Chaney shook his head and frowned. "It doesn't really matter to me, Brick. Whatever's up here is a hell of a lot worse than whatever's back there." He paused. "But all things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."
Laughing gruffly, Brick took a second before he focused hard on Chaney. "Just remember your job, kid. We ain't here to kill that thing. We're just here to find out what's going on, document it, and send paper up the ladder. All this hardware is for defense. Let them settle it out with lawyers and depositions and hearings." A pause. "But, then again, we do have a score to settle. 'Cause somebody needs to hang for what they did to those poor girls, and the hit on you. So once we got a good lead, or a head in our hands, we're outta there."
Chaney answered, "Might be easier to get in than out." He paused. "But I've come too far to back down, old man. Too far by half. Going back would be twice as bad as finishing this out. What do they call that? The point of no return? The place where going over is easier than to go back?"
Brick nodded his agreement and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes as Chaney stared at the white-capped mountains looming up and surrounding them. He was reminded once more how harsh a land it was, how easy it was to die inside those valleys and ravines, snowfalls and glaciers. Then he thought of this man named Hunter who was reputed to be the greatest tracker in the world, the greatest wilderness expert in the world — a man who understood the wild like no other. And somehow, he sensed, Hunter just might be able to answer some questions.
Only one thing was certain: the enigmatic Dr. Arthur Hamilton would not have mentioned this mysterious tracker — who was so "unimportant" — if he had not, for some reason, feared him.
Chapter 18
Hunter raised his eyes to the horizon to measure how much light remained. There would be a pale moon tonight, but the base would be brightly illuminated by the thirty-million-candlepower spotlights strategically positioned along the perimeter and inside the compound itself.
From their angle and proximity, Hunter estimated there would be very little shadow, though he doubted that it would deter the creature from attacking. It had attacked them in daylight already, indicating that it did not fear the light so much as before. They had convened on the range so Bobbi Jo and Takakura could sight in their weapons.
Takakura had been especially diligent, firing over a hundred rounds through the M-14 in thirty minutes to break the weapon in and gain confidence in its reliability. But Bobbi Jo had only fired thirty rounds before she was certain that she had the scope adjusted for close-quarters battle.
Strangely, the Barrett was less accurate at a hundred yards than a thousand. Nothing severe, perhaps only a half inch off point of aim, but enough for a sharpshooter to notice.
Bobbi Jo explained the differential in accuracy by saying that, at a hundred yards, the supersonic bullet was still "washing" in the air, or swaying slightly. Then, when it stabilized at two or three hundred yards — a distance reached in one-tenth of a second — it settled down and flew true, stabilized by the rifling-induced spin.
Hunter was impressed by Bobbi Jo's skill and mastery over the huge sniper rifle from the beginning. But as she honed the scope and rifle into a unit, he was even more impressed as she talked, rather abstractly and with remarkable emotional detachment, about how the rifle had to perform.
She spoke about shots fired in past combat situations. Such as scoring a headshot on a Palestinian sniper at nine hundred yards as he risked a quick glance over a wall. "It was like hitting the stamp on a postcard at three hundred yards," she remarked casually.
Then she had spoken of how she once decimated all ten members of a Shining Path death squad with a hail of .50-caliber rounds fired at twelve hundred yards from an elevated position. Even with a 12 X 3 Tasco sniper scope, it had been akin to shooting flies at fifty feet.
When she was through reminiscing, Hunter held her in high regard not only because of the professional manner in which she described the acts, but because of her almost encyclopedic understanding of ballistics, windage, bullet speed, placement, and fall.
Seated side by side on a table while she cleaned the Barrett with easy familiarity, Hunter wondered how she felt about last night. He wanted to ask, but found himself silently watching Takakura finish his last twenty-round magazine. He was uncomfortable — mostly because love was something he had never known before, but also because he felt himself becoming more and more dependent on her.
Although he had never known a woman with her background and training, he had discovered that beneath her professional veneer, she was, indeed, very much a woman with the same softness, eagerness for intimacy, intuition, and sensitivity as other women. He contemplated where the relationship would proceed, or if it would at all, and felt a pang of loss at the latter. Then out of his peripheral vision, he saw a slight grin cross her face. She spoke as she continued to clean and oil the Barrett.
"You were all right last night, Hunter." She smiled mischievously. "Especially for a man who was all beat up, physically exhausted, emotionally wasted and wounded." Then she laughed; a good laugh. "Yeah, I'd give you a ten, all right. Ha. Dead drunk, I'd probably give you a ten."
Raising eyes slightly, Hunter smiled. "I thought it was a good idea to do my best. Didn't wanna get whacked in my sleep."
She was enjoying it, and Hunter could see she had no regret.
"And," she added, "I don't know if you know it, but you talk in your sleep."
Hunter froze. "What?"
"You talk in your sleep," she repeated, enjoying it more and more. "Gotta tell you, it was pretty interesting, too. You've led quite a life."
"Well, uh… what did I say?"
"Oh, you talked about hunting. About tracking, about how you won't let this person die, or that person die. You talked to some of the kids that you rescued. 'I got ya, kid, I got ya… It's okay.'” Smiling slightly, she began inserting the six-inch-long brass rounds into the oiled magazine. "Then you talked about blond hair. And love. That kind of thing. Kept me up, for sure."
Hunter realized his mouth was open.
"So." She laid the rifle against the table and propped her chin on her hands as she gazed at him with mock seriousness. "When do you want to get married?"
Hunter laughed and glanced away to see Takakura walking toward them. The M-14 was smoking from heat and the Japanese seemed pleased. Hunter looked back at Bobbi Jo: "How about today? Or is that too soon?"
Her open laugh joined his. "You know, Hunter, I never figured you for a romantic. But you are, in a way."
Shaking his head, Hunter understood that she was relieving some of the pressure from last night, and the night to come. She was not relaxed, she was only trying. He knew too well from experience that it was impossible to stay at a high pitch of concentration constantly. Everyone needed a moment to breathe easily before an unavoidable battle.
Takakura arrived at the table and reached for the cleaning kit. "It is sufficient," he said, and noticed their sudden silence. "I… uh, did I disturb something?"
"Not at all." Bobbi Jo smiled. "Did you sleep well?"
The Japanese cast a narrow glance at Hunter before he smiled openly. And it got Hunter's instant attention because it was only the second time he had observed anything other than duty or obligation on the sharply chiseled face.