Hunter (29 page)

He had leaped right, dropping thirty feet to the ground and rising to run through the forest with enormous leaping strides until he reached their stream. There he had launched himself viciously into the air to land catlike on a dry boulder where he had continued his momentum, casting himself high into the air to gain ground on their side. Then he had moved uphill and west, passing them far on the ridge and down again, where he had entered the cavern before them.

Now he rested on a ledge, breathing heavily from the tremendous exertion but feeling his monstrous body galvanized by the flesh of the beast he had slain. He was strong, stronger by the moment, and a trembling set into his arms and legs, an anticipation of slaying them in the dark as they wandered unknowingly into his path.

From his narrow view, he had watched the man fashion the torches— the fire—and knew they would bring the fire with them.

Creeping silently back until he was well out of whatever meager light the pitiful fire would hurl in the narrow rock-walled corridor, he threw back his hideous head and laughed.

Yes, bring your fire to me
... we will see who is afraid ...

***

"Are you Dixon?"

Special Agent Dixon of the Central Intelligence Agency looked up at the sharp rap on the door, his eyes flicking down to check the valid pass
and the United States Deputy Marshal credentials the man casually presented.

"I'm Dixon." He rose with the words. "I assume you're Marshal Chaney."

"I'm Chaney. I'd like to talk to you."

Dixon smiled, reaching out to shake. "Sure. Have a seat."

Chaney had already moved into the room, noticing as he shook hands that Dixon was a typical-appearing career man: white shirt, dark coat, dark tie, short-cut hair swept back, pale from too many hours under fluorescent lights, and eyes that seemed none too friendly. Chaney took a seat opposite him. He had been careful not to bring any notes, nor did he indicate that he would take any.

Reasons for that were twofold. First, Chaney wanted to scare Dixon, if he were truly involved in the subterfuge. And second, he wanted Dixon's immediate attention and respect. He had learned that other federal agents who didn't bother with recordings scared Agency people.

Chaney settled back into the chair, almost relieved at the atmosphere, though he knew he was on hostile ground.

With Gina he had been woefully, inadequately out of his league. But here, surrounded by policy and procedure, rules and regulations and the aura of secrets, clearances, and easy betrayal, he was at home. He waited for a moment, just to see what Dixon would do, measuring the man's temperament. But Dixon only leaned back and gestured casually.

"Well, Marshal," he began, in a cooperative tone, "I'm at your disposal and I'll help anyway I can. Of course, you're aware of restraints placed by Article 2453 negating any—"

"I'm aware, Mr. Dixon."

Chaney accented his response with a curt nod to indicate that he wouldn't allow the direction of his investigation to be derailed by regulations or policy. Nor would he allow his concentration to be distracted by protocol.

With Dixon, Chaney felt, it was best to play from strength.

"Ah, good." Dixon leaned forward, aggressive. "Then how can I help you?"

Chaney wanted to set the board up clean, so he didn't hesitate, didn't use a friendly tone, didn't couch anything in polite or tactful terminology. "Tell me about these so-called research stations that run under this program from the Arctic Circle," he began. "The ones where all the soldiers and personnel were injured or killed. I don't have to tell you that I'm investigating them."

Dixon opened his eyes wider and released a deep breath. He shook his head. "Frankly, Marshal, I'm as confused as anyone else. I don't know what is happening, really. All I know for certain is that the program has suffered setbacks due to the violent interference of some type of animal that is attacking our personnel."

"Yeah, I know that much." Chaney held the CIA man's eyes, watching for the slightest flicker. "What, exactly, are these stations designed to achieve?"

"Just geochronology and monitoring of tectonic plate movement." Dixon was all business. "It's a simple affair, really. Virtually every major country has some type of research station in the Arctic. Some are in international territory. Ours are on our own turf, in Alaska." He leaned back, shaking his head with more emphasis. "I can't really tell you why this bear or tiger or whatever the hell this thing is has singled out the stations. I've had people working on it. They say it might be related to radiation, or low-frequency sounds that could be attracting it, but that's all I can tell you. I'm not a scientist."

"Neither am I, Dixon," Chaney answered, purposefully dropping the "Mr." Then: "I only know that the information I've dug up so far indicates that these ... facilities ... are engaged in something more than seismic monitoring."

Dixon tilted his head. "Oh? And how would you reach that conclusion? Because that's certainly beyond any information that I've obtained."

"I can't reveal my sources," Chaney said, finding faint pleasure in the baiting. "But I believe the stations are engaged in some sort of biological research."

There was no hesitation at all in Dixon's reply. "Really?" He followed with a deliberate pause, as if he were seriously absorbing and considering the weight of it. "I did not know that. Just how accurate do you believe this information is, Mr. Chaney?"

"Accurate enough. It fits."

Silence.

"I see," Dixon responded at last. "So
...biological research, you say. Now ... of course, you know I can't move on that information unless I have corroboration."

It was the moment Chaney had been waiting for, but he didn't know it until it came. "You don't have to corroborate it. I already have. And I don't care for you moving on it, either. I'm gonna do that personally." He leaned slightly forward. "Tell me about this hunting party you have up there, Dixon. Certainly that information is not classified under the
Posse Comitates
threshold of' Top Secret and Above! "

"Well," Dixon responded, tapping the desk with a pencil, "I believe that they are an elite unit of specially recruited soldiers highly qualified for jungle survival and experienced at hunting both animals and men. They are all experts in small arms, veterans of combat, decorated to a man, or woman, and possessing appropriate security clearances."

It was just what Chaney had expected to hear; there had been no mention of this man named Hunter.

"What about the guide?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Nathaniel Hunter."

"Oh, yes." Dixon waved vaguely. "According to those who selected him for the mission, he is the best wilderness tracker, as they call it, in the world. Seems like he can find anything in the jungle, the forest, the desert, wherever, and capture it or kill it. I didn't have the responsibility of verifying his credentials, so I really have no idea. Nor did I select him. That was beyond my pay grade."

"Did you ever meet him?"

"Oh, yes, but only for a moment. And it wasn't the type of engagement where you can make a studied analysis." Dixon's face and eyes revealed nothing. He could have been reciting a laundry list. Chaney was impressed. "But in the few moments I shared with him," Dixon continued, "I came to appreciate his understanding of these things. I had no objection to allowing him on the team. We did, after all, need someone who could hunt this bear down and kill it before it caused further damage to the program."

"You keep saying that." Chaney didn't blink.

Seemingly surprised, Dixon looked straight at him, innocent. "Saying what, Mr. Chaney?"

"Saying it was a bear."

Dixon blinked, studious. "Well, what else could it be? Unless a tiger swam the Bering Strait—unlikely—then it would have to be a bear. I have, after all, read reports on the attacks." He shook his head, a jerk. "The loss was ...horrendous. Nor am I a man easily disturbed by carnage. It is my profession to remain dispassionate and unaffected by such things. They color judgment. But upon reading the descriptions of such wholesale murder, I knew that we were facing a beast of incalculable strength. As only a bear would possess. And a rather large member of its species, at that."

Chaney decided to change tack; this was going nowhere. He decided to fall back on one of Brick's oldest rules: when lying doesn't work at all, try using half the truth. Just remember to always mix it with enough lies to keep them off balance.

"Do you believe this creature might be a mutation?" he asked.

Dixon gazed at him, open and honest. "Mutation?" He let the question hang. "Well, Mr. Chaney, I believe I already told you that I don't know anything about any
... mutations or experimentation ... at those stations. However, I do not rule out the supposition. I have been in intelligence too long to doubt any concept, however illogical and bizarre it may seem."

"Is it bizarre?" Chaney said, deciding he wasn't going to let up. "What would be so bizarre? 'Cause these stations are perfect for it. They're isolated, easy to quarantine. The area is largely unpopulated, and far beyond executive supervision. Anything is possible in those backwoods, especially if the U.S. government is picking up the tab. Surely, Dixon, you're aware of that."

Dixon was nodding. "Yes, yes, Mr. Chaney, I am aware of the theory, and the history, of similar events. But that is not to say that I will believe it unless I have incontestable proof to present to my supervisors. They are not men ...who suffer fools. And they consider anyone who makes an unconfirmed estimation of a crisis as an ignorant man—the kind of agent that is never promoted or trusted."

Chaney's eyes were focused like lasers, unblinking and sharp. "Have you investigated to see whether there were other forms of research beyond seismic monitoring occurring at these stations?"

He nodded. "Yes, according to policy our sanitation crew always performs analysis on disks, records, logs, and military reports. We operated according to the procedure, and found nothing to convince me that there were anything but legitimate tasks being performed by the personnel and their on-site supervisors."

"I want to see the records."

"That is not possible."

"I can obtain a subpoena."

"Well," Dixon replied, "you must do as you see fit, Mr. Chaney. But I assure you that those records, which are highly classified, will reveal nothing to you." He paused. "If you are insistent I can ask the director for permission, and perhaps in three or four days you can peruse the less classified sections."

Chaney knew not to go for that one. In three days they could manufacture any kind of false records about the activities of the installations. Then he remembered what Brick had said about realigning a satellite and decided instantly. He moved to the heart of the situation.

"I want to make contact with this hunting team."

"Impossible." Absolute certainty in the terse reply.

"Why?"

"Because we cannot reach them."

Dixon looked at him as if he were content to let the silence linger forever. Chaney tilted his head, almost unable to believe that the team had been totally cut off from support. But he knew it in his soul.

"What did you just say?" was all he could phrase.

"I said, Mr. Chaney, that we have lost contact with the ...the hunting party ... as you term them." Dixon leaned forward. "Under law I am obligated to remind you of your secrecy pact. What I'm about to tell you requires the highest clearance."

Chaney said nothing.

"We lost contact with them two days ago," Dixon continued blandly. "They advised us that they were beginning the hunt, leaving the installation. And later that day when we attempted a status check, we received no reply. This ...beast...was in the area, by last reports. It is quite possible, even probable, that they are all dead." No betrayal of remorse. "We launched an air search and have yet to turn them up, even though we've used infrared and starlight scopes. So at the moment we are debating our next move."

"So, I suppose, you've fortified the last installation?"

"Absolutely. We have doubled the Ranger contingent, now at almost seventy men. We have increased voltage in the perimeter fence and reinforced external doors. Plus, we have backed up all information at the station in case of attack. Nothing that has been recorded, including an illegal underground nuclear blast performed by the Soviet Union three months ago, shall be lost in an attack."

"You don't seem too emotionally upset over the possible fate of this hunting party, Dixon." Chaney was casual. Curious.

Dixon stared at him in sullen silence for a moment. "Mr. Chaney, I am always upset when I lose an operative. But it is my job to send men on missions, and to their death, if the mission requires. Long ago I became inured to the hardships of this job. If I seem insensitive, then it's because I probably am. You can only see so many men sent to their death before you begin to develop a very thick skin. And if you can't do that, then you eventually become an alcoholic or a drug abuser or insane." He waited a moment. "I believe you understand what I'm talking about."

Silence.

Chaney rose. He nodded as he extended his hand. "I appreciate your time, Mr. Dixon," he said curtly.