Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “And so you went down the mountain and started tracking him,” Bobbi Jo said, without doubt or surprise. Hunter grimaced, half-shrugged before he continued.

  “Yeah. And it was a tough track. Took me all day. The little kid was so tiny he hardly left a print. And he was wearing these flat-soled shoes that didn’t have a pattern. I thought I lost him a dozen times.” He smiled, shook his head. “Kids. They’re something else the way they wander. You have to be careful. It’s easy to lose them. And if you lose them, they’ll die quick. They don’t know how to find shelter. How to keep warm.”

  “So, did you find him?”

  “Yeah. He was half-frozen, but I built a quick shelter and warmed him up and fed him. Then, the next day, I carried him out.”

  “He’s okay now?”

  He nodded. “Oh yeah, heard from him a while back. He’s doing great. We write each other pretty often.”

  Silence.

  “That was a lot of pressure,” she said. “I mean, to find a little kid lost in a wilderness when the tracks were old, everyone had trampled on them.” She thought about it a second. “So little left to go on, you have to get into their mind.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And after that?”

  A shrug. “Well, after that things just sorta’ happened. Whenever someone was lost, they’d call me. Then people in other places started calling me to hunt down camping parties, to find people.” He rolled his neck, loosening. “I guess I’ve tracked just about everywhere. Mexico. Canada. Up north. Out west. It’s always different, but the same. I’ve found most of them. But there were some I didn’t find until it was too late.”

  “And what’s that like?” She waited patiently for an answer. “To fail, I mean.”

  He took a long time to reply. “It’s hard when I find the body, and it’s too late. But all I can do is my best.” A pause. “The first time I found a kid, I knew what I wanted to do with my life. And I was right. Each time is as good as the first.”

  “I’ll bet it is.” She smiled. “I wish I could track like that. But that kind of skill is beyond anything you can learn. You have to have a gift. You have to be born to it.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t think about it.”

  “You just do it.”

  “I guess,” he mumbled, casting a brief glance back to check on the professor. “Something like that.”

  She paused a long time, smiled. “You’re a strange man, Mr. Hunter. You don’t seem to like people. Don’t even seem to like being around people. But you risk your life to save them. Why is that?”

  His face was unreadable.

  “Don’t know,” he said. “ ‘Cause I like the ones I find, I suppose.”

  ***

  Rebecca leaned over the table, attempting to gain the reluctant attention of the CIA physicist at Langley. Tall, white-haired, and aristocratic in attitude, Dr. Arthur Hamilton did not look up from the DNA printout.

  “Doctor!” she stressed. “You’re not paying attention! Look at the integrin matrix! They’re ...they’re like ...like scaffolding to an aggregate of molecules that form an adhesion that includes actin, talin, vinculum, and o-actitin. It’s not like any regenerative properties we’ve ever witnessed. Not even in invertebrates that are innately immune to carcinogens!”

  Dr. Hamilton’s voice was soothing. “And your point is, Rebecca?”

  She stared.

  “My point?” She laid a hand on the DNA printout. “My point, Doctor, is that this reveals that this creature has a unique ability to activate quiescent integrin molecules so that they adhere to proteins—including fibrinogen—which makes a very powerful bridge for platelets. Then all the systems work together for enhanced healing, no matter the site of infection or injury. It’s like this creature’s entire extracellular matrix is expressly devoted to some kind of uncanny healing ability.” Rebecca went to the edge. “Doctor, I would say that this thing, whatever it is, is completely immune to disease.”

  Dr. Hamilton stared at her and slowly replied, “That would be presumptive, Rebecca.”

  “Read the leukocyte level!” She leaned forward, feeling heat from the confrontation. “That printout, which is dead accurate, says this thing has trails to sites of infection like nothing we’ve ever seen. Look at the reperfusion molecules! The oxidant levels! The molecular adhesion to prevent restenosis! We’ve never seen anything like this. Not ever! And in that, Doctor, I know what I’m talking about. That’s not presumptive!”

  He frowned deeply as he studied the printout. “I suppose you have copies of this,” he murmured.

  “You bet I do.”

  “Please ensure that you preserve them,” he added with greater interest, focusing again on the page. “Will you allow me to run my own analysis tonight? I would like to confer with you in the morning after I have time to collate a breakdown of the D-4 through D-10 to determine a mitosis level.”

  Rebecca stood back. “All right. Tomorrow. But I want this information in Dr. Tipler’s hands by morning. He needs to know.”

  “Of course. I will see to it personally.”

  She picked up her briefcase and moved for the door. He spoke after her. “Is there anything the Agency can provide for you, Doctor, while you are staying in the city?”

  “No.” Rebecca turned back. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Of course.”

  Dr. Hamilton watched her close the door quietly and waited a moment before picking up the phone.

  ***

  Brick shut the bank vault and moved with his familiar, unhurried, bull-like stroll, blacksmith arms falling past his sides at slight angles, to a gun crate.

  He poured a glass of Jack Daniel’s for Chaney, a larger one for himself. Chaney looked bemusedly around the vault as he took a sip, remembering that Brick had gotten it for a song six years ago from a local bank scheduled for demolition. It was the only place in the house where a conversation couldn’t be surveilled by electronic listening devices.

  “I don’t like what I hear, kid.” Brick grimaced as he swallowed a large, stinging sip of the whiskey. “Hoo-wee!” He held the glass up before his face, staring hard. “Man, it’s been awhile! Must be gettin’ old! But better old than dead, I guess.” He sniffed, warming to it. “Which is just what you might be, boy, if you poke around.”

  Silent, Chaney held the rock-hard gaze. Brick usually spoke with a plainness that obtained immediate attention and respect, but rarely with such a dark grimness to the tone.

  “Am I being set up?” Chaney asked.

  Brick took a smaller sip, shook his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that nobody claims to know much. Which means they do! They just don’t talk about it! If they were ignorant, they’d be asking me questions instead. Yeah, for sure, people in this biz can’t stand thinking that they don’t know what’s going down.”

  Brick’s light-blue eyes, arched by bushy white brows that bristled in the dim light, went dead-flat on Chaney. “Why don’t you go slack on this one?” he asked quietly. “Tell ‘em you can’t find nothing. Give it back and go on to something else. You’re G-4, so you ain’t gonna go much higher, anyway. You only got eight to fill. It won’t hurt you to take a little heat.”

  Chaney blinked; it wasn’t a bad idea. Marshals did it all the time, but something about this affair intrigued him. “What did you find’ out, Brick?” He took a larger sip as he listened.

  Brick sat on a crate of AK-47’s. Thousands of rounds of NATO 7.62 ammo were stacked against the wall behind him. The rest of the vault was similarly stocked with shotguns, semiautomatics, pistols, gas masks, food, emergency medical kits, smoke markers, portable ham radios, and two crates of antipersonnel grenades. Brick’s career as a marine, plus two tours in Vietnam, had made him a seriously connected gun lover.

  Freshening his glass, he continued, “What I got is sketchy. But I know
that two platoons of marines are listed as lost in a ‘training exercise.’ “

  “In Alaska?”

  Brick waved dismissively. “Don’t matter two frags where. That’s just how it’s done. But they were marines, don’t forget that. Not shake-and-bakes who can’t do an air force push-up with a gun at their head. The dutch is that they were assigned a real special tour to guard some kinda research station and got wiped out.”

  “A military research station? Those are only located along the Bering Strait, aren’t they?”

  “No, it wasn’t military.” Brick shook his head glumly. “This was some kinda spook job, up near the North Ridge. I don’t know what they were doing. The CIA hasn’t had any research stations inside the Arctic Circle in thirty years. I can’t even remember when they closed down the last one. Anyway, the word on all that is pretty low. I didn’t push it.”

  For a while Chaney digested it. “That could make sense,” he said finally.

  Brick grunted over another sip. “To you, maybe.”

  “No, it does. Imagine this, Brick. Some CIA research station up where it shouldn’t be. Okay, but for what? What was it doing up there? How did they get the funding? What could be so important about Alaska’s North Ridge that would justify a budget?”

  “Cussed if I know.”

  Chaney stared. “They found something,” he said.

  “Found something? Like what?”

  “Son, I don’t know.” Chaney shook his head, looking away. “Something they want to keep secret. But something they have to stay close to. Something they’re protecting.” He strolled slowly around the room. “Were all these guys killed at the same station?”

  “No. I did get that much. Seems that there’s several of those things up there.” Brick paused. Clearly, he didn’t like any of it. “Something bad is in the wind, son. And nothing in the news. But somethin’ shoulda’ leaked. So somebody with power has shut down the pipe.” He looked around thoughtfully. “Yeah, I think I’m gonna stock up the bunker.”

  Chaney laughed, let it settle.

  “So, several research stations are attacked,” he continued. “Which means that these people, whoever they are, didn’t know where to look. They only knew that it was somewhere in one of the stations. I can see how that might make sense. They’ve got something up there, and somebody else wants it.”

  “There ain’t nuthin’ that important, kid. Killing two platoons of marines would be considered an overt act of war. Even though we ain’t in the Reagan years no more, there’s only so much that folks out there in God’s country will take. The people would make us hit back, no matter who it was against. And the good ol’ boys would be lining up at the recruiting office, just like they did after we kicked butt in the Gulf.”

  Chaney hadn’t considered that; yeah, killing two platoons of marines probably would be considered an overt provocation act of war unless ...unless. . .

  “Unless . . .” he said slowly, “we killed them ourselves.”

  Brick didn’t move.

  Releasing a heavy breath, he stared at the wall.

  “This is unreal,” he said.

  Chapter 10

  Staring intently at the topographical map with Takakura sweating and glowering beside him, Hunter tried to find an easily negotiable route to the research station, located on the south side of the White Mountains, a massive range over thirty miles long and completely impossible to clear in time to help the professor.

  His brow hardening, Hunter looked at Takakura, and the Japanese just shook his head, still breathing hard from the last hard knoll they’d had to clamber across carrying the stretcher.

  This was obviously not good country for a man to get injured, nor one in which to portage a man out. The terrain was becoming increasingly difficult and rough-cut, and the map indicated that it was about to become even more severe.

  As a team, they would have had only moderate difficulty clearing the north ridge of the mountains bordering Fossil Creek, a misnamed river that ran the length of the range. But with a wounded man in uncertain condition this was no longer a strike mission; it was a rescue mission.

  They couldn’t scale, couldn’t push the pace at double time when they mercifully reached a rare level area. So far, the longest level path had been about a hundred yards and ended in a long descent that a strong man could negotiate with caution, but only with the greatest difficulty while carrying a wounded man.

  Takakura turned his head. “Riley!”

  In a moment Riley was bent beside them, wearily propped on his rifle. Hunter had liked the guy from the first, but had not found a good opportunity to talk to him.

  Takakura’s tone allowed no room for failure. “We will negotiate this bluff ahead to lower the professor and move for this area known as Windy Gap, which is the only pass through the mountains. Can you rig a harness for which to accomplish this?”

  Riley glanced at the map. “That’s a one-hundred-foot vertical drop, but yes, I can manage it.”

  “Good.” The Japanese folded the map and rose sharply.

  Hunter saw what he meant, knew it was possible. Then he looked up to see Bobbi Jo attentively medicating the old professor through the rough-rigged IV and stood as Takakura continued.

  “There is no time to waste. We must move quickly, Hunter,” he turned into him. “Are you confident that you and your wolf can detect the presence of the beast, should he approach again?”

  Hunter’s response was solid. “It hasn’t deceived us yet. But it’s learning. You can’t be sure what it will do next. Confidence can be dangerous.”

  “How do you know that it is learning?”

  “It used to stalk, now it waits in ambush.” He paused. “There’s other things bothering me about that, too. But we can talk about it later. Right now it’s enough to assume that it probably can’t move without Ghost hearing it. On balance ... I’d say that, one way or another, either Ghost or I can pick it up. But it’s not a guarantee.”

  Takakura said nothing for a long moment, then turned to Bobbi Jo. “You will take point behind Hunter,” he said. “You possess the only weapon which can wound it.” He walked away. “Buck and Riley will carry the professor for now. Let’s move.”

  Hunter never ceased to be amazed at Takakura’s determination and complexity. On the one hand, the Japanese was patient and courteous and enduring far beyond the rest; on the other he could be as severe as a feudal lord declaring war. But Hunter had come to genuinely respect him; it was enough.

  Bobbi Jo seemed to be finally showing the strain of carrying the heavy Barrett and its ammunition. Her face was flushed, perspiration running in rivulets down her neck through a sea of sweat, and her depressed shoulder showed where the strap, though padded, was cutting through her vest. As Hunter walked past her, he asked casually, “Want me to carry that for a while? It’s a heavy piece of artillery. And you’ve carried it all day through some pretty bad terrain.”

  To his surprise and without blinking she said, “Don’t mind at all. It’s yours. Here.” And gave it to him. Simple as that.

  When she let the weapon go, Hunter was shocked. It weighed at least thirty pounds. He couldn’t believe she’d carried this weight for so long without ever revealing the effort it took. He put the strap over his shoulder, trying to find a comfortable point of contact, as she worked the action on the Marlin, ejecting a cartridge from the port and then injecting it back into the magazine. Obviously she needed no instruction in how to work his weapon.

  She swept back hair from her head, speaking quickly and pointing to the weapon. “There’s a round already chambered. This is the safety. It’s a semiauto .50 caliber. You already found out that it kicks some, but be ready. You’ve got five shots but I’ll get to you before that.” A pause. “Hopefully.”

  He looked up. “Why hopefully?”

  Shaking sweat from her forehead, she smiled, �
�‘Cause I’ve got the extra clips.”

  “Oh.”

  “Let’s move!” Takakura repeated, looking more warlike with every step the expedition put behind them. Hunter took point, with Ghost ranging to his left and right, searching, searching, and always ready. Hunter tried to estimate how quickly they could negotiate the expanse between them and the research station before they once again might be forced to try and kill what might indeed be un-killable.

  ***

  Chaney answered the fax, reading it from the screen of the portable laptop. As ever, he was impressed with the modern technology available to modern law-enforcement personnel.

  Without shame or concern he considered himself a computer idiot, but he knew enough about technology to remain functional. From the old school, though, he still preferred the old-fashioned snitch and a good fast attack stratagem. However he was not so cowboy-minded that he didn’t appreciate fingertip access to information.

  Chaney studied the Executive Order displayed on the gray-blue monitor. It was dated one week ago and had authorized the search team in the Alaskan wilderness. And one name in particular attracted his attention: Dr. Angus Tipler, executive director of the Tipler Institute.

  Chaney had just learned that Tipler was the country’s leading authority on crypto-zoology and ecosystems reputedly on the verge of destruction. In fact, that entire institute seemed dedicated to the preservation of endangered species and environments. Thoughtfully, Chaney studied it. What was this old man doing on what was supposed to be a military mission? Then he saw an obscure mention of the inclusion of a civilian “scout.” He focused on the name: Nathaniel Hunter.

  Hell, he thought, the army had plenty of scouts; it was a highly recruited MOS. Why would this team need a civilian scout? Did the military not have people who could handle this job? Or was Hunter recruited because he was an expert in the topography, the nature of the wilderness? Was there something more to it?