Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “Oh, I doubt it.” Hunter casually handed the syringe to Bobbi Jo. “But you could give it a try. Unfortunately for you, this facility is still under military jurisdiction. So I can’t be removed without the approval of Colonel Maddox.”

  Hamilton was easily taller, though Hunter had the advantage in sheer muscularity over all of them. The physician used it to his advantage, stepping closer. “I want you to know that that animal attacked me. And for that, he will be destroyed.”

  Hunter laughed out loud. “If he had attacked you, Doctor, you wouldn’t be standing in the ICU. You’d be lying in the graveyard. And if Ghost came to visit you at the cemetery, all those dead folks would be leaping out of their graves.”

  “It is a vicious dog.”

  “He’s a wolf.”

  “I don’t give a damn what he is! He interfered without cause or provocation in the performance of my duties. He is a dangerous animal and he’ll have to be destroyed or removed from the base.”

  “Oh, he’ll be removed, Doctor. Just as soon as I’m removed. Just as soon as the professor is removed. And, until then, he’ll do just as he’s told. He’ll stay in this room and guard Dr. Tipler.”

  Hamilton sneered. “We already have guards, Mr. Hunter.”

  Hunter smiled.

  A moment passed, and the physician’s eyes narrowed. “So you are the one who led a team of professional soldiers into a massacre.” He shook his head. “I cannot say that I am surprised by your recklessness. As I said, we already have guards but you insist on this insanity.”

  “You don’t have a guard that never sleeps, Doctor,” Hunter half-laughed at the ludicrous insult. “And if you have a problem with it, take it up with Colonel Maddox. He’s the one who approved it.”

  “Be assured, I will.”

  Maddox came through the door, slightly winded. His face was flushed, as if he had raced from the other side of the compound. “Then you can speak to me right now,” he said, coming forward. “What is the problem, Doctor?”

  Pointing solidly at Ghost, Hamilton spoke with anger. “That animal is the problem, Colonel. This is a hospital facility, not a kennel. Certainly I need not remind you that it is both unsanitary and dangerous to have a wild animal inside the compound, and even more dangerous to contain it in a trauma facility. I advise you, as senior medical supervisor, to have it removed or destroyed immediately.”

  Maddox looked at Ghost, at Hamilton. “You don’t appear to be injured, Doctor.”

  “The guards arrived in time to prevent an attack.”

  “I see.” Maddox lifted his chin slightly. “So you were in fear of an attack?”

  “Of course I feared an attack.” Hamilton seemed offended at the tone. “Just as any reasonable man would have been in fear of an attack. Clearly, that is a dangerous animal. A wild animal. It belongs in a cage, not in an infirmary.”

  “Which is precisely why he is to remain beside Dr. Tipler until we airlift the hunting party from the facility, Doctor.”

  Maddox stopped Hamilton as he opened his mouth to reply. “There will be no more discussion on the subject, Doctor,” he stressed with military bearing. “This is my command. And the wolf remains as a personal bodyguard to the professor until I receive contrary orders from my superiors. If you wish, you have my permission to contact them and discuss the situation.”

  Hamilton was enraged but spoke coldly. “I will, indeed, speak with them immediately, Colonel. I can assure you of that. We will see who is truly in charge here.”

  “You do as you see fit,” Maddox replied.

  Hamilton walked past him. “Believe me, I will.”

  Almost out the door, he stopped before Bobbi Jo and extended a dead-calm hand. “The syringe, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ll take it,” Hunter said as he gently removed it from her grasp. “Maybe the professor would like to take a look at it when he wakes up.” He gazed, unblinking, at Hamilton. “Unless it’s something you don’t want anyone to see.”

  Hamilton’s face flushed.

  Without a word he walked out.

  Watching him exit the trauma unit, Hunter’s brow hardened. Bobbi Jo stepped up and looked thoughtfully at the syringe, at him. “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  He once more raised the amber-filled syringe before his eyes. “Just thought about something an old man once told me about how I can tell if something is right or wrong.”

  “Which is?”

  “He told me that if you can’t tell if something is right or wrong, ask yourself if you mind people seeing what you’re doing. If you’d rather keep it a secret, then maybe it ain’t so right after all.”

  ***

  A crimson sun rose higher in the sky as Chaney lifted off in the modified Blackbird from Sparrevoh Airbase. He was immediately struck by the crimson dawn that domed the horizon in scarlet tatters and an atmosphere of eternal day.

  But he knew it was an illusion created by altitude. For as long as they remained high, the day would last. It was only when you were trapped in the deep valleys and ravines that night settled so early and without warning.

  Located ten miles from the closest township, the four-hundred-acre airbase was still more than five hundred miles from the as-yet unnamed research station. But the helicopter had a range of fifteen hundred miles at its maximum speed of three hundred miles per hour, so they would be there soon enough.

  It had been surprisingly easy to commandeer the attack helicopter after the base commanding officer telephoned Washington to verify Chaney’s orders. Then he and Brick had quickly loaded the chopper.

  Chaney had used ten minutes with a qualified pilot to re-familiarize himself with the updated flight control panel and was impressed with how modern technology had changed what was basically a Huey into a flying limousine.

  It was a well-crafted machine with a muffler that could be hydraulically lifted to virtually silence the twin turbos and engine. He also learned that, when cloaked, the only sound the chopper made in flight was that of rotors slicing air. It was also armed, doubling as a gunship. Yet Chaney didn’t expect he’d need the 30-mm cannon so they had lifted off with only the armaments they’d brought, which seemed formidable enough.

  They easily cleared the first jagged whitewall of mountains at nine thousand feet and the Magellan Navigational System kept them on a steady course. Chaney glanced at the displays as they gained even more altitude to ensure the craft was operating smoothly and not approaching the twelve-thousand-foot limit because the cabin wasn’t pressurized. Plus, unless you were on oxygen at twelve thousand feet, a sudden loss of consciousness was a possibility.

  With only a quick glance he saw that hydraulic pressure was steady, no overheating or cooling, and that the rotor speed and pitch were appropriate. Rear automatic stabilizers were computerized, and they automatically adjusted to wind and climatic changes.

  Chaney had never flown a chopper with computer-enhanced rear rotor blades or anti-torque control, but it was easy to become accustomed to. He realized that he felt a sense of calm because, overall, the Blackhawk was a much easier chopper to fly than the crude but effective Huey.

  “How long before we deck?” Brick spoke into his mike.

  “It’s five hundred miles ... maybe two hours,” Chaney replied into the headset. He could have used the cloaking device to dull the roar of the engine and the drone of the turbos, thereby making conversation easier, but the ceramic shields also increased hydraulic temperatures. He remembered that the sound-dampening system couldn’t be used for more than fifteen minutes at a time because overheating, and possible engine damage, could occur.

  “Good enough,” Brick replied, eyes centered steadily on the vast mountains that reached up to the horizon. “We’ll still get there with a couple hours of daylight. We’ll use it to get a good feel for the place before you get down to your little chit-chat.”

  “
Yeah, well, if I get the chance,” Chaney responded. “ ‘Cause if they know we’re coming, they’re gonna be prepared. And I don’t think the good doc is gonna take it lying down. He’ll be on the horn with Washington at the first available opportunity and get some interference runnin’. And he’ll probably make up some shit about how I’m hampering their precious research with my inane questions.” He cocked his head. “As it is, we’re already in trouble. They might throw us in jail for leaving that scene in Washington.”

  Brick grunted. “Yeah, they’ll get us for that sooner or later, kid. Believe me. They’ll have to. But don’t worry about that now. And, in any case, we were smart to hit the road. If you’d stayed in Washington they would have tied you up for days or weeks with bullshit statements and forensics and probably a suspension ‘til a shooting review board could be arranged. So you did the right thing. And when this little gig is over, I’ll be there to testify for ya. I was a witness to the whole thing, so it won’t be so bad. Really, we had no choice. We just didn’t go by the book on the aftermath.”

  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.

  Dark eyes narrow with amusement, Takakura added, “Not, I suppose, as well as some whom I know. But, then, I had nothing to distract me.” He nodded to himself, as if he had discovered something profoundly pleasing. “Yes,” he added, “it is amazing how the crucible of war can bring hearts together. For you can discover more of a person in a few hours of combat than in years of casual acquaintance. And when the battle is over you realize that you have glimpsed into a heart. I have seen lives forever changed by such things.”

  Bobbi Jo said nothing, but her smile didn’t fade.

  Glancing over at her, then at the range, Hunter said, “Guess you’re right. Never really thought about it.”

  “Until now,” Takakura said, finishing disassembly of the M-14. “But it is a lesson worth learning, and remembering. I can tell you that the closest friends I possess are those who fought beside me in war. And the only people I truly trust are those who have, out of honor and courage, risked much for me.

  “Anyone can be brave in the day, when you feel warm and safe and protected. But one must first walk in the night, alone and unaided, before he can say he is not afraid of the dark.”

  Without another word he began cleaning the weapon. Even at a distance Hunter could feel heat emanating from the barrel and receiver, but Takakura seemed not to notice as he efficiently swabbed the bore. In fact, the Japanese seemed not to be thinking of anything at all as they fell silent.