"That depends. A fish-and-game cop hassled me about it… but, well, he stopped hassling me."
Popov caught a wink from Waterhouse to Killgore when this primitive said that, and in a second he knew that this Hunnicutt person had killed a police officer and gotten away with it. What sort of people did this "project" recruit?
"Anyway, we all ride in the morning. Want to join us?"
"You bet! I never turn that down."
"I have learned to enjoy it myself," Popov put in.
"Dmitriy, you must have some Cossack in you." Killgore laughed. "Anyway, Foster, show up here for breakfast a little before seven, and we can go out together."
"Deal," Hunnicutt confirmed.
Popov stood. "With your permission, the Olympic equestrian events start in ten minutes."
"Dmitriy, don't start thinking about jumping fences. You're not that good yet!" MacLclean told him.
"I can watch it done, can I not?" the Russian said, walking away.
"So, what's he do here?" Hunnicutt asked, when Popov was gone.
"Like he said, nothing here, exactly, but he helped get the Project going in one important way."
"Oh?" the hunter asked. "How's that?"
"All those terrorist incidents in Europe, remember them?"
"Yeah, the counterterror groups really worked good to shut those bastards down. Damned nice shooting, some of it. Dmitriy was part of that?"
"He got the missions started, all of 'em," Maclean said.
"Damn," Mark Waterhouse observed. "So, he helped Bill get the contract for the Olympics?"
"Yep, and without that, how the hell would we get the Shiva delivered?"
"Good man," Waterhouse decided, sipping his California Chardonnay. He'd miss it, he thought, after the Project activated. Well, there were plenty of liquor warehouses around the country. He would not outlive their stocks, he was sure.
CHAPTER 35
It had become so enjoyable that Popov was waking up early, in order to relish it more. This day he woke up just after first light, and admired the orange-rose glow on the eastern horizon that presaged the actual dawn. He'd never ridden a horse before coming to the Kansas facility, and he'd found that there was something fundamentally pleasing and manly about it, to have a large, powerful animal between one's legs, and to command it with nothing more than a gentle tug on the leather reins, or even the clucking sound one made with one's tongue. It offered a much better perspective than walking, and was just… pleasing to him at a sub-intellectual level.
And so he was in the cafeteria early, picking his breakfast food plus a fresh red apple for Buttermilk just as the kitchen staff set it out. The day promised to be fine and clear again. The wheat farmers were probably as pleased as he was with the weather, the intelligence officer thought. There had been enough rain to water the crops, and plenty of sun to ripen them. The American wheat farmers had to be the most productive in all the world, Popov reflected. With this fine land and their incredible mobile equipment. that was little surprise, he thought, lifting his tray and walking to the accustomed table. He was halfway through his scrambled eggs when Killgore and the new one, Hunnicutt, approached.
"Morning, Dmitriy," the tall hunter said in greeting.
Popov had to swallow before replying. "Good morning, Foster."
"What did you think of the riding last night?"
"The Englishman who won the gold medal was marvelous, but so was his horse."
"They pick good ones," Hunnicutt observed, heading off to get his breakfast and returning in a few minutes. "So, you were a spy, eh?"
"Intelligence officer. Yes, that was my job for the Soviet Union."
"Working with terrorists, John tells me."
"That is also true. I had my assignments, and of course I had to carry them out."
"No problem with me on that, Dmitriy. Ain't none of those folks ever bothered me or anybody I know. Hell, I worked in Libya once for Royal Dutch Shell. Found 'em a nice little field, too, and the Libyans I worked with were okay people." Like Popov, Hunnicutt had piled up eggs and bacon. He needed a lot of food to support his frame, Dmitriy imagined. "So what do you think of Kansas?"
"Like Russia in many ways, the broad horizons, and vast farms though yours are far more efficient. So few people growing so much grain."
"Yeah, we're counting on that to keep us in bread," Hunnicutt agreed, stuffing his face. "We have enough land here to grow plenty, and all the equipment we need. I may be into that myself."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, well, everybody's going to be assigned Project work to do. Makes sense, we all gotta pull together in the beginning anyway, but I'm really looking forward to getting me some buffalo. I even bought myself a real buffalo gun.
"What do you mean?"
"There's a company in Montana, Shiloh Arms, that makes replicas of the real buffalo rifles. Bought me one a month ago Sharps.40-90-and it shoots like a son of a bitch," the hunter reported.
"Some of the people here will not approve," Popov said, thinking of the vegans,clearly the most extreme of the druidic elements.
"Yeah, well, those people, if they think they can live in harmony with nature without guns, they better read up on Lewis and Clark. A grizzly bear don't know about this friend-of-nature stuff. He just knows what he can kill and eat, and what he can't. Sometimes you just gotta remind him what he can't. Same thing with wolves."
"Oh, come on, Foster," Killgore said, sitting to join his friends. "There has never been a confirmed case of wolves killing people in America."
Hunnicutt thought that was especially dumb. "Oh" Well, it's kinda hard to bitch about something if a wolf shits you out his ass. Dead men tell no tales, Doc. What about Russia, Dmitriy? What about wolves there?"
"The farmers hate them, have always hated them, but the state hunters pursue them with helicopters and machine guns. That is not sporting, as you say, is it?"
"Not hardly," Hunnicutt agreed. "You treat game with respect. It's their land, not yours, and you have to play by the rules. That's how you learn about them, how they live. how they think. That's why we have the Boone and Crockett rules for big game hunting. That's why I go in on horseback, and I pack 'em out on horseback. You have to play fair with game. But not with people, of course," he added with a wink.
"Our vegan friends don't understand about hunting,' Killgore told them sadly. "I suppose they think they can eat grass and just take pictures of the life-forms."
"That's bullshit," Hunnicutt told them. "Death is part of the process of life, and we're the top predator, and the critters out there know it. Besides, ain't nothing tastes better than elk over an open fire, guys. That's one taste I'll never lose, and be damned if I'll ever give it up. If those extremists want to eat rabbit food, fine, but anybody tells me I can't eat meat, well, there used to be a fish and-game cop who tried to tell me when I could hunt and when I couldn't." Hunnicutt smiled cruelly. "Well, he don't bother anybody no more. Goddamnit, I know the way the world's supposed to work."
You killed a policeman over this business? Popov couldn't ask. Nekulturny barbarian. He could just as easily have bought his meat in a supermarket. A druid with a gun, surely that was an unusually dangerous sort. He finished his breakfast and walked outside. Soon the others followed, and Hunnicutt pulled a cigar from the saddlebags he was carrying and lit it as they walked to Killgore's Hummer.
"You have to smoke in the car?" the doctor complained, as soon as he saw the thing.
"I'll hold it out the fuckin' window, John. Christ, you a secondhand-smoke Nazi, too?" the hunter demanded. Then he bent to the logic of the moment and lowered the window, holding the cigar outside for the ride to the horse barn. It didn't take long. Popov saddled the affable Buttermilk, fed her the apple from the cafeteria food line and took her outside, mounted the mare and looked around the green-amber sea that surrounded the facility. Hunnicutt came out on a horse Dmitriy had never seen, a blanket Appaloosa stallion that he took to be the hunter's own. On a closer look-