Hell, he thought, the army had plenty of scouts; it was a highly recruited MOS. Why would this team need a civilian scout? Did the military not have people who could handle this job? Or was Hunter recruited because he was an expert in the topography, the nature of the wilderness? Was there something more to it?
Question led to question.
What would a half-dozen top-secret CIA research stations be looking for up in Alaska, anyway? What could justify such an outrageous expenditure in an era of wholesale budget cuts? And, most important, who had authorized it? Who was responsible for their activities?
He called the operator for the number of the Tipler Institute, and recorded the address. That would be his first stop. Then he would do some background investigation on this "scout" who was leading the team. It seemed to him for a moment that he had heard of this man, Nathaniel Hunter.
Nothing seemed to come to mind, but he had read it, seen it somewhere. He made a mental note to look into him, too.
Whoever Hunter was, he had to be something pretty special. Because the army didn't normally rely upon civilian "scouts" unless they were operating on foreign soil. And Alaska, though wild and hostile and an easy place to get yourself killed, was still ours.
Then he remembered: yes, Nathaniel Hunter, internationally respected multimillionaire and founder of the Tipler Institute. Chaney understood now why the name had not immediately meant something to him when he recalled what little he had read of Hunter. From all reports, the man preferred the deepest anonymity but was a highly demanded speaker at global events concentrated on the environment and certain ecosystems threatened by civilization.
He was also, as Chaney remembered, a rather generous philanthropist who had funded or co-funded a number of award-winning research and ecological projects — some so complex that Chaney couldn't begin to understand them even when he had tried. Chaney also remembered reading something more obscure — news reports of Hunter somehow aiding in certain rescues. But those had been little more than brief accounts he had occasionally come across in the newspapers. At the time, they had meant nothing, but he had mentally indexed the name.
He wondered: what would this man who was famous for his environmental research projects and enormous wealth be doing wandering around Alaska with a military hit team? Now that, almost more than anything, truly didn't fit. In fact, it seriously enhanced the enigma.
Carefully, he checked the Sig Sauer 226 9-mm semiauto that was his service gun to ensure that a round was chambered. And he tried to ignore how uncomfortable it made him feel.
Because he had checked it already.
Hunter raised a fist, knelt in place.
All the others stopped where they were.
Something — something instantaneous and ghostly — had happened; something that one of his reflexes or instincts perceived but didn't translate to his mind. He stood motionless, head down, concentrating.
As he understood.
There had been a rhythm to the chorus of birdsong, and then it had broken briefly before resuming with a slightly altered cadence.
First, he scanned for bear or elk or something else that may have intruded on the immediate vicinity. But he knew that it was wishful thinking. Even though the team was causing little noise, their combined scents would have scared away every large predatory animal within two miles.
Eyes moving slowly, left to right, Hunter eyed a leveled section of the bluff that ran alongside a series of broken black crags. His gaze roamed up, down, searching without seeing, waiting. He listened, heard nothing. Around them, higher peaks rose to touch a bright blue sky with an almost crystalline beauty, a stark contrast to the vicious battle in which they were trapped.
Hunter turned his head and looked at Takakura, who scowled in silence. Then he turned his face forward, and thought of moving, but something prevented him: Something was wrong here. Something he couldn't place. He remembered the rule: the forest will only tell you the truth, it will never lie.
Almost in the same second, Takakura came up beside him, holding a steady and level aim at the crags. He waited for a moment, and then, "It has not attacked in the daylight yet. Why do you think it might change its tactics now?"
Hunter hesitated, frowning. Then answered, simply, " 'Cause I ticked it off. I hurt it bad and now it wants revenge. Tell everyone to stay a little spread…but not much. Five feet is good. If it's in there, I think it'll strike from above."
"Hai."
He was gone and Hunter motioned for Bobbi Jo to come up. "Give me the Marlin. Time to change."
They exchanged guns and Hunter repeated the procedure she had done, working the action and inserting the cartridge back into the magazine. He ensured that it was fully loaded with a live round in the port. Then he glanced back to see that Buck and Riley were carrying the professor. When he had their attention, he cautiously walked toward the crags. Behind him, everyone followed in silence.
He padded forward slowly, feeling the ground with each step, testing the earth as much as the air, the fowl, the wind. He had six heavy rounds in the Marlin, each hot and hard enough to stop a charging rhino in its tracks, but he knew that they weren't enough against this thing. Nothing seemed like it was enough. They had not had time to logically analyze its native ability to endure small-arms fire, Hunter knew they needed to at the first opportunity. First, though, they had to survive this gauntlet.
He only knew that, unless they caught it with a concentrated burst of fire or unless Bobbi Jo hit it point-blank dead-center with the Barrett and then Takakura took its head with the katana, they were going to be in a big, bad world of hurt. Despite the cold, sweat dripped from Hunter's face.
Ghost, vaguely agitated, stared at the tree-line and shuffled his huge paws on rough, black volcanic rock. The big wolf seemed eager to get on with the fight, but would, as always, wait for Hunter's shouted command.
What happened next made Hunter instantly whirl and trigger the Marlin, ready to shoot anything that moved. In the space of a breath, a terrible silence had struck the entire forest.
Rebecca loaded the stat sheets into her car. She was in a mood to do something about this DNA information, and if she didn't get some cooperation fast she would be going to heads of departments that few outside the government could approach.
She had decided all of that during a sleepless night; no, she wouldn't engage in senseless dialogue with low-level bureaucratic morons. Not when Tipler's life was in danger.
She had an easy twenty-minute drive and then she would give this Dr. Hamilton a serious wake-up call. He could react or not. If not, or if he hadn't notified Dr. Tipler of the discovery, she would simply leave without a word. She didn't need the cooperation of the CIA. She had only dealt with them out of good faith.
Angling north toward Langley, she took the curve close and continued moving, enjoying the feel of the road. This was one of the few relaxing moments she'd experienced since the ordeal began.
And then it happened.
She knew.
There was a grating, sliding sound beneath her feet and the automobile lurched. She screamed at the sight of a guardrail speeding under and past her, the car somersaulting violently in the air, ceiling smashing hard and then crashing even harder before she saw stark white and lost her grip, everything lost…. She saw a horrifying steep slope almost void of green — dirt and stone that clung to a vertical face. The car slid backwards, turning again as it struck something hard. She stared wildly at the sky as it passed down and up …