Thrilled to Death Page 6

  ***

  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!”

  Hunt
er 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?”