Gina joined in. “Okay. Let’s do that. Species: Homo sapiens. Age: One week old.”
Silence.
“Well, that didn’t really get us very far,” the older woman mused. “Look at these.” She pointed with a pencil. “Those are five single claws. Big ones, too. Five clawed appendages on what appears to be the foot of a species related to Homo sapiens. Not too likely. So what other species has five appendages?”
Gina didn’t really need to think. “Well, there’s Homo-habilis, Homo erectus. Then there’s apes and big cats and bears—Grizzly, Kodiak, brown and black—and, oh, most of the lower terrestrial mammals like wolverine, raccoon, chipmunk, squirrel, porcupine—” Her voice assumed a droning tone. “Then there’s beaver, mink, skunk, badgers—”
“Okay, okay.” Rebecca cut her a glance. “I got it already.”
Neither spoke for a while.
“This is what we’ll do,” Rebecca started. “We know what it isn’t, right? So we’ll begin at zero and assume it’s an unknown species.”
“Like the old man does.”
“Yeah, like Doc does. We’ll take this and run a phosphorescent scan on it for any tracings that might have been picked up by the plaster. The plaster is already contaminated, so unless we find an actual hair or trace of hemoglobin, we’ll never get a DNA trace. But let’s look for it anyway. We’ll start at the top of the list and work down. Then we’ll worry about classifying it.”
“Just go by procedure,” Gina chimed in.
“Right. Just go by procedure. Like the doc says. But this is a rush job so put everything else on hold.” Rebecca stood as she spoke, staring down at the mystery. “If we find a piece of this thing no bigger than a grain of sand, we own him.”
“Chaney!”
Asleep at his desk at the U.S. Marshals Service in Washington, Chaney raised bloodshot eyes. He saw the haggard face of Marshal Hank Vincent, or “Skull” as they called him for his merciless expression, approaching. He could see that Skull held an expense voucher in his hand, crumbling it into a tight wad.
Chaney muttered, “Oh, shit.”
Suddenly finding themselves needed elsewhere, a dozen Deputy U.S. Marshals surrounding Chaney’s desk began wandering in separate directions. With a remarkable air of calm, Chaney said, “Hey, Chief, I was just about to talk to you about that little—”
Skull held the voucher before Chaney’s face. “Explain to me,” he said carefully, “how you can spend five thousand dollars on gas in a single month when you never left the city? I want to hear this one. It’s got to be a classic.”
“Travel expenses, boss.”
“Travel expenses?” Skull stared, as if he’d never heard the term. “Travel expenses? Is that the best you can do?” He pointed. “I want to see you in my office.” Without waiting for a reply he turned away.
Chaney rose slowly, making a vague attempt to straighten his tie. Then to a chorus of murmured “good lucks” he walked slowly into Marshal Vincent’s office, quietly closing the door. He stood with hands clasped, all dignity, and Skull stared back. Slowly, after a moment, the marshal shook his head. A thin smile creased his lips. It was a rare moment. He tossed the voucher on the desk and leaned back, shaking his head.
“So, travel expenses,” he said finally. “But then you busted that cartel last week didn’t you, Chaney? Arrested Lau Tai when he was cutting one of his better deals.”
Chaney nodded, then looked away slightly as Skull lifted another invoice. “Says here that you maxed out your snitch allotment almost six weeks ago. How long you been working that case?”
“Six months, sir.”
“So how did you buy off your snitches in the last month to find the location of the deal?”
After a pause, Chaney said, “Well, boss, I relied upon creativity and resourcefulness. Like we’re supposed to.”
At that, Skull actually smiled. “Yeah, Chaney, I’ll bet you did.” He waited a moment, barked a short laugh. “That,” he motioned to the door, “is called ‘street theater.’ I did it because everyone knows what you did and I don’t want them following your example.
“You took a big chance, Chaney, and you pulled it off. But you pulled it off only because of your street contacts, and there’s not too many that have that. It’s a forgotten art. So someone like you could take a chance and win. But the rest shouldn’t even try.” He frowned a little. “Some of them would, you know. They’d go for broke, spend the money, and still not get their puke. Then they’d burn for it. Even worse, I’d have to burn them for it. ‘Cause I wouldn’t be able to protect them.”
Skull waited; Chaney was silent.
“You know.” Skull contemplated a pen. “I caught some heat over that Lau arrest.”
“Heat over it? Why? It was a good snag.”
“ ‘Cause Lau was the responsibility of the DEA.” Skull gestured with the pen as if, in truth, he really didn’t give a damn. “Jurisdictional disputes ... that sort of thing.”
“He was a known fugitive from justice, boss.”
“Then he fell under our people in the Fugitive Program,” Skull said, suddenly more serious. “Hell, Chaney, you’re in intelligence and counter-intelligence. You were supposed to be investigating whether there was a current covert American intelligence operative working with the Golden Triangle heroin bands, not chasing rucking Lau. If you hadn’t used your own special brand of creative writing in your weekly reports, I would have been on you a lot sooner. And to make it worse, the FBI is saying that you violated Lau’s rights because you interrogated him pretty rough, trying to make him spit out his contacts. Then, cherry on the cake, he claims you didn’t even read him his rights.” He paused. “They’re saying that you blew the entire arrest and that we can’t charge him at all. They want a formal investigation.”
Chaney revealed nothing but strolled forward to gently touch the desk nameplate. It was dark maple with “Marshal Hank Vincent” stamped squarely in the gold plate.
“Well, you know, boss,” he began, “we don’t need to charge Lau for this crime. He’s a fugitive from justice with three other federal convictions. If he hadn’t escaped from Lompoc, he was gonna do another fifty years without possibility of parole. Which he will, as soon as I escort him back. I admit, uh, that I interviewed him alone, and I may have even forgotten to read him all his rights, but now we have the names of all his American contacts.” Chaney hesitated, shrugged. “We can make a dent with this information, boss. It was a good snag.”
Skull crossed his arms. “And he wound up at the ER because ...?”
Raising hands to the sides, Chaney responded, “Well, hell, he resisted arrest. Simple as that.”
“Uh-huh.” Skull let the moment hang. “I’ll take care of the college boys, Chaney. I’ll tell them we’re not initiating any Article 31 investigation, and if they don’t like it, they can kiss my freckled butt.” He shuffled papers. “All right, I’ve got another assignment for you. I want you on it right away.”
Chaney was silent. It was one of his habits, when speaking to superiors, to say as little as possible. He figured it was hard to incriminate yourself when you don’t talk, though he often rode the crest between caution and rudeness.
“This is it.” Skull laid the file out. “It seems that we’ve had a military incident up in Alaska that—”
“The army?” Chaney looked up. He couldn’t conceal his surprise. “They have their own marshals. What does that have to do with us?”
“Just hear me out.” Skull gestured, uncommonly patient. “It seems that some oh-so-slightly more than classified research stations have had some serious trouble. Like dead people. A bunch of them. I want you to look into it.”
“Why me? More important, why us?”
Skull said nothing for a moment, then rose slowly to stare out the window behind his desk. In the distance Chaney saw traffic moving slowly along the
Beltway, which bordered the rear of the facility.
“Because some of our friends in Congress are worried about a rumor that the research stations may have been doing some off-the-books biological warfare research,” Skull said finally. “That’s not the jurisdiction of the FBI. It’s not our jurisdiction, either. But the Hill wants us to take it.”
“And you want me to take it?”
“Yes.”
There was something about this that Chaney didn’t like at all.
“Well, just what, exactly, am I supposed to investigate? I don’t know anything about biological warfare. I wouldn’t know a cold virus from Ebola. I could be up there investigating for a year and not find anything that—”
“Your assignment is in Washington,” Skull said.
Chaney didn’t even try to conceal what he felt. “Washington?” he asked slowly; the pause lasted a long time as he studied Skull’s downcast face. “What’s going on here, Marshal?”
For a long time, Skull was silent.
“Chaney, if someone is using government resources to develop biological weapons illegally, then that means people at the highest levels are involved in covert activity that directly countermands not only the mandates of the President but the 1972 United Nations agreement prohibiting the experimental development of such weapons systems.” He paused. “I presume you understand the implications of that?”
A cold feeling settled on Chaney’s spine. “Yeah, I understand. So you want me to investigate the Pentagon, the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency to determine if they’re running a black operation in direct contravention of a presidential directive.”
Skull nodded.
Chaney took his time to respond.
“All right,” he said finally. “But I’ll have to go outside procedures for this. Way outside. I want unlimited funds and my own crew, all of ‘em handpicked by me. I also want written preceding authority to travel wherever I want, both me and my crew. And I want my own check vouchers.” He was studious. “Plus, I want marshals in each district instructed that they will cooperate with me without hesitation, no matter what my requests entail. And, no offense, boss, but I want all that in writing or you can give the job to someone else.” Chaney nodded. “That’s my deal. You know what you’re asking me to do.”
The words hung heavy in the air.
Skull was obviously reluctant. “You’ve never let me down, Chaney. But I’ll have to clear something like that with the Chief.”
“Take all the time you want. We can talk about what a jerk I am later. If I live.” Moving away, he paused at the door as Skull called after him.
“Hey, Chaney.”
Chaney turned back.
“You asked why I selected you for this job.” Skull’s gaze never left Chaney’s face. “The reason is simple. I got lots of guys smart enough to be a cop. I only got one who’s smart enough to be a crook.”
***
Hunter spun like a panther.
What he glimpsed—outlined in distant shadow for the fierce single beat of a heart—was unmistakable. Before it was gone.
Eyes narrowing at what was no longer there, Hunter stared with a frown at a ridge over a half mile distant. He knew that eyes could play tricks at that distance, with shadow and foliage joining to throw a myriad of threatening shapes amid the waving brush of movement. But something deeper told him no; he wasn’t mistaken.
He had caught the most frantic, fleeting glimpse of a faraway shape—a manlike form that stood in the gloom and purposefully stared back, challenging. Engulfed in foliage, it was there and then turned—gone in a heartbeat as Bobbi Jo came up tiredly behind him, kneeling to rest. She had seen nothing, he knew, nor would he share the knowledge.
“What is it?” she whispered, sweating in the humidity.
He stared down a moment, shook his head.
“Take a break,” he said without tone. “Have some water. You’re gonna need it.” He moved away as she recovered from hauling the monstrous sniper rifle through the deep brush.
Considering the horrific sight, Hunter shook his head: None of this was right. Whatever he had seen had stood upright. But nothing, nothing did that. Not if it could rip a steel door off hinges and separate a man’s head from his body with a blow. Hunter tried not to let his consternation show.
Takakura and the rest, Dr. Tipler straggling slightly, came up beside them. The doc seemed to be narrowly holding his own, despite his age. But Takakura seemed slightly fazed by Hunter’s unrelenting pace. And that spoke of extraordinary conditioning because Hunter hadn’t yet rested, though it was nearing late afternoon.
Hunter himself didn’t even feel the strain, and he had long ago ceased to wonder of his endurance, knowing that it was a specific kind of strength perfected by a brutal life. Just as he knew that he could go sleepless for days without feeling any effects or cover a hundred miles in a day by foot if needed. But he didn’t expect that from others and was forced to remind himself frequently to slow down.
Takakura bent, fatigued, but glanced at the ground as if searching. Hunter smiled; even the Japanese was slowly learning to track. Then he glanced around the ridge, back at Hunter. “We are closing on the creature?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Hunter said, debating what else to say.
He wouldn’t withhold information to the point of endangering the team, but he wouldn’t speak before he was certain. Losing credibility in this outlandish place, and under these conditions, could endanger the entire team.
“Hai, this is good,” Takakura grunted, resting the rifle.
He knelt, staring out, and what Hunter saw in those coal-black eyes assured him that the Japanese, no matter what secrets were concealed in this mysterious operation, had only one purpose. The Japanese was a man committed to his work. He would do his duty, even if it killed him.
Remembering what he had discovered in the research station, scanning the rest of the team, Hunter was pleased there was at least one member he could trust.
***
Exhausted, Taylor sat and raised his head to see Hunter on the ridge. The tracker was unmoving, talking in muted tones to Bobbi Jo and Takakura.
The old professor was off to the side, wiping perspiration from his face. And the big wolf lying at Hunter’s side was, as always, alert with black bat-like ears standing straight up.
Another team member, Buck Joyce, came up beside him and laid an M-203 on a jagged stump, the remnant of a lightning-blasted tree. Buck was much smaller but six years in Special Forces had burned him down to a lean wiry frame.
Taylor wiped sweat from the back of his neck. “That guy never stops,” he mumbled, glancing at Hunter’s powerful frame. “I ain’t covered this much ground in a single day since I qualified for damn Delta. Fifty miles with a full pack.” He shook his head. “That guy’d burn Bragg instructors to the ground in a week.”
Buck laughed, glancing easily at Hunter and Ghost silhouetted on the ridge. “Yeah.” He released a tired smile. “And that dog is something else, too.”
“It’s a wolf, moron.”
Buck smiled. “Hell, Taylor, I know what it is.” He laughed again, genuinely amused. “Biggest damn wolf I ever saw, that’s for sure. Meanest looking one, too. I ain’t getting close to it, myself. You can’t tell about them things. They can turn on you.”
Taylor’s scarred face twisted as he shaded his eyes, measuring the height of the sun. “We gotta make camp and set up a perimeter in less than three hours or we’re gonna lose this light. Dark comes fast in these mountains. I been here before.”
“Yeah?” Buck was interested. “When?”
“Ah, back in the late ‘eighties.” He spit to the side. “Some big recon thing on the North Ridge. I didn’t know what we was doing. Supposed to be looking for a cavern or something. We found nothing and froze our butts off.”
“Wel
l, you’re back in the saddle again, my man.” Buck stood as Hunter and the rest began moving from the ridge toward the valley below. “But then, chances are, with the way that thing moves, we won’t get a shot at it anyway.”
Taylor grunted. “Buck, you idiot. Don’t you know nuthin’?” He gestured up the hills. “You’re SF and you can’t tell by now how good that guy is? That mother ... He is tough.” He took a second to shoulder his shotgun. “Ain’t never seen his kind and I seen army trackers; they’re supposed to be the best but they can’t do in a day in the sun with what this guy can do in fifteen minutes. He reads everything, son. And I mean everything.” He paused. “No, he ain’t gonna let it get away.”
Casting a last glance at Buck, he moved forward.
“You better lock and load, son.”
Hunter was staring at the ground as Bobbi Jo knelt beside him. When he spoke, his voice was so low she could barely hear it. Somehow, she realized, he had used the sound of rushing water in the stream to cover the words.
“This morning, they started out okay,” he whispered. “Now they sound like a herd of buffalo.” A pause. “Happens like that. People get comfortable. Then they get careless. They cross a stream ninety-nine times and don’t see a snake. Then they don’t look down for the hundredth time ‘cause they think it’s safe. And that’s when it’s there. And that’s when it hits them. Habit. It gets you killed out here.”
She gazed about, then turned to see the team on a far slope. She could hear nothing from their direction, but the sound of the creek dominated in the descending light of day. As she watched, it seemed that they still moved in silence, carefully placing their feet in a standard single-file advance, each man ten feet apart.
Wondering what had Hunter so alarmed, she moved up carefully beside him, leaning close. He was studying everything around him in silence. She saw a single track in the hardened bank and nothing else. It was as if the creature had simply disappeared from the face of the Earth.
Hunter turned his head slightly to the side.
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