Hunter (8 page)

Hunter turned back to the ground, raising his eyes to the hills, letting every slight bend of leaf, each sway of bush or angle of slope, compose a mosaic of the terrain. He determined which ways were most easily negotiable in the dark; he knew too well that any animal, even a big cat, would select the path of least resistance—a natural path, if it was there.

A moment later he heard more steps, but different. These contained the softness of respect, of patience, as if the intruder did not want to disturb him. They halted about fifteen feet away to be followed by silence.

At last, sensing a general direction of its approach, Hunter rose and turned to see who had come up behind. Whoever it was—it didn't matter—had demonstrated a measure of respect; Hunter would do the same.

Standing less than ten feet behind him—surprisingly less than Hunter had estimated—was a large Japanese. The man was dark-haired with a chiseled, severe face, and there was no emotion whatsoever present in the coal-black eyes. He was big for a Japanese and dressed in BDUs. He carried a camouflaged MP-5 and a cut-down pump-action Remington shotgun. Then Hunter saw the leather hilt of a katana extending over his powerful right shoulder. After a moment the Japanese nodded curtly. Hunter returned the nod.

"I am Takakura," he rumbled.

His voice indicated a disciplined inner strength, both patient and tempered. Overall, he had the presence of a feudal samurai displaced to the twentieth century.

"I am the designated commander of this team," Takakura added. "I only wished to say that I am familiar with your skills and your instructions. We will wait here until you contact us." He handed Hunter a small radio, barely the size of his hand. "With that you can communicate, even in these mountains, for a distance often kilometers. I believe you will find it indispensable."

"Thank you." Hunter placed it in his hip pack, casting another glance at the team. "I'll call you as soon as I pick up a track."

"I understand," Takakura nodded.

Moving at a slow trot through the gate, Ghost ranging at his side, Hunter loped across a ridge and angled right, following a tree
-line. He had a feeling that it had approached from somewhere along the northern slope where the spruce were thick. The lack of undergrowth would make stalking easier, and the spruce trees would still provide deep shadow to conceal it from electronic and human listening posts.

What Hunter needed to do first was find any kind of animal run, even a rabbit run, because animals tended to follow certain routes. So he moved into the tree
-line and began searching for the thickest brush hidden behind the spruce.

Heavy undergrowth was always the best place to start because it offered smaller animals concealment while they moved from their dens to food or water. And within minutes Hunter found a slight depression in the ground and knelt to determine the species. The prints, about four days old, were half an inch long. They looked like a miniature bear track. He smiled: a lemming.

Moving quickly and silently, Hunter followed the run until it intersected with a general trail, the way a paved road intersects a highway. He studied the ground and saw elk, bear, and the five-clawed prints of a large wolverine. Hunter almost laughed; this was a popular route.

Staying off the trail as he walked parallel to it, he saw that it carved a safe swath around the military compound. He couldn't help but smile; it amused him to think that an entire convoy of animals moved up and down this trail in the morning and evening, so close to the compound and yet so hidden because the civilized personnel knew nothing of the wild. He had covered a half-mile circuit when he came across the first print of the beast.

Stopping suddenly in place, Hunter raised his face to search the forest. But he could determine by the natural chorus of activity that nothing was close. Two red squirrels were eating acorns of a white oak less than forty feet away, and a collared pika was barking down the trail, summoning her mate. For a moment he almost felt at home, then dismissed it in the shadow of what he had been caught in. Frowning, he bent to the print.

It took only a second to determine that it had been moving fast, as if enraged. The ground was almost torn by claw marks, and the front of each print was deeper than the back, like the beast had been running on the balls of its feet. Hunter estimated its weight and size and knew his earlier calculations had been close. It would go maybe two hundred fifty, slightly over six feet. It was right-handed, and it wasn't older than six years. He raised the radio: "This is Hunter."

Takakura replied, "Yes, Mr. Hunter."

"I'm on the northeastern ridge. Have the team move north from the gate and up this slope. I'll be at the top. I'll tell you when to stop."

"Understood."

Setting the radio in his belt, Hunter thought of the dauntless tone of the Japanese and felt the first faint sense of security. Though unemotional, the man's voice and attitude were both forthright and efficient. Then he remembered the severe face and wondered about what manner of man was leading this team, and why Takakura had been selected commander. Hunter had already decided that nothing involved in this situation happened without a reason. Suddenly angry, he shook his head at the distracting thought. Time enough to worry about that later.

Studying the track again, he determined its direction and moved up the slope to find a second print, and another, and another. Even beyond the force and weight of the impressions, he was amazed at the length of its stride, the almost casual demonstration of titanic power.

He concentrated on observation and tracking but slowly felt a thought—more of a fear—nagging him. And as he neared the crest of the ridge and saw that the beast had cunningly used a series of large granite boulders—hard stone that left virtually no tracks—to descend, he realized what it was.

This thing knew it would be hunted for what it had done.

***

Turning as he heard the careful approach, Hunter spoke in an even tone. "It's not close. You can come up."

It was a fire-scarred face that Hunter saw first, rising from beneath a low spruce limb to stare at him with open hostility. Hunter, for some reason, squared off, implacably returning the stare. If there were going to be trouble, he might as well settle it now.

Staring impassively for a moment, the man suddenly smiled, then laughed silently. He turned, holding a large automatic shotgun, and walked down the ridge.

Within minutes the rest of them emerged from the trees, each holding a different weapon. Without tactical instruction they automatically branched out across the rock-strewn crest in an efficient guard, poised and apparently unafraid. The Japanese came through the brush last, slightly behind Professor Tipler.

Hunter saw that the old man was keeping up well, and it assuaged some of his concern. But this had just begun. The first full day would be the primary measure of what the professor could endure, and Hunter felt fairly confident that the old man would maintain his strength for a while. But after that, mostly because of his advanced age, Hunter was uncertain.

After so many miles in the mountains, everyone, even those in excellent physical condition, would begin to crack at the strain. The back was generally the first thing to go, then the legs, then the feet, and then a general physical blowout that had no exact cause or remedy. And what put
someone on his feet every morning wasn't brute physical strength; it was the pure and simple will to rise.

Hunter had seen hundreds of well-conditioned gym athletes crumble completely after ten days on the trail, unable even to roll out of sleeping bags to put on their boots, while other, less-conditioned hikers who had a simple but determined will just pushed themselves up and finished the task. Tipler had plenty of will, and Hunter wondered how far it could take him.

Dignified and solid, the Japanese paused. His curt nod could have indicated anything but Hunter sensed it was respect. Takakura's eyes, obsidian and impenetrable, flicked past Hunter and then down the ridge. "Is that the direction?"

"Yeah." Hunter adjusted the Marlin slung across his back; the leather strap crossed his chest, frontier-style. "It's moving south, like before. Tracks are about a day old."

Hunter once again noticed the katana strapped to Takakura's back, along with a sawed-off shotgun. The hilts protruded from behind either shoulder while the Japanese held the MP-5. Extra clips and shotgun shells were on a bandoleer, and a large combat knife was strapped to his leg.

Cold and concentrated, Hunter ignored Taylor and glanced at the other men on the team. Hunter didn't know where the woman had gone. He didn't know which of them he could truly trust, but for the moment Takakura appeared the safest bet. There would be time to learn more about them later. He squatted by the trail, staring at the last track and trying to imagine the route that he himself would have taken from this ridge in the dark. After a moment he found it and stood.

"We are ready to begin?" Takakura inquired, already seeming to understand a little of Hunter's style of tracking.

"We need to get some things straight," Hunter said, turning to face Takakura, who nodded curtly. "I lead," Hunter continued, "and your people stay back about a hundred yards. Simple as that."

"I have no objection." Takakura frowned. "But we have someone who might be able to aid you. Each of us, as you know, possesses specialized skills which you may, at your convenience, utilize to complete this mission."

Hunter considered it. "All right. Which one?"

Without hesitation—a man comfortable with authority—Takakura raised a hand. "Bobbi Jo!"

Hunter turned his head to see the team's female member trotting instantly and effortlessly up the ridge. She reached them in a few seconds,
only slightly winded. Standing at port arms with the gigantic sniper rifle, she regarded Hunter without expression.

She was about five-eight, and slim. Her hair was a dark blond and tied in a ponytail. Her eyes were a vivid blue and her face was sharply angled, indicating that she was in excellent shape. She had a bandoleer stretched across her chest filled with huge metal-jacketed cartridges. Hunter estimated they were at least .50-caliber rounds.

Takakura began, "I have told Mr. Hunter that—"

"Just call me Hunter."

A pause, and the Japanese nodded. "
Hai
," he continued, staring back at Bobbi Jo. "I have told Mr. Hunter that you are also skilled at tracking. I informed him that you might be of some assistance."

Patiently Hunter asked, "How much do you know?"

Bobbi Jo's voice was young and confident. "I know who you are, Mr.—"

"Just Hunter."

"All right. I know who you are, Hunter. I've followed your work, and I'm not as good as you. I'll say that outright. But I've been through Tracker and Pathfinder. I've got five years in the program. And I grew up hunting. So, although I'm not as good, I can hold my own and I don't make stupid mistakes. And I'd like to take point with you." Her mouth made a firm line.

He studied her. "Okay, how may claws on a bear?"

"Five."

"Wolf?"

"Five."

"How do you tell a coyote from a wolf?"

"A wolf has a larger rear pad, and the digit claw doesn't print."

"How does the movement of a bear differ from the movement of a mountain lion?"

"A bear wanders. No path, just territory. A cougar follows a circuit. Usually about fifty miles in diameter."

Hunter raised his eyes slightly. "Okay, but what difference does that make if you're hunting them?"

"You can anticipate a cougar because it stays on a ridge, in general, and if you lose the track you just crisscross the ridge until you find prints. But if you lose a bear track, you'll have to circle, widening the circle each time to find it."

Hunter nodded. Yeah, she was pretty good. He continued, "How can you tell if a man moves to the right or left?"

"There are at least fifty different kinds of pressure release marks," she said firmly. "But, in general, if a man moves to the right, the print will be impressed deeper on the left side. He was pushing himself in the opposite direction, so the print will be higher. Same for the man moving left, just the opposite effect."

"And if the track is on a ridge?"

"If the ridge slopes down to the left and it moved to the right, then the track would be deeper on the right. And vice versa."

Hunter was impressed but tried not to reveal it.

"How do you crosshead?" he continued.

"If you tell me to crosshead, I'll go ahead of you and crisscross for sign. If you were moving south, I would be moving east and west, trying to pick up anything that would indicate a change of direction."

"And sideheading?"

"Sideheading is when you move parallel to the track, keeping the sun on the other side so you can read faint indentations. You usually use it on hard ground or rock where the impressions are thin. The main thing is to keep the sun at an angle that pitches shadow just right." She paused, hefted the heavy rifle slightly. Hunter was again impressed by how easily she seemed to carry it. "It takes a lot of practice," she said. "I learned how to do it when I was a kid."

"I'll bet. So what have you tracked before?"