His eyes narrowed as he smiled.
Yes, they would consume them.
Body and soul.
Like a sliver of shadow, Ghost came back over the ridge toward Hunter, pausing and staring, and Hunter hesitated. He turned back to see how the others were keeping up and saw that Bobbi Jo, despite her determination, was faltering badly.
There was no reason for false hope and a suicide run for the pass would only end in doom. No, they would never make it before nightfall. Not in this terrain, and not in this condition. They would be traveling through darkness for at least an hour before they reached the pass.
Too long.
He held up a hand. The professor was lowered to the ground, and Takakura came forward, holding the machine gun. "Why do we stop?"
"Because we can't make it," Hunter responded matter-of-factly. Bobbi Jo opened her mouth in protest but she was so winded that she simply-bent, heaving breath on trembling legs.
Hunter expected Takakura to protest his decision but the burly man recognized the wisdom of the move. He lowered the MP-5 to his waist and shaking his head, he searched the far side of the stream as exhaustion forced him to a knee.
Raising his eyes, Hunter looked at Taylor, who stood in place behind the stretcher, no weapon in his hands. Taylor was staring without expression, but his lack of challenge spoke for him. Whatever the commando was feeling was hidden well behind that fire-scarred face. He was a statue, a stoic image of the professional soldier who knew he would die one day as he had lived, and had prepared for it. And now that the moment had come, he would meet it like a man.
Hunter held out his hand to Takakura. "Give me the map."
Wearily it was presented and Hunter knelt, laying the rifle on the ground as Ghost came up, panting. Without even looking at the wolf he said "Guard," and Ghost began padding in loose circles, checking the wind, the ground, river, trail.
Reading the topography, Hunter searched for any defensible position. He saw a gully — no good; a flat-topped knoll nearby that allowed them to see it coming — no good; not with the disadvantage of night and their wits and senses numbed by the exhausting travails of this seemingly endless ordeal; and then…an abandoned mine.
Hunter's black-maned head twisted as he sighted it.
A mine.
A mine would have only one point of entry. A mine would be defended on three sides by impenetrable rock walls. Eyes sharpening, Hunter estimated the distance quickly and saw that it was within a quarter mile of their position. He was on his feet as he memorized the easiest and quickest route.
"Let's go," he said. "There's a place near here where we might stand a chance to last the night."
No questions were asked. Together they made a weary pilgrimage to the only site that might provide salvation.
It was late in the day when Chaney checked police reports on the fatal car accident involving Rebecca Tanus. He understood that she had veered off a dry road during a trip from her hotel, plummeting off an embankment only to be killed on impact. No foul play was suspected because there were no collision marks on the vehicle and postmortem blood tests revealed she was not intoxicated. It was listed as an accident caused on the steep downslope when a strut stabilizing the front left wheel — the wheel taking most of the stress on the turn — shattered and caused her to lose control.
Chaney thought about asking to examine the vehicle, then thought better of it. Don't go bustin' no red lights, Brick had warned. Don't go around asking a lot of questions like some hotshot investigator. Don't start attracting attention to yourself
But there was one thing that he could do before he hooked up with Brick later in the evening. He could visit Langley and discover who was in control of these facilities. There was little risk involved because by now — they weren't complete fools — they would have confirmed that this was an official investigation. And not showing up at all would be more suspicious than looking like a guy going through the motions.
It took a single easy — too easy, it seemed — phone call and Chaney was soon admitted into a secure section of Langley. As he walked toward the receptionist in what they call a "white" terminal — a section devoted to research and development as opposed to information gathering — he saw a tall, white-haired man with a clipboard and white lab coat speaking casually with another man. As Chaney stepped to the desk, the man turned.
"Marshal Chaney?" the older man asked pleasantly.
Introductions were simple and Dr. Arthur Hamilton ushered Chaney into his office. Before he even sat down in front of the desk, Chaney knew he was dealing with a heavyweight.
Where the Tipler Institute seemed to have a reserved and somewhat humble tone of intellectuality, there was nothing understated about Dr. Hamilton's office. Obviously concerned about the secretiveness of his own identity, Hamilton had a legion of impressive diplomas on display as well as a polished row of gold-plated awards, none of which Chaney recognized. Graphs and display charts recording geological information were spread on the desk.
"So, Marshal," Hamilton proceeded, "I suppose you are investigating the rather horrendous series of accidents that have plagued our facilities."
Chaney had not expected any stonewalling, at least not recognizable, and played the game. He was glad to see that his instincts had not disappointed him.
"I'm trying to determine the cause of these tragic events at the research facilities, Doctor." Chaney presented the air of a professional — a man who committed himself to an investigation without becoming personally involved. "So I have to ask you a few questions, if you have the time."
"Oh, certainly." Hamilton gestured with concern. "Believe me, Marshal Chaney, we are as anxious as anyone to discover what is attacking our personnel. These are rather expensive facilities and highly trained assistants. Neither are easily replaced. In fact, we have been forced to terminate the research temporarily. But, of course, the greatest tragedy of all is in the truly lamentable loss of life." He paused, shook his head. "Yes, quite tragic."
Chaney cleared his throat. "Just what, Doctor, is the purpose of these facilities? The military has been closing Arctic research stations for years because of the budget. Why is the Central Intelligence Agency funding such an expensive program?"
"Oh, for simple science." Hamilton responded with a wave. "You see, Marshal — and I have, of course, confirmed that you are cleared for this information — those facilities monitor seismic activity in the Arctic Circle. And because of their proximity to the Bering Strait and Siberia, we also can monitor any potential nuclear testing which still might occur." He hesitated. "The cold war is over but vigilance is the price we pay for peace. It is not a mean responsibility, and we take it very seriously."
"I'm certain that you do, Doctor." Chaney glanced at the charts. "So, these research facilities have a printed Mission Purpose?" He knew that a printed purpose of intent was mandatory for all Central Intelligence facilities, just as they were for the Marshals Service.
Chaney also realized that there were few organizations in the world, that demanded as much paperwork and documentation of covert activity as the CIA. It was a remarkable paradox in the agency's pathological quest for secrecy.
Hamilton already had the manual available and handed it graciously to Chaney. Then he sat with utter composure in the larger chair. "You may read it now, if you like," he continued. "Of course you can't make notes or take a copy with you. Even I cannot remove an operations manual from the facility. But you can take all the time you need."
Chaney perused it, noticing that a substantial amount of personnel and equipment were dedicated to advanced sonic measurement of tectonic plates. He also saw that each research station had the same SOP, or Special Operational Procedures.