. And, rather than engage them in a doomed debate, Hunter elected to travel in the cargo hold with what he knew was his closest and most loyal friend.

He remembered when he had found Ghost. The wolf was only three weeks old, and his sire, an enormous gray wolf, had been killed by poachers, along with the mother and siblings.

Though wounded by a bullet graze, Ghost had survived by hiding beneath a deadfall, buried deep beneath tons of logs. Starving, sick and wounded, the cub would have died within days but Hunter coaxed him out with a piece of raw meat and carried him back to the cabin.

It was a month before the malnourished cub could clamber around the three-room structure, but after that he grew rapidly, eventually surpassing the strength and size of his gigantic father. Yet it was his spirit that caught Hunter's early attention and made him laugh; something he rarely did.

Hunter had never attempted to train him, but the wolf's keen intelligence was evident from the first moments. Without being taught, Ghost knew where to find food, how to communicate his needs, when he wanted to go outside. And his curiosity was endless, as was his unconcealed joy every time Hunter returned from a trip.

When he was six months old Hunter let him sleep on the porch, sheltered by a fairly luxurious doghouse that Hunter built from spare lumber. Hunter filled the bottom with a thick layer of straw and an old blanket and installed a heat lamp for cold nights, but he never leashed the wolf. If Ghost wished to leave, he was free to go.

For endless nights Hunter went to bed knowing Ghost was staring and listening to the calls of the wild, summoned by the wolf packs that surrounded the cabin. And then when Ghost was two years old, near full size, he began disappearing for days at a time, often returning with bloody wounds — slash marks of other wolves.

Hunter suspected that during the nocturnal forays, Ghost had declared his own dominion over a part of the forest — of which the cabin was the heart. And after those nights, Hunter distinctly noticed, the surrounding howls of wolf packs came from a far greater distance. Ghost had, alone, won his territory.

His relationship with Ghost had not so much developed as it seemed to flourish full-born. And Hunter suspected it was because he himself had never been close to anyone or anything, except perhaps the old trapper who half-raised him. Just as Ghost had never really had a family. So it came naturally and easily that each had simply accepted the other, each of them needing someone.

In fact, Hunter had mostly raised himself, spending long endless days trapping and tracking, living more like an animal than a child. Before he was ten years old he could see a single track and identify the species, the size, how old it was, and where it was going. He could lift his head and find the scent of what had passed this way hours ago, or make shelters that would keep him warm in frigid winter nights. At twelve he could snatch fish from a stream with his hand, or silently sneak up on a deer so that he could touch its flank before it could sense his presence. Yet it was not until he was sixteen that he did what every true tracker considers the ultimate challenge. It had been a misty summer night, and he had come upon a slumbering grizzly, laid his hand softly on its massive side, and then stolen away, having never awakened it.

Sometimes, lying in the somber light of the cabin with Ghost beside him, Hunter remembered the days when he would spend more time in the wild, alone and living — truly living — than among people. He remembered how, as a child, the white look of bone would catch his eye in the bright light of day, and even now the fascination felt fresh. He could still feel the coarseness of red dirt as he sifted it from the white pitted relic of bear or elk or wolverine.

He remembered how he would craft barbaric ornaments and necklaces of bear claws or wolverine fangs, looking not unlike a long-haired ten-year-old wild child of prehistoric Homo sapiens as he walked half-naked out of the forest. The thoughts made him laugh; he ruffled Ghost's mane.

Hunter made no demands — Ghost knew he was free — but they were each other's ally. And, in time, Ghost had taken to sleeping inside the cabin again, sometimes clambering slowly and massively into Hunter's bed in the middle of the night to lay a paw as wide as a plate on Hunter's chest. Or sometimes Hunter would simply awaken to feel Ghost's nose at his throat; the wolf checking to ensure he was all right.

House patrol, Hunter called it with a laugh. But he realized it was only once in a lifetime that a man found an animal he truly loved, just as he knew he could never replace the great wolf. But, then, Ghost was only three years old, and would live a long time.

In a sense, Hunter regretted bringing him on this trip. But he knew that in the harsh terrain of that hostile interior he would need every advantage. Because, while he himself could be deceived, it would be much more difficult for this thing — whatever it was — to deceive Ghost. Together, Hunter thought, they stood a good chance of tracking this thing to ground before it reached more innocent victims.

Before it killed again.

As he knew it would.

In darkness… no, not darkness, he awoke.

He wasn't naked, as he had anticipated. But he was shirtless, and his boots were gone. The prickly green of forest was beneath him and the deserted shade thick, almost gloom, as he slowly rose. He touched his head, feeling, and noticed nothing amiss; no alteration, no transformation. But he knew what it…what he…had done.

What he had become.

He laughed.

Memories of last night were like an unfocused, scarlet-lit dream. But he recalled the visions much better than before; the sight of men running wildly across his perfect red-tinted vision, screams that roared with flame. He remembered how he could visually register the body heat caused by their stark terror, could palpably scent and taste their horror as he struck, and struck, and killed, moving through them to slay without effort. And in the long quenching slaughter he had found bestial pleasure in the power much, much more than before. He realized that he was gaining with each transformation, becoming stronger, purer.

The first transformation, brought about by his maniacal violation of procedure, had been a shocking and painful experience — a black blazing maze of taloned hands sweeping laboratory equipment aside and devastating whatever or whoever had been unfortunate enough to encounter his fury. Yet there had also been addictive exultation in the pure animal pleasure, fed with adrenaline and lust, and a thirst that was quenched only with killing. It had lasted long, and longer, bringing him on that tide of bestial might into the next day when it faded and he fell, leaving him alone among the dead in a facility in ruin and aflame.

He understood now that, yes, his risky experimentation had been a success. He had not expected to take on the fullness of the creature, not in feature and form. But he did not regret it, though he felt somehow that he was losing more and more of his personal identity — whatever he could be called — as the infection continued. Just the glory, the triumph of possessing such bestial supremacy made him feel like a lion among sheep. Yes he had been successful, no matter the unintended after-effects that seemed to become more progressive with each transformation.

He laughed as he recalled his shocked mind when he had recovered from the first unexpected alteration, not knowing that he would soon glory in it more than he ever gloried in his old life.

Stunned at the carnage he had wrought, he had transmitted a hasty emergency message to the command center and informed them that the experimental DNA had been successfully fused with his own. And further, he had told them that further testing would confirm that their secret goals had been satisfied. Although they were shocked and enraged that he had grossly and dangerously violated procedure by injecting himself, they had been openly pleased that the serum could indeed be transferred to humans.

Within hours a secondary team arrived to replace the dead. And although they were also shocked at such a gory spectacle of wanton, wholesale murder, they were indifferent to the loss of life when measured against the stunning success of the experiment.

Yet they did take prudent measures to ensure that they would not follow the fate of their colleagues. So restraints were set in place to contain him should the transformation occur before the expected hour.

A steel-reinforced concrete room was selected and locked with a steel door that was in turn reinforced with a niobium-titanium brace. Then blood samples were taken for analysis as he waited through the long day, wondering what night would bring.

Deep beneath the level where he had been imprisoned, they would be feverishly searching the DNA strand for the genes that had evolved so rapidly, and had indeed evolved without warning to doom his former coworkers.

Thinking of their deaths, he sensed faint remorse over their coldblooded execution, but strangely did not feel the full measure of regret that he anticipated. It intrigued him as the hours passed, and then his ruminations were broken.

The massive steel door opened wide, and within the frame stood the white-haired man who was responsible for the operation. He knew the man well, just as he knew the man did not approve of his reckless violation of proper procedure. But it did not matter. He had what he wanted, the power of the creature…

Without words, the man departed.

He thought back to how it had all begun, remembering the unexpected discovery of the creature. Clearly an ancestor of early homo-sapiens, it had been miraculously and magnificently preserved by the glacier that had hidden it for 10,000 years in an icy tomb.

Even without analysis of its DNA, the creature's superior qualities were obvious. Such as its fantastic strength and speed, or the size of its brain and the incredible ocular space dedicated to nocturnal vision. The only disappointment had been to discover the reduced size of its temporal lobes, which indicated a lack of higher thinking ability. But that was something nature had obviously sacrificed for the amazing physical attributes.

They classified it Homo scimitar, for man-beast.

And when it was carefully chipped out of its icy coffin and the frozen carcass of a saber-toothed tiger was discovered beneath — a seven-hundred-pound predator whose neck had been snapped like a rotten branch — they knew it had been a creature of truly unimaginable physical power, undoubtedly the fiercest, strongest, most enduring ancient ancestor of modern Homo sapiens.

Debate ensued for a logical explanation to explain the startling presence of viable DNA after so many centuries, and they discovered that the creature's chemical composition at the time of its death consisted of a strange combination of unidentifiable organic substances. Probably part of its floral diet, the chemicals had acted within its system as a form of genetic antifreeze, preventing the cells from expanding as the water froze. Therefore it never completely froze, even despite sub-zero temperatures.

Yes, it was the discovery of the century, but it had not been for science.

It had never been for science.

Hunter knew they would be landing soon and reviewed what Maddox had told him about the support team.

It had been an informal and enigmatic briefing, the colonel volunteering as little as possible. But Hunter had gleaned enough to know that this Special Response Team wasn't standard military. Maddox had said, in a rather strange tone, that it was out of the CMC — the Central Military Commission — which was an operational center under the authority of the National Security Agency.

The CMC, he learned, was the only federal agency not restricted by Posse Comitatus—a doctrine that prevented the government from using U.S. military forces for active missions on American soil without congressional approval. That alone to Hunter was intriguing and distinctly disturbing. For some reason, it seemed, they were afraid this might require active military mobilization. And that didn't make sense.

Even stranger, this hunting party seemed bizarre. Hunter had perceived that much when he asked if this was a singularly American event. And Dixon, eyes hidden, had replied with even more vagueness that it was a unique team assembled from half a dozen nations. In essence, he said, they had recruited professional soldiers who were reputed to be highly trained at hunting not only men but animals as well.

Hunter hadn't pushed it. He suspected already that anything Dixon said was a lie. Even asking him a question indicated a lessening of awareness. Then it was intriguing how Maddox had seemed to spend an excessive amount of time assuring Hunter that helicopter transports would be on constant standby in case of a disaster.

Hunter grunted as he recalled it. Sure seemed like they were spending more time preparing for a disaster than for success.

Rousing himself, Ghost sat and turned his huge wedged head for a brief moment before locking on Hunter. With unnatural alertness the wolf then scanned the empty cargo hold before it blinked, yawning.

Hunter wrapped an arm about the huge neck, feeling the iron strength locked deep as the stone of a mountain in the dark frame, and laughed. He turned his face away as Ghost tried to nuzzle him with his huge black nose.

"Lie down," Hunter laughed again. "I don't want your big ol' nose in my face." He nudged the wolf away. "Go on. Go on, now. Lie down. We ain't there yet. It'll be soon enough."

With the distinct impression of great weight, the wolf settled on the tarp. His eyes, wide-open now and as black as his mane, stared into the sixty-foot cargo hold, always alert.

Despite his self-confidence, Hunter felt safer knowing this great beast was with him, a bodyguard that never truly slept. Even when Ghost was asleep, which was rare, nothing could approach him without his acute senses bringing him to his feet.

Hunter had researched wolves after he adopted the cub and discovered that wolves were very much different from dogs or even coyotes. For one thing, far more of a wolf's brain was dedicated to hearing and vision.

Not only could they hear ranges far greater than any other animal except a cat, they also had the ability to purposefully block particular sounds that they didn't care to hear. It was an incredible natural endowment, as was their sense of smell — the scent pad within their snout was so large that, if removed and unfolded, it could cover their entire head. And their night vision was superior to every mammal but a bat, a necessary faculty for hunting at night that wolves were prone to do. But the most amazing ability of wolves, and what truly separated them, was their ability to hunt by either sight or scent, or both, simultaneously.

Most creatures depended upon one faculty or the other, sight or sound, to hunt prey; it was instinctive. But wolves could, and would, switch in the middle of a hunt from scent to sight, or back again. And they were the ultimate hunters — once they locked onto prey they wouldn't stop until they were successful. But Ghost was special even for a gray wolf. One of his distinctions was his strength, incredible by any standard. Another was his size.

Hunter knew from experience that most wolves were remarkably lean and limber because excess body weight diminished their ability to go for days and weeks without sustenance. But Ghost, by genetic design and perhaps partially because of the care Hunter had given him since birth, was far more muscular than the average wolf, almost overpoweringly muscular. His shoulders swelled with thick muscle, as did his flanks. And his neck was like corded iron humped behind a massive wedged head. Gingerly, Hunter reached out in the half light of the cargo hold and felt for the closed fangs, and Ghost lowered his head. Then Hunter touched the incisors — they were thick as a boar's tusks, sharp and set deep in hardened bone, and Hunter remembered when he had taken the wolf on a track last year in British Columbia.

Hunter had eventually found the tourists deep in the Kispiox Wilderness but it had been a difficult four-day track. The couple, not having the simple presence of mind to just bed down, conserve energy, and wait for help, had wandered dumbly, burning up precious calories in the cold and forcing Hunter to begin foraging to maintain his own energy level. He finally found them and called for a medical helicopter, but then Ghost had vanished.

Concerned, Hunter had tracked the wolf into a tall stand of birch to find Ghost squared off against another wolf — a large gray alpha, leader of the pack.

A bull elk had been brought down by the pack, and the alpha, by definition as leader, would eat first. But Ghost would have none of it. He waded in, and the alpha warned him off. Then Ghost emitted an ungodly growl that made even Hunter feel a thrill of fear, and the alpha attacked.

Ghost evaded the first lightning-quick lunge, struck a shoulder on the larger wolf and was gone again before it could react. And for an amazingly long and savage battle it was blow for blow, Ghost retreating and attacking, leaping and striking with feral fury.

Hunter watched in fascination as they joined in combat for six hours, neither surrendering, neither striking a mortal wound until Ghost finally slashed a crimson brand that savaged the alpha's neck and the gray wolf fell to a knee. But there was no mercy. Not now.

Ghost moved in, slowly at first, and then, in a movement too quick to follow, hit again, and there was a flare of blood, and the alpha lay deathly still. Ghost stood only a moment over the carcass before he went tiredly to the elk and began to feed.

The other wolves let him feast until he was done. Then, as he turned his back and moved away, the rest of them moved in and devoured what was left.

Hunter never forgot the episode, or the awesome, utter savagery Ghost had embodied. It had been a display of the purest primal fury, truly awesome in its power and awesome in its ferocity.

Hungry as he was, Hunter didn't interrupt as Ghost fed alone, though afterwards he fired a shot into the air to drive off the pack. Then he moved in cautiously beneath the uncaring gaze of Ghost to cut several large steaks from the hindquarter.

He ate one raw, cooked another, then air-dried twenty pounds of jerky for the long journey back. And by cutting off one of the massive legs, stripping the skin at the socket, and tying it back to the hoof, he made an efficient shoulder strap of raw meat — enough to sustain the wolf until they reached the Ranger base.

The forest, all that was in this land, would completely consume what remained of the elk; nothing was wasted.

Hunter had often thought of the incident, wondering what savage pride had driven Ghost to continue the fight. But, from the first day, it was clear that he would die before he walked away.

Hunter smiled as he reached out to ruffle Ghost's mane once more but noticed the wolf was staring away intently, as if perceiving a slowly approaching threat. Suddenly sensitive, Hunter turned his head to gaze into the cargo hold. But he saw nothing.

Nothing but darkness.

Standing half-naked in the shadowed gloom, he was amazed that he could not remember his name.

Faintly troubled by it, he slowly raised his hands before his face, frowning slightly, for they were slightly different than before. They were wider, thicker, and tipped with what remained of claws. The transformations were lasting longer, and taking longer to fade, he thought. But that was something to be expected. Soon, he assumed, they might not fade at all. That was well with him; he had grown to prefer that superior state of being — that matchless measure of might that he alone enjoyed.

No, never again would he be one of them — the weak, the puny, the prey. No, he would forever enjoy a higher realm of existence — a physical glory not seen on the Earth for ten thousand years, and which he alone possessed.

Strangely, though he could not remember his name, he remembered so much else. To test himself, he attempted to recall everything he knew about the alien DNA he had injected into his body.

Electrophoresis, he remembered clearly, had categorized the recombinant DNA as ninety-nine percent Homo sapiens. Yet it was the one percent that had demanded their attention and launched the first stage of the experiment.

An aggressive immunity to every disease tested against it had been discovered in that DNA, which contained the very building blocks of life. It was like a battery able to recharge endlessly. Yes, there was not just life, but virtual eternal life hidden within.

For death, he well knew, was simply the aging of cells — a progressive mutation of the body until the cells could simply no longer reproduce. But this creature, Homo scimitar, was not cursed with such a fate as modern man. Although the DNA hinted that there was ultimately an end to the recombinant strength, it was at a level far beyond modern Homo sapiens. Yes, this Lord of the North had possessed a life span of hundreds and hundreds of years. Theoretically, he realized that a thousand years was not beyond hope.

Although the true biochemical essence of its phenomenal longevity was, despite their calculations, a mystery, its immunity system had been readily understood.

A breakdown of the coding had revealed the astonishing level of restrictive enzymes that prevented a foreign agent, like a virus or bacteria, from infecting and interfering with the host DNA. Literally billions of various restrictive enzymes were locked in the helix, a clear indication that this creature had been as invulnerable to virus and bacteria as he was to age — a superior species from a superior realm.

Then the time came to see if the DNA could be copied in modern homo-sapiens. And after performing his own series of tests, he had decided to experiment on himself.

He never even debated his right to inject himself with the coding. He knew that, if successful, he would share those superhuman qualities, and he had judged the potential triumph worth the risk. His motives had not been pure, nor did he care. What he wanted for himself was justification enough for his actions.

But he had not anticipated the transformation to be so overpowering. And he could even now feel the strength growing again, flexing solid muscle that was increasing moment by moment. He could even sense the increasing bone density in his arms and chest and legs, and realized he would soon change again.

He did not know what had compelled his rampage on that first night when he changed within the chamber. He only remembered a dim transposing of visions, screaming faces and hands raised in appeal as his own hands — black claws there — swept left and right with the scarlet world falling before him. Then morning had come and he was himself, in his own mind and with his own eyes.

And after the next research team arrived, replacing those he had massacred so joyfully in his rampage, he had felt it building within him again and knew without question that, when night came, he would be as he had been.

And he was.

They screamed when the steel door exploded before his blow, and a cloud of concrete dust arose as the deep-set bolts were ripped from the wall.

It was a single thunderous impact of his forearm, smashing down with the irresistible force of a wrecking ball that reduced the concrete to chalk and laid the steel flat before him. Then he saw them through the familiar red haze. He saw them backing away in horror, screaming, always screaming.

And he had roared in among them.

But on that second occasion, everything was clearer, and he gained bestial satisfaction from the sheer exultation, the uncontainable exultation of his omnipotent power.

Yes, he smiled.

Like a god on the earth.

Nothing could stop him.

Nothing…

He knew in that moment that he could bring down a charging rhinoceros with the strength of his arms, that he could kill anything living — anything — with the massive might and claws that found no resistance in earthly substance. It was the best of all worlds; human cunning, the fierce blood of the beast, and prehistoric power. But then his human mind was fading, he knew, with each changing. And the changes were becoming more frequent, the beast slowly overcoming what he had been until he would be man no more. He thought of it a moment, and decided he did not care.

Whatever he had been no longer mattered. Tests no longer mattered. Nothing mattered but the power, the endless life, and the freedom to kill, and kill, and kill.

It was midday when Hunter climbed off the plane. Standing stiffly in the bay, he stretched for a moment. Then he hoisted his small pack, shouldered the Marlin and, looking out, saw Maddox dressed in a camouflage uniform walking toward the ramp.

Authoritative but more casual than anticipated, the lieutenant colonel stopped and clasped his hands behind his back, nodding. Hunter saw a pistol holstered at his waist and glanced at the grip: a Colt .45 semi-auto. Standard army issue for World War II.

" 'Afternoon, Colonel," Hunter said as he walked slowly down the ramp, Ghost close beside him.

Maddox's expression altered slightly when he saw the wolf but he had the fortitude not to display the barely controlled nervousness of their first encounter. Still, his eyes shifted jerkily, as he tried to watch Ghost as well as Hunter.

"Welcome to the base, Mr. Hunter. How was your flight?"

" 'Bout like the rest," Hunter replied as he scanned the facility, observing with a wide, unfocused vision. It was a method he'd perfected in the forest, reading everything at once, concentrating on nothing in particular. If something important appeared, instinct or reflex would lock his gaze on it.

This place required no reflex or instinct to see what was important. The compound resembled a battle post more than a research station. Within a high wire-mesh fence sat six Blackhawk helicopters, all armed with rocket pods and M-60's hung from bungee cord in the open bays.

Squinting, Hunter counted eight Light Personnel Carriers — heavily armored vehicles mounted with deadly 25mm Bushmaster cannons. There were at least fifteen Humvees, each carrying an M-60 machine gun mounted on the roof, and maybe six personnel trucks. Hunter estimated at least sixty personnel, which was a lot for a research station. Tin-domed winter huts were set well within the compound in a tight square, and there was a single-level tin structure about two acres in size that was reminiscent of Arctic research outposts located farther north. Yeah, Hunter thought, they were expecting to be attacked soon. He could almost smell the fear in the wind.

Expressionless, he looked at the colonel.

"We have a briefing at twenty hundred hours," Maddox said pleasantly. "Would you like to rest?"

Hunter gently grabbed Ghost by the scruff of the neck. "A little food would be fine, Colonel," he said.

"Ah, very well. The commissary remained open for you and the crew. Please." Maddox gestured.

It caused slight consternation at the commissary when Hunter requested thirty pounds of raw meat for Ghost, but Maddox smoothed it over. And before he himself ate, Hunter stationed Ghost outside the door with a shank of beef, knowing the wolf would eat it through the long day and night, storing up for a time when food might be scarce.

It was a wolf's way, he had learned, to eat continuously on prey for a period of a day and night, knowing it might not eat again for as much as a week. So, leaving Ghost in view, Hunter listened to Maddox expound on the importance of the mission.

"Here we cannot speak plainly," the lieutenant colonel said in a low tone. "But make no mistake. We have assembled the best support team in the world. Every conceivable emergency is anticipated. All you are required to do is…well, what you do best. Track."

Hunter, chewing slowly on a steak, cast a glance at Ghost to ensure that no one was approaching him — an unlikely event in any case. He saw several soldiers standing about fifty feet away, staring with fear and curiosity. But he doubted anyone would bother him, which would be a tragic mistake. Suddenly Maddox raised his head and Hunter sensed a presence. He heard the voice and turned to see a short, square, white-haired figure behind him.

Dr. Tipler was dressed like he was going on safari, hands stuffed deeply in the pockets of a well-worn fishing vest. The chain of a pocket watch dipped on the right side. He was smiling broadly.

Hunter laughed as he stood, embracing the old man.

"Ah," Tipler said," 'tis good to see you again, boy." He patted Hunter's powerful shoulder with a pale hand, standing close. "I heard about Manchuria. Were you injured at all?"

Hunter had not had an opportunity to speak with the professor since returning from Manchuria, where he had narrowly escaped death after being trapped in a cavern by two Siberian tigers fighting for territory. Caught between them as they raged through the cave in battle, Hunter survived only because they had killed each other in the conflict.

Hunter shook his head. "No, I didn't get hit by either of them. But.. I guess it came close."

"Well, good." The old man nodded with satisfaction. "Yes, all very good." He noticed that Hunter had ceased eating. "Here now, sit down and eat, my boy. Please finish your meal. It might be the last time for a while that we might enjoy a calm moment of relaxation." He continued as Hunter took a bite. "So, what of the resemblance?"

"I tracked it for six days," Hunter answered, chewing. "It was ranging high on the Bureiskij Chrebet. For most of the year temperatures are freezing. Could have been genetic, or an adaptation to the cold, but it had a mane like a Caspian, right down to the color. The misidentification is understandable." He pondered it, shrugged slightly. "But it was just a Siberian. Big, though." He opened his eyes slightly at the memory of it. "And seventeen years old. Went about seven hundred, maybe thirteen feet. From a distance it might have looked a Caspian. But it wasn't."

Tipler nodded, solemn for a moment, as Hunter ate in silence. Hunter knew he would need the energy because he would burn more calories in the altitude and cold. In fact, up here he would probably burn four times as many calories just remaining warm as his body would consume in a temperate environment.

"So," the professor said finally. "Perhaps we should concentrate on the business at hand. We certainly have enough to deal with!"

Maddox broke in. "Professor, this is not the place to—"

Gesturing impatiently, Tipler continued. "Oh, I am far too old for subterfuge and lurking about in shadows, meeting under bridges at midnight and whatnot. In fact, I am probably too old to be accompanying your men on this trip. So do not deny me my eccentricities."

Hunter looked up sharply at the professor, then across at Maddox. "What is this?" he asked. He had suddenly realized the air of danger in his stillness. "You never told me the professor was coming on this track."

"Uh, well, Mr. Hunter." The colonel motioned kindly to Tipler. "The professor is, indeed, expected to accompany you, but only as an observer like yourself, of course. And, be perfectly assured, should any mishaps occur, we are very well prepared to deal with them. We can have him out of those mountains and to a hospital within thirty minutes." He made an attempt at utter confidence. "There is no question: his health will never be at risk."

Hunter gazed at Tipler. "Professor?"

The old man's hand settled on his shoulder. "Things will be all right, my boy. I have been, as you know, on several arduous expeditions in recent years." He laughed, leaning back. "Yes, I am somewhat old. And if I suspect at any time that I am slowing you down I will demand my, uh, what do you call it, a…"

"An extraction," Maddox contributed. "An emergency extraction."

"Yes." Tipler waved his hand. "An extraction, as they say."

"But Professor, this is going to be a hard track. And you know how I move. You can't keep up with me. Even this so-called support team couldn't keep up with me if I didn't allow them. Besides, we don't even know what this thing is. We just know it's dangerous. More dangerous than anything we've ever seen. Maybe more dangerous than anything anyone has ever seen. We don't know its habits, its instincts, whether it's territorial or nocturnal. We don't know what it will do when it's wounded or cornered. We don't know if it will counterattack or hunt us at the same time I'm hunting it. I know you're still in good shape for your age, but this isn't a bone hunt, Professor. We're going after something that can kill like a tiger. But this is worse because it plans to kill without any reason." Hunter paused, staring hard. "I think, Professor, this thing kills for the sake of killing."

Tipler laughed sympathetically.

"I appreciate your concern, Nathaniel. I truly do. You have always had my best interests at heart, and you have never disappointed me in your support. But the issue has been decided: I shall accompany you on this trip." He held Hunter's stare and leaned forward, seemingly taken by a thought. "Don't you understand what we may have here, my boy?" He paused. "I mean, have you truly imagined?"

Hunter didn't blink. "A killer is what we have, Professor. And it'll kill you or me as quick as it would kill anything else." In this, Hunter's certainty seemed to temper his tone. "This thing doesn't care about guns or greater numbers, Professor. It won't be driven like a tiger. And I don't think it can be baited or ambushed or trapped. Whatever this is, and right now I don't have a clue, is probably the most efficient killing machine on earth. And we'll be alone with it on its home ground. These people talk a lot about a backup team, but if this thing attacks us, we won't be alive when any backup team arrives. So make sure you're willing to die over this before you go into those mountains to find it."

Obviously grateful for the words, Tipler displayed his resolve. "I understand, Nathaniel. But I am committed to this adventure." He laughed gruffly. "Perhaps, at my age, it will be the last adventure of my life. No need to deny an old man one last stab at feeling alive."

After a moment, Hunter looked down. His jaw tightened almost im-perceptibly, and he nodded.

"There." The professor clapped his hands sharply. "It is settled. Now, where is that big horse you call a dog?"

Hunter shook his head with a faint smile. "He's outside."

With a laugh Tipler rose and walked up the slate-gray ramp to the double doors, and when he was outside they heard his booming voice. Through the window Hunter saw Ghost rear on hind legs, fully as tall as the professor as he licked the old man's face. Faintly he could hear Tipler's booming laugh.

It was Tipler who, so long ago, had helped Hunter nurse Ghost back from death. Without any charge the professor had liberally dispensed antibiotics and necessary drugs and vitamins as he tenderly cared for the cub's wounds. And when Ghost was ill with parvo it was Tipler who had kept him in his own home until the wolf wore out the infection.

For six weeks it was touch and go, but Tipler had vigilantly remained by the wolf's side with Hunter, sometimes injecting near-lethal doses of saline solution and Thorazine to prevent the endless convulsions from shredding the wolf's intestines. But in the end it wasn't science that defeated the plague; it was Ghost's pure brute strength and un-killable will. He had simply refused to die when agony and Nature had told him to die. And after three weeks he stood on weak legs.

Now Hunter watched Tipler laugh as he half-wrestled with the wolf, and knew some part of Ghost's animal mind had never forgotten the kindness. The old man was the only person besides Hunter who could touch him. Then Hunter's mind turned to other things. Darker things.

Finishing his meal, he stood.

"All right," he nodded. "Let's get on with it."

"This creature" — Maddox used a laser pointer on the topographical map—"is moving south in a straight line. It used the Anaktuvuk Pass to cross over the Endicott mountain range. Our trackers told us that much. Then it continued south. Pathfinders lost it somewhere around there." He pinpointed the Sistanche Gorge, located about a mile beneath the pass.

The support team had not yet arrived. Hunter gazed about the room. "You sending the professor and me in there all by our lonesome?" he asked mildly.

"Well." Maddox skipped a single beat that seemed somehow important. "This is not like any kind of team we have used before, Mr. Hunter. As you know, we were forced to assemble them from around the world. And, if I may reiterate, they are the best in the world at what they do, each handpicked for a specific skill. They are soldiers but they are also, to the last, men who are proficient hunters."

Hunter stared, saying nothing as Tipler laughed out loud. Then: "You make it sound as if it is a feat of remarkable engineering to assemble such a team, Colonel. Is it so difficult?"

"No, no," Maddox said convincingly. "We have the best people in the world, gentlemen. Be reminded, we are talking about the United States military, here. However the unnatural events of the past week have caused quite a, uh, a stir, and… uh, in case of some contingencies we have recruited one or two foreign nationals for the team. It is only a precautionary action, and won't affect unit integrity or final authority."

"When do they arrive?" Hunter asked.

"Well… why do you ask?"

"Because the tracks are getting old." Hunter leaned forward. "This soil is hard, good for tracking. But there's still gonna be erosion. Deterioration. And from the pictures, these tracks already have 5 curves in them, which makes them even harder to read. Plus that, a lot of them will be covered by leaves and debris. You've got severe temperature variations in the mountain range, and that's gonna age them even faster because the change in heat and cold will break down the edges. If you want me to go after this thing, then we need to move as soon as possible. Every day we wait makes it more difficult."

Maddox absorbed it, staring at Hunter for a long moment. "All right, Mr. Hunter. From our latest intelligence I believe the team will arrive by early morning. Then you can begin." He moved to the table. "Now, let me give you something to examine."

He lifted a plaster cast of the creature's footprint and almost gingerly presented it to Hunter, who laid it down. Professor Tipler removed his eyeglasses from the front pocket of his vest and leaned forward as they looked closely.

They studied it for a moment in silence.

"Well?" Maddox asked finally. "Now that you've seen a cast of the print, what do you conjecture? Surely the cast can tell you more than a mere photograph."

Hunter delicately ran fingers over the impression. "How long from the time of the attack to the time this cast was set?"

"Approximately six hours."

"Weather conditions?"

"Dry."

"Wind?"

Maddox paused. "It was relatively mild, I believe."

"Was this in sand or dirt or clay?"

"Simple dirt, I believe." Maddox appeared frustrated. "Why do you ask? Yes, yes, I remember what you said about time and age and erosion and how the tracks are affected by these things. But now, having seen the cast up close, surely you can give me some idea as to what we are dealing with."

Tipler cast Hunter a concerned glance.

"Gentlemen?" Maddox pressed. Frustration was quickly graduating to nervousness.

With a sigh, Hunter shook his head. "It's a plantigrade walk," he said simply. "It's bringing the heel of the foot all the way down to the ground, like a human. Normally, when you see a track, an animal is moving at its usual slow rate of speed. But this thing was moving fast. Running. It's probably male, because it pronates. Males tend to walk more on the outside of their feet while females tend to supinate, or put more pressure on the inside of the foot. And it's not very old, because there's not any mulling."

"Mulling?"

Hunter waved vaguely. "It's complicated. It takes years of practice before you can read something's age in a track. Don't worry about it. But I'm pretty sure this thing isn't more than five, maybe six years old."

"You still have no idea as to what it is?"

"No."

The colonel seemed vaguely stunned. "But surely by now you have some idea!"

Hunter was thoughtful. "I know how it moves, Colonel," he said. "I know how it thinks. How it attacks. How it kills. I know it's right-handed, and I'm pretty sure about its age. I know it weighs close to three hundred. I know it's strong and fast and dangerous. But, no, I don't know what it is."

"Yet you said the tracks were vaguely bearlike."

"Those tracks were severely marred, and that doesn't make it a bear," Hunter responded. "I also said they were vaguely humanlike. All I know is that it's not a tiger. And I don't see how it can be a man because no man can carry that stride width. Right now I think it's something I've never seen before. Maybe something none of us have ever seen."

Tipler lifted the cast and studied it before raising his eyes to Maddox. "Colonel," he began, "would you have any objections about sending this cast back to the Institute where we might analyze the indentations? It is an excellent reconstruction of the print, and my people might be able to discern clues that we may have missed by a simple visual examination."

"Of course not, Professor."

The colonel was clearly becoming frustrated at the continuing enigma. He strolled away for a minute. A decision was evident in his tone when he spoke again. "All right, gentlemen, the Special Response Team should arrive at first light. But since you've told me that time is such a vital factor, I'm going to change orders so that they will rendezvous with you at the first base that was destroyed. From there, we'll fly you to the second and third stations so you can study its habits. And from there, Mr. Hunter, it will be your responsibility to track it down."

Hunter shook his head. "Just drop us at the third base. The tracks at the first two stations will be useless. When was the last station attacked?"

"Twenty-four hours ago."

"Survivors?"

"None."

The answer was clipped.

Tipler's brow hardened with a slight scowl.

"Colonel," he asked, "you must have increased your security at these outposts. You must have had more men, more guns, more gadgets. Why is this thing still alive?"

"It seems…" Maddox gazed down as he lightly touched a photo of red flesh on snow, "to understand… things."

Tipler waited. "Things?"

"Yes, it seems to understand our, uh, tactics." The colonel didn't look up as he continued. "It seems to know how to penetrate a security screen, such as the timing of patrols, the formation of flanking. Apparently it does some kind of circular surveillance of an area before it attacks. And it appears to kill listening posts before it does anything else. It doesn't sneak past them, it kills them. Only then does it move into a compound."

There were so many questions floating in Hunters mind that he wasn't even tempted to ask the first one. Obviously, whatever had done this was nothing he'd ever seen. And if he hadn't seen it, it was a safe bet that nobody had.

He knew the only way to find any answers would be at the site. Only by learning to think like this thing could he harbor any hope of tracking it. He stared at the colonel, trying to determine whether something vital was being hidden behind that military mask.

Rising, he turned to Tipler.

"Try to get some rest tonight, Professor," he said. "Tomorrow's gonna be a hard day."

"Ah, my boy, most certainly." Tipler rose beside him. "Thank you, Colonel. We shall leave at…?"

"0500 hours." Maddox nodded curtly. "We'll be on site by 0600."

"Very good. I shall retire now, so that I can prepare."

"Everything you need is in your quarters, Professor."

"Thank you," Tipler waved. "Good night."

With Ghost at his side, Hunter saw the professor to his room. Then he slipped silently into the night and, hidden in shadow, searched through a mound of discarded construction materials. It was a long while before he found what he needed: a long, pliable shoestring-thin wire of titanium alloy and a peg-sized section of solid steel. The steel fit perfectly in his hand, comfortable and cold.

Then he returned to his own room and made preparations through the long night, working till sunrise. When he was finished he carefully placed the improvised weapon inside his wide leather belt with a frown.

He thought that if this thing went as he feared, it might give him a last desperate chance.