Dr. Emma Strait stepped close. “And what of the facility if Luther, I mean ... the creature ... comes here for the rest of the serum as it’s done at the other installations?”
“Oh, we are well protected, my dear.” Hamilton smiled. “I have no fear that it can penetrate this vault, and our means of communication are self-contained. If it does indeed destroy the base, just as it has done, we shall be quite safe within the vault. Even the creature’s terrific strength cannot tear that twenty-ton vault from the passageway. It is only an animal, after all, though magnificent and manlike in structure.” He released a deep breath. “So, we shall continue our research, and when we are quite finished, I shall allow you and all those who have labored so diligently to join the new society—a society which will never grow old, and will accumulate power century after century until we are princes on the earth. You and I, Emma, will rule nations, enjoy the feasts of kings, and live for centuries with perfect health, perfect strength. All that remains is to isolate the immune strands and the receptor genes and leave the genes regulating instantaneous replication, as Luther so foolishly did not, from the serum.”
A tense moment followed, and Dr. Emma Strait responded, addressing him by his first name. “Arthur, the staff ... is concerned. They don’t want ... well, they’re worried. I know what you say, but Luther, uh, the creature, it’s killed so many people and—”
“Emma, Emma.” Hamilton spoke indulgently. “Rest assured that we are all quite safe. I created this. I know quite well what it is capable of accomplishing. I am as familiar with its glory as with its corruption.” He smiled—a spectacular smile. “A terrifying beast it is and shall remain. But even a beast of such incalculable power must die one day. As it surely will.”
***
Crouching in darkness, lifting the torch high, Hunter scanned the jagged, broken ledge that stretched out before him. Twenty feet above the passageway, carefully balanced on a granite slab, he saw nothing but shadows leaping before the flickering flame.
He leaned his head to the side, attempting to discern a better angle, but saw nothing more. And he tried to ignore his racing heart, the adrenaline that surged from his chest with each thunderous beat of his heart. His hands were sweating and he wiped them on his dirt-grimed pants, licking his lips.
He knew fear now, true fear, because he had stood alone on the ledge in the dark with nothing but flame and steel, and should he fight it face-to-face, Hunter knew it would be a swift end. He didn’t have the advantage of a barrier, couldn’t move with that fantastic speed, and would be quickly overpowered by its irresistible strength.
Thinking of the power that surged to pull him into those monstrous fangs, he shivered before turning his will, shutting down emotion. He had to concentrate; he couldn’t let horror cloud his judgment however terrible the price. And after a moment of cold concentration he inched forward, trying not to reconcile himself to the fact that he was as good as dead.
He had told Takakura to wait for his signal before they entered the crevice. And Hunter was certain that they would; the commander was too cautious and professional to alter a plan once it was decided upon.
Then Hunter remembered how Taylor, in a remarkable display of friendship, had come up to him at the last minute and handed him a rectangular canvas-covered satchel about a foot long and six inches wide. Without asking permission Taylor had pointed to a looped handle on the top and said, “Pull this and you’ve got five seconds, buddy. It’ll blow anything inside that cave to hell and gone. And once you pull it, run your butt off, ‘cause there ain’t no stopping it.”
Shocked for a moment, Hunter had nodded, then set the satchel in his pouch, the only other thing he wore on his upper body beside Riley’s rope, looped shoulder to hip.
Shadows moved weirdly before him. And with some unconscious instinct he withdrew the Bowie, holding it close as he inched cautiously forward.
His breathing, despite his iron control, was heavier and faster, making him feel almost light-headed. He released a long, slow breath and tried to keep himself from hyperventilating. Then he shook his head sharply, as if to physically throw off the chimeras dancing like vapid ghosts before his eyes.
“Come on,” he whispered, “get a grip ...”
Another ten feet, twenty, and still his senses revealed nothing. And despite his fear he felt a descending sense of security, perhaps because some unconscious part of him hoped that, since he hadn’t been attacked so far, he wouldn’t be. But his mind told him better. He knew that, if it were here, it would be waiting patiently, fearing the blade if it feared anything at all.
He made another ten feet, glancing at the torch to see another fifteen minutes remaining. Eyes flashing in the gloom he continued, searching, thrusting the torch around a corner and withdrawing it quickly, tempting an attack. It never came.
In another ten feet he would tell them to proceed.
It was a flickering shadow ahead of him that made him tense as if he’d been struck, instantly rising to his feet to place them fully across the four-foot crevice, straddling the long drop to the floor with a foot on opposite ledges.
He watched the shadow ...rise?
Fall?
“What—” he began.
And knew.
Electrified with thrilling breathlessness, slowly moving only his head, Hunter turned cryptically to gaze behind.
Glowing red eyes, fangs distended, it stood gigantically less than five feet away. It smiled.
Its arms, so incredibly huge, hung almost to its knees, and Hunter noticed a difference in its face, as if it were more grotesque, more deformed with a heavier brow brooding over the baleful glare. Claws clicked as it moved its fingers in a rapid, staccato flexing that was almost too quick to follow. It seemed to laugh.
Slowly, Hunter turned toward it, saying nothing, doing nothing, prepared to drop cleanly to the floor and take his chances. And what happened next almost caused him to stagger. His eyes opened in shock as strength flowed from his form.
Fangs laughed beneath glowing, blood-red eyes.
“You cannot escape me,” it growled.
In a truly foul mood, Chaney parked and walked slowly toward Brick’s diner. For once, he was actually hungry as he neared the doors, but his mind was so preoccupied that he knew he couldn’t eat. He had played out whatever meager hand he’d been dealt. And for the time being he didn’t know what to do next. This thing was going down like nothing he had ever seen.
He didn’t mind putting on his real mood for Brick; Brick wasn’t affected by anything and had seen him like this before. He supposed that’s why he always liked stopping in on the retired marshal when a case was going to pieces.
Chaney would stop by, complain and curse, and Brick would go on calmly cutting meatballs and filling orders and occasionally nodding to indicate that he wasn’t completely ignoring him. Chaney would feel better having vented and go on his way with a beer. It was a system he liked, even if it was predictable—a danger in this profession.
He walked through the door at midafternoon to see the place fairly crowded. Without announcement—he had never announced himself— Chaney went through the swinging doors and saw Brick sitting at a desk surrounded by his uniquely personalized system of chaotic organization.
Watching over bifocals, Brick followed him as he half-collapsed in a chair. Chaney said nothing. Brick said nothing. Brick’s face was bland. “I seen you look worse,” he said.
“Really?” Chaney answered wearily. “When?”
“When you had that accidental discharge as a rookie and shot the front windshield out of your car.”
Chaney paused. “Oh ... yeah, well, that was a bad day.”
“You’re telling me.” Brick went back to the calculator. “I’m the one who had to do all the paperwork.” His fingers flew over the pad with remarkable dexterity. “So what you got besides what I gave you?”
<
br /> “I’m not sure, really. This scientist, a smart gal, says that this ...creature, whatever it is, is off the charts. Says she doesn’t have anything to match its DNA.” Chaney paused before continuing. “She said that it’s got some kind of immunity to disease, injury, anything. It was weird.”
Brick stopped adding, stared dead at Chaney. His gravelly voice held an equal amount of amusement and disbelief and intrigue. “You don’t say?”
“Yep,” Chaney answered as he opened a beer from a nearby case. “Brick, this is out of my league. I ain’t no scientist. And the only person I might have nailed down has gone to Alaska. To the last research station.”
“So?” Brick began adding again. “Doorstep him. He can’t get away from you. I learned a long time ago that you had the tenacity of a bulldog and half the brains. Follow the mother to the ends of the earth. Make him nervous. It’s called ‘harassment ‘til you spill your guts to me.’ “ He looked pleased at the number he had reached. “That’s what I’d do.”
That option hadn’t occurred to Chaney, but the more he thought of it, the more it seemed appropriate. He did, after all, have an unlimited budget and the right to commandeer a private jet at his discretion, though there might be hell to pay with Skull afterwards.
Yet all of it kept coming back to Alaska, the research station, and the man most responsible for whatever was going on inside that facility had gone there ... to hide something? To finish something?
“You might have an idea there, Brick,” Chaney mused after a slow swig of warm beer.
“I know most of the games, kid. Heck, I invented a few of ‘em myself. He’s ducking you and you know it. Best way to rattle his cage is to show him you can’t be ducked.” There was a long pause. “You should go just to let that scientist fella know he can’t get away. Sometimes it’s the principle of the thing. But I’d do something else before I went hightailing after him.”
Chaney knew what he was talking about. “A little extracurricular activity?”
“You got it.”
It was a phrase Brick had invented in the old days for serving search warrants on dangerous felons.
The night before the scheduled raid, Chaney and Brick would illegally break into the suspect’s house and search it for guns, weapons, anything that might endanger them in execution of the warrant the following morning. They wouldn’t ask permission and wouldn’t tell anyone what they’d done. And if they found a weapon they would disable it—remove the firing pin, jam it, remove the barrel, or something else equally as effective—so they didn’t have to worry about being shot the next day.
It was a well-known if unconfessed practice and nobody asked questions about it. But everyone, including supervisors, expected it to be done in order to insure the safety of fellow marshals.
At the briefing before the execution of the warrant, a fellow marshal would inevitably ask Brick, “What did you do last night?” To which Brick would casually respond: “Nothing. Just a little extracurricular activity.”
It wasn’t a guarantee of safety, but it worked well enough. And now Chaney knew Brick was recommending that he break into Hamilton’s home, glean what he could from what he could find, and leave no trace that he had been there. Chaney had already thought of it, but it helped to have someone reinforce what could be considered a wild idea. He took another sip before he spoke. “Yeah, but I don’t think this guy takes his work home, Brick.”
“He takes his life home, kid.” Brick leaned forward on burly forearms. “Don’t worry about his computer. It won’t be there. Or in the files. Go to his bookcase. Study what he’s got. A bunch of literature on earthquakes? Is that his interest?” He nodded hard. “Or is it something else?”
Chaney knew where the old man lived. “All right. I’ll take a little look-see tonight.”
“Where does he live?”
“A town house, not far from here.”
Brick’s square head, vaguely resembling a heavyweight boxer’s, nodded with each word. “Remember, son, don’t mess up the alarm, just disable and pick the lock. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken. No prints. Don’t forget to fix the alarm on your way out. Any fool can break into a place. The trick is breaking in and leaving without anyone ever knowing you were there.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Chaney hesitated before he brought up his most disturbing thought. “How would you cut a team off from support in the field, Brick? What would be the best way of doing something like that?”
“What do you mean, ‘support’?”
“Put them in a position where they couldn’t call for backup.”
“Well,” he responded, concentrating, “I guess the easiest way would be to disable their communications equipment. Wouldn’t be all that easy, since everyone is trained to fix the radio, but it could be done if you didn’t have a replacement part. In fact, back in ‘Nam I heard some war stories about it. They called it a high-tech frag. Guess they figured it was more creative than rolling a grenade between the lieutenant’s legs while he was taking a crap.”
Chaney pondered; disabling a radio was certainly easier than altering a satellite, which required NSA approval. And a realignment wasn’t all that easy even with that.
He knew that a satellite occupied a stationary orbit, which means its orbit coincides with the rotational speed of the earth, keeping it in the same relative location at all times. For instance, the satellite over Alaska was forever directly over Alaska, and retro rockets had to be fired in controlled bursts to either speed or slow the satellite’s trajectory. And any mistake with the rockets could destabilize its orbital distance, which could cause it to fall and disintegrate on reentry.
Chaney trusted that Dixon had asked about altering the orbit of a satellite, figured he knew which one, and may have even done it. But somehow Chaney suspected that Dixon would want things quieter. He wouldn’t chance a high-risk maneuver as potentially scandalous as a re-alignment if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Whatever this was, and Chaney knew it was something, was too unstable. They couldn’t endure the attention.
Chaney set the beer down and rose. “I’ve got work to do. Might see you later. Or I might be out of town ... way out of town, in fact.”
Ponderous forearms on the table, Brick said nothing for a moment. Then: “Boy, I think you’re in way over your head on this. I don’t like it. Some ... what did you say? Creature?”
“For lack of a better word.”
“Whatever,” Brick continued. “This thing is up there, and you’re going up there, and you don’t even know what it is, where it came from, where it’s going, what it’s doing. You gotta think this stuff through.” He raised a hand. “Now, I know what I said. But that’s in normal situations. Not in situations where some monster is running around knocking down electric fences and tearing people’s heads off.” He paused, shook his head. “Now, I must say, I seen a lot in my time, but that’s a real unusual situation. And now you’re thinking of going up to where this creature has killed all these rangers and marines which, by the way, ain’t all that easy to kill. Now, I don’t know and I ain’t gonna try and tell you what’s the smart thing to do, but if I was you I’d do a little more homework with that smart lady scientist before I went off into the wild blue.”
Chaney laughed, shook his head. “You always did have a way of putting things, Brick.”
“Comes with old age.”
A silence.
“All right,” Chaney said. “Tonight I do a little snooping. I’ll see what I find. I’ll make a decision after that.”
Brick nodded. “You let me know.”
“You bet.”
“And one more thing, Chaney.”
Pausing, Chaney said nothing. It was rare that Brick ever called him anything other than “kid,” although he was almost forty years old. But Brick, at sixty-three, had the right in more ways than one.
“Yeah?” he asked.<
br />
“This thing up there, it’s up there,” Brick said slowly, in a voice he used when he was dead serious, “it ain’t real. Whatever it is, I don’t know. Probably nobody knows. But you don’t need to be playin’ no hero. You shoot it on sight. Fair ain’t part of this. ‘Cause it’d do the same to you.”
Chaney nodded. “Brick, whatever that monster is ... it could kill anyone.”
Staring dead into its eyes, Hunter didn’t move.
Neither attempted to retreat or close the distance.
The creature was slightly hunched, as if preparing, and even in its stillness it seemed to be drawing closer. But Hunter knew it was an illusion caused by adrenaline and fear. He had been in this situation before, so he tried to control his sudden lack of breathing caused by the shock of its words.
“Last night”—its words grated over smiling fangs—”you fought well.”
Hunter braced himself, testing his foothold, and mentally measured the drop through darkness to the pathway beneath. He knew he couldn’t make it unless the creature was distracted. But it was twenty times faster than he was.
He couldn’t retreat, and a frontal attack was suicide. The only chance he had was that he might hit it hard, then drop, because it couldn’t drop any faster than he could. But when he hit the floor he’d better come up running and use what Taylor had given him. It was a risky gamble, and probably suicidal, but he was determined to not go down without a fight. Despite all his torn, sore muscles, he didn’t feel any of them at the moment.
Gathering his courage, he frowned and spoke. In his mind, somehow, he couldn’t reconcile himself to the possibility that it would respond. Part of him hoped it wouldn’t.
“What do you want?” he asked.
A voice like dirt shifting in a grave: “You.”
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