Chaney stared at the graphs. They meant little, since he couldn't understand them at all. But he understood everything Gina had said, knew that there was far more going on in those research stations than anyone would admit. He didn't take the time to formulate a plan. He knew vaguely what his first move would be; the rest would decide itself for him.
"Okay, I want copies of these," he said. "I want a copy mailed to the White House, a copy mailed to my boss, a copy sent to an e-mail address that I'll give you, and a copy mailed to a friend of mine for safekeeping."
"And you, Marshal?" Gina stared at him. "You want one for yourself?"
"No." Chaney shook his head as he stood straight. "I'm going somewhere else for answers. And they ain't gonna be glad to see my smiling face, I can tell you that for nothing."
He started for the door.
"Marshal?"
Chaney stood in place, staring at a very small young woman surrounded by a billion dollars' worth of science that he couldn't master in a lifetime. Her voice was hesitant. "Please get the people that killed Rebecca. Make them pay."
Now that was his world.
Chaney nodded.
"You can count on it, Gina."
Chapter 14
Birdsong heralded morning long before first light, and Hunter could tell from the cadence how long until dawn. Outside, it was still dark but he knew, or felt, that the creature wouldn't be attacking again tonight.
For one reason, they had, for the first time, truly injured it, and he turned the episode over and over in his mind, trying to conclude why bladed weapons had injured it when bullets didn't. He couldn't come up with a reason; it didn't make sense.
A knife traveled with far less velocity than a bullet, struck with less impact; there was no explanation why he had been able to savage the creature's arm as he had with a blade. Finally he let it go and turned his attention to Bobbi Jo, who had at last fallen into some much needed sleep. Her head rested on his shoulder and he was careful not to move, so as not to disturb her.
Looking across the narrow corridor he could see that Taylor was wide awake, as always. The commando was lazily scrawling images in the dirt with the Bowie knife, his shotgun laid against the wall. He had loaded each clip with depleted uranium slugs for deadlier contact, and he seemed eager to get on with it.
Ghost was asleep, lying on his side, a good sign of safety. And Takakura had spent the last hour sitting in isolated silence, though Hunter occasionally saw the Japanese gazing bitterly at Wilkenson.
The SAS agent did not seem to notice the attention. And if he did, he hid it masterfully, appearing completely unperturbed. He had spent the time cleaning and oiling the modified Heckler and Koch 7.62mm fully automatic assault rifle and sat patiently without expression, glancing only occasionally at the rising chorus of morning outside the wall.
Finally Takakura stood. "It is daylight," he said in a stronger tone than he had used through the night. He looked at Hunter. "We must go outside in order to transmit a direct signal to the satellite. The phone system cannot penetrate rock."
Hunter rose, fatigue and soreness assaulting him in a wave of stiff muscles and pain. "I know."
His chest ached from the deep furrows torn by the creature s claws, and he knew he'd been lucky. He didn't know what had warned him, didn't think about it that much. It was enough that some primal instinct that he could barely comprehend had acted for him.
Now they were all staring at the wall, unmoving. Then Takakura turned to Bobbi Jo. "If the creature is waiting outside, the only chance we have is for you to shoot it point-blank with the Barrett. If one of us is in the path of the bullet, you must not hesitate. You must fire. Do you understand this? A team member, balanced against the survival of the rest of the team, must be considered expendable. There is no other way."
Expressionless, she nodded. Racked a round into the Barrett.
Hunter had no doubt that she would do it. Now, he understood that later she would pay more dearly than others with the nightmares and regrets, but the job would have been done.
It was a simple matter to remove the third log, since the second was shattered. Then they removed the fourth and hesitated.
"Remain inside the mine," Takakura said. Without waiting for a reply he took his sword in one hand and one of Taylor s shotguns in the other and slid through the narrow opening.
He vaulted softly into azure light, alert and careful, glancing above, left, right. He stood for a moment in the middle of the small clearing, but nothing happened. Finally he turned back and motioned for them to follow.
They quickly removed the remaining logs, keeping their weapons near, and Hunter helped the professor from his cot. He sat the old man on a chair they had gotten from one of the cabins. Wilkenson activated the Magellan System.
Hunter heard the movement in the trees, the wind swaying branches, the breeze rushing over the stream located at the bottom of the slope, the musical sound of water trickling from the limestone cliff, a distant chattering woodchuck, and somewhere in the far distance a moose calling for its mate.
After being shut into the mine all night, every smell was fresh and distinct: rotting vegetation, green pine, old wood, even the earth itself. He inhaled deeply, relaxing, and released the breath as Wilkenson seemed to finally make contact.
He listened intently as Wilkenson requested an emergency extraction. The reply was negative. They were instructed to move at least a quarter mile downstream where a Blackhawk personnel helicopter could airlift them back to the base.
With a faintly perturbed expression, Wilkenson closed the case and gazed somberly at a frowning Takakura. "Well," the Englishman began, "seems we are still on our own, Commander."
"As I anticipated," Takakura growled. He turned to Hunter. "You are more familiar with the terrain than anyone. Can we make it?"
"We can make it," Hunter replied, steady. "Now we know how to kill it." Moving forward without words, he began down the slope. He held the Marlin lightly, knowing it was useless. The only weapon he possessed that could penetrate the Kevlar-like skin of the creature was the Bowie knife on his waist. The problem was that in order to inflict a wound, he was bound to receive one. A wound, or death.
Roaming ten feet ahead of them, Ghost led the procession.
Hunter heard Takakura order the Englishman and Taylor to carry the ailing Tipler on the stretcher. Then he ordered Bobbi Jo to back up Hunter at point while he took rear guard, and they were moving slowly, carefully, fearfully.
In a half hour they reached the path — it seemed to require far less effort than the climb to the cliff — and moved west toward the pass. It would take two hours, he estimated, to reach the clearing where the Blackhawk could pick them up.
And until then they would remain in danger, as anyone in these accursed mountains was in danger. But Hunter had steeled himself to it; there was nothing that could surprise him or shock him now, and he somehow despised the fear, knowing it would make him weaker, slower, less instinctive and less ready.
Casting an obscure glance back to see the formation of the unit — their positioning and readiness — Hunter heard Bobbi Jo's quiet voice. It was so soft he could barely make out the words, and he knew she had spoken only to him.
"Thank you for last night," she said without overt emotion. But it was there, somewhere beneath the words, in the tone. And in the fact that she had said it at all.
He nodded without looking back, knowing she was watching him, and they continued on, Hunter leading with winter in his veins and a cold wind in his face.