Expressionless, Hunter turned to Maddox. "From here, it's my call. I suppose they understand how things are going to work."
"They do."
"All right." Hunter looked at the surrounding landscape. "Well, let's get started. I'm going into the hills to see if I can pick up this thing's scent. Keep everyone inside the compound."
Silently, Ghost appeared at his side.
"Yes, of course," said Maddox. "And good luck. We'll back you up as soon as you find it."
Moving away, Hunter paused beside Tipler, who stood near the chopper. The old professor seemed to know from Hunter's expression that whatever needed to be said couldn't be communicated at the moment. Hunter wordlessly picked up the Marlin and strapped it across his back.
He was descending into his tracking mode, allowing a deeper concentration to command all his energy and mind, as he moved slowly for the open gate. Ghost, needing no instruction, paced head-down at his side. At the gate, Hunter paused, taking his time to study the terrain.
He saw patches of scattered snow and, between them, soggy ground. He lifted a handful of snow and squeezed a fist to see how it compressed, measuring its dryness. He watched the spruce as they swayed in a whispering wind, noting the direction of the breeze. For a long time he stood perfectly still, listening, watching.
Then he sensed a presence and heard the hard crunch of gravel beneath boots, but didn't turn even when the intruder was close. A gruff voice spoke down to him.
"We can get a move on any time, tracker."
Hunter gave no indication that he had heard.
"Jesus," the man said, "I hope this ain't gonna be one of them Indian things. This is a hunt, not a vision quest." Hunter felt the man turn his attention to Ghost. He laughed without any hint of humor. "Nice dog you got there."
Vaguely Hunter bent his head and saw the big man, the one with the fire-scarred face, raise a single hand at Ghost, holding two fingers as a pistol. "Click," he said. Then, after smiling with clear malice at Hunter, he walked away.
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.