Chaney found that more than interesting: Hamilton didn't consider the addition of Hunter, a millionaire and highly recognized wilderness expert, an important event.
"This man," Chaney said, "is Nathaniel Hunter?"
"Yes, yes, he, uh, I believe he is something of an expert tracker. Somewhat well off financially. Not rich, by any means. But comfortable, and used frequently for finding people lost in wilderness areas. I am not sure that he does much of anything at all except support certain wildlife organizations. So I do not know why he was considered so important. But I have a file here, somewhere, if you would like to peruse it."
"Yes," Chaney said. "I would. But, first, I want an answer to a question that you've avoided twice already."
"Oh, I am sorry." Hamilton seemed sincere. "It was certainly an oversight. And to allay your suspicions, should you possess any, please be assured that I am not attempting to be evasive. Quite simply, I have nothing to be evasive about."
"I understand." Chaney smiled blandly. "Do you think that whatever is killing your people could be somehow controlled by competing foreign interests? Particularly former Soviet or Communist enterprises that do basically the same thing as these facilities? Would the information contained at those centers benefit them?"
Hamilton almost smiled, but it never emerged. "No, Marshal. There is nothing contained within the centers that would merit any kind of foreign attack at all. We monitor tectonic phenomena that have nothing, really, to do with military matters."
"Who is in ultimate command of the hunting party?"
"As I said, the National Security Agency."
"I mean, who's in charge in the field?" Chaney continued.
"Well, that would be Colonel Maddox from the Pentagon. I have spoken to him on many occasions. He frequently calls me for…well, advice, I would say."
"Do you know an Agent Dixon?"
Not even a pause, as Chaney had expected. "Oh, certainly." Hamilton glanced to the side, back again. "Agent Dixon, I believe, is attached to the NSA. He is apparently supervising the operation, according to the mandates of the full command and authority parameters."
"Where can I find him?" Chaney asked.
"Well…" Hamilton paused a long time. "I believe he must be in Langley. But I am not certain. As I said, I have only spoken with him on two occasions. He is not, other than the fact that he is supervising the situation for the NSA, awfully important to the execution of this team's activities."
Something about this didn't feel right. Chaney stared for a brief moment, trying to decide how to go into it. "Doctor," he said finally, "surely you know that whoever is ultimately responsible for the team's actions should be closely involved in their day-to-day activities."
Hamilton was either truly ignorant of military operations or feigning with skill. "I…well, I suppose so, Marshal. I never served in the military. I suppose that is something you should speak with Agent Dixon about."
"I will," Chaney affirmed, and decided to end this charade. He took a while, wanting to leave on the right note. "All right. That's enough. Now I'd like to look at this file, if you don't mind."
Hamilton rose also, lifting some folders. "Well, Marshal, I'm afraid I don't have a file on Agent Dixon."
"I'm talking about Hunter, Doctor."
"Oh, yes." Hamilton waved dismissively. "But as I said, I do not believe that he is important."
Without words Chaney took the file and opened it, seeing a black-and-white eight-by-ten of a man who had obviously known hardship. Eyes as pure with purpose and opaque with instinct as a panther's stared out of the photo. His hair was black, shoulder-length, and ragged. The mouth was neither frowning nor smiling, but, rather, set in a stoic line of indifference. It was a countenance that Chaney could easily imagine as threatening, but threatening didn't seem to fit the broad forehead. No, it was a countenance that seemed to hint more at a quiet command of deep confidence combined with a certainty of extreme ability — as if he knew that he possessed a concentrated purity of will that had been forged with extraordinary and tested skills.
Chaney had a feeling one more thing would unveil whatever was hidden within all this: he had to find out why this man was so damned unimportant.
Hunter led them unerringly to the mine, arriving while there was still enough daylight remaining to prepare for the night.
Chiseled by pickax into the side of a hard bluff, the mine was perfect for the night. Its opening was barely the size of four men standing abreast, and previous owners had closed it with ax-tapered logs that were weathered but still solid and strong despite twenty years weathering. Even better, the logs were buttressed into the side of the hill by steel beams.
For a forced entry, unless the logs were levered over the top of the beam, the creature would have to smash them asunder with brute force. Not an easy stunt, even for this thing. Ripping a steel door off its hinges was one thing; only two hinges of steel had to be shredded and a lock cracked. Smashing a two-and-a-half-foot-diameter log in half was another thing altogether.
Kneeling together, as if in prayer, they discussed the situation beside the professor who, remarkably, seemed to be regaining a little strength. Takakura seemed unconvinced. "It will rip the logs from the foundation," he said plainly.
"I don't think so," Hunter answered. "Those logs won't shatter easily. And if one does, we'll be doing whatever we have to do. This won't be easy for it. And I don't think it will go head to head with us when it sees that it's gonna take at least twenty minutes to break down that wall. It knows we can hurt it."
Taylor looked at the mine and smiled, shook his head. "That's a deathtrap, Hunter," he said. "Anything goes in there tonight, it'll be in there a long time."
Standing, Hunter turned to him. "You have a better idea, Taylor? If you do, I'd like to hear it."
He stared hard at the commando, who looked back at the mine again. Then Taylor shook his head and smiled in the way a man smiles when he's just been told he's about to die. "No, Hunter," he said, a black half-laugh. "I'm completely out of ideas."
All of them were on their feet and Hunter saw that Tipler had raised himself to an elbow. The old man was listening intently, alert once more. He seemed to have recovered somewhat from his attack. He looked at the mine, studious.
"All right." Hunter pointed at an old mining shack, and another. Both of them were still in decent condition; it appeared they'd been abandoned some years earlier. "This is how it has to work." He looked at the Japanese. "If you have any objections, Commander, feel free to share them."
"I have no objections," Takakura said.
"Then we do this," Hunter continued. "But we have to move fast 'cause we don't have much time. First we remove a few logs from the entrance, enough to carry in what we need for a fire. Takakura and I can handle that. Taylor, you and Wilkenson search the cabins for a couple of cots, food, fuel, lanterns, anything we can use. Bobbi Jo, you stay here and watch the professor and guard. You're the only one that can hurt it anyway. Does that sound good enough?"
They nodded.
"Good. We've got an hour and a half until sundown. By then we have to be secure inside the mine."
Together they moved.
It took Hunter and Takakura, working hard, to dislodge the top log. But they were finally forced to lever it over the top of the steel beam that was anchored to the cliff. The second was easier and provided enough room to slide equipment over the top. By then Wilkenson and Taylor had acquired three full lanterns, a half can of kerosene, six blankets and three portable cots.