"Is it bizarre?" Chaney said, deciding he wasn't going to let up. "What would be so bizarre? 'Cause these stations are perfect for it. They're isolated, easy to quarantine. The area is largely unpopulated, and far beyond executive supervision. Anything is possible in those backwoods, especially if the U.S. government is picking up the tab. Surely, Dixon, you're aware of that."
Dixon was nodding. "Yes, yes, Mr. Chaney, I am aware of the theory, and the history, of similar events. But that is not to say that I will believe it unless I have incontestable proof to present to my supervisors. They are not men…who suffer fools. And they consider anyone who makes an unconfirmed estimation of a crisis as an ignorant man — the kind of agent that is never promoted or trusted."
Chaney's eyes were focused like lasers, unblinking and sharp. "Have you investigated to see whether there were other forms of research beyond seismic monitoring occurring at these stations?"
He nodded. "Yes, according to policy our sanitation crew always performs analysis on disks, records, logs, and military reports. We operated according to the procedure, and found nothing to convince me that there were anything but legitimate tasks being performed by the personnel and their on-site supervisors."
"I want to see the records."
"That is not possible."
"I can obtain a subpoena."
"Well," Dixon replied, "you must do as you see fit, Mr. Chaney. But I assure you that those records, which are highly classified, will reveal nothing to you." He paused. "If you are insistent I can ask the director for permission, and perhaps in three or four days you can peruse the less classified sections."
Chaney knew not to go for that one. In three days they could manufacture any kind of false records about the activities of the installations. Then he remembered what Brick had said about realigning a satellite and decided instantly. He moved to the heart of the situation.
"I want to make contact with this hunting team."
"Impossible." Absolute certainty in the terse reply.
"Why?"
"Because we cannot reach them."
Dixon looked at him as if he were content to let the silence linger forever. Chaney tilted his head, almost unable to believe that the team had been totally cut off from support. But he knew it in his soul.
"What did you just say?" was all he could phrase.
"I said, Mr. Chaney, that we have lost contact with the…the hunting party… as you term them." Dixon leaned forward. "Under law I am obligated to remind you of your secrecy pact. What I'm about to tell you requires the highest clearance."
Chaney said nothing.
"We lost contact with them two days ago," Dixon continued blandly. "They advised us that they were beginning the hunt, leaving the installation. And later that day when we attempted a status check, we received no reply. This…beast…was in the area, by last reports. It is quite possible, even probable, that they are all dead." No betrayal of remorse. "We launched an air search and have yet to turn them up, even though we've used infrared and starlight scopes. So at the moment we are debating our next move."
"So, I suppose, you've fortified the last installation?"
"Absolutely. We have doubled the Ranger contingent, now at almost seventy men. We have increased voltage in the perimeter fence and reinforced external doors. Plus, we have backed up all information at the station in case of attack. Nothing that has been recorded, including an illegal underground nuclear blast performed by the Soviet Union three months ago, shall be lost in an attack."
"You don't seem too emotionally upset over the possible fate of this hunting party, Dixon." Chaney was casual. Curious.
Dixon stared at him in sullen silence for a moment. "Mr. Chaney, I am always upset when I lose an operative. But it is my job to send men on missions, and to their death, if the mission requires. Long ago I became inured to the hardships of this job. If I seem insensitive, then it's because I probably am. You can only see so many men sent to their death before you begin to develop a very thick skin. And if you can't do that, then you eventually become an alcoholic or a drug abuser or insane." He waited a moment. "I believe you understand what I'm talking about."
Silence.
Chaney rose. He nodded as he extended his hand. "I appreciate your time, Mr. Dixon," he said curtly.
"Whatever I can do, Marshal. And, if you don't mind me asking, how is the investigation coming along? I'm still rather confused why they gave it to the Marshals Service and not our own people."
Chaney smiled slightly. "Well, you know what they say," he answered, "don't ask the fox to guard the chicken coop." He walked toward the door. "Nice meeting you, Dixon. I'm sure we'll talk some more."
"So where are you off to next?" Dixon leaned back, cradling his head with his hands, utterly relaxed. He was a man who recovered quickly and completely; Chaney surmised he could conceal just as easily.
"I'm going to have a little conversation with Dr. Hamilton," he answered. "Gonna have a little skull session with him."
"Did you say Dr. Hamilton?"
Pausing, Chaney studied the face. "Yeah."
"But I thought you knew."
Chaney took a step back toward the desk that would have seemed overtly threatening if he had not stopped a good ten feet away. "Thought I knew what?"
"Dr. Hamilton isn't here."
"Where is he?"
"Well, he's gone to Alaska. He's at the last research station. I believe he said he'd be out of touch for at least a week. If not longer."
Chaney could tell from the all-too-obvious consternation and concern in Dixon's expression that, in that moment and that moment alone, the CIA man had seriously overplayed his hand. Because he was actually trying to appear helpful.
It was a strange and uncanny moment as they stood torch in hand outside the cleft, staring silently into gloom cast by giant granite slabs sliced from the mountain during the Ice Age.
Hunter bent, studying the ground, and saw the tracks of a host of animals from bear to wolverine to squirrel. Obviously, nature knew that this was the only way from this side of the cliff to the other. And if the animals, who were wiser, relied upon it, he was certain they would be forced to use it as well. Especially with the burden of carrying the professor, because they couldn't haul him in his diminished condition up that almost sheer face.
If Riley had not been so viciously slain they might have rigged something, and Hunter even now carried the rope across his chest, but he wasn't skilled enough to negotiate that climb. Also, he had failed to obtain the chocks and levers necessary for anchoring himself to the wall.
The torches burned brightly and Hunter knew they would burn for another thirty minutes before the twigs were exhausted. Hopefully, by then, they should be safe.
"I say we just make a run for it, "Taylor rumbled. "Just start running and go through it like hell, not stoppin' for nothing. Then when we get to the other side we rig a satchel of C-4 to a trip wire and let it come after us." He glanced behind them. "Let's see the mother follow that."
In a smooth motion of solid purpose, Takakura slung the MP-5 onto his back and unsheathed the katana. It was a solemn moment — the long curved blade, razor-sharp and at least a quarter-inch thick, glistening in the afternoon light. Then he inserted the black-lacquer scabbard into his belt, medieval-style, holding the sword loosely in his right hand. After a moment he looked down at Hunter, who had watched without expression.
"Only a blade can injure it," Takakura intoned. "We have learned this much. Its skin is impervious to bullets, unless they are traveling at sufficient velocity."