Although there was nothing else to compare the figure to in terms of size, Scott got the impression it was massive and powerful. It stood erect, head thrown back, arms hanging gorilla-like by its sides. It was hard to tell, but it appeared to be wearing some kind of chainmail-like armor, and its hair was long and hung in thick individual strands, like dreadlocks. There was something about the figure, an arrogance and an… an otherness that made Scott shudder.
The second photograph was from a low angle and showed a rangier, more sinewy figure in mid-leap from one tree branch to another. Scott might have thought it was a large ape if not for the fact that it appeared to be clothed (though again, the shot was too murky to make out details) and that its dreadlock-like hair, identical to the first figure’s, was streaming out behind it.
The third photograph, and the most remarkable, was a close-up, taken from the side, of another dreadlocked figure – perhaps one of the two in the previous photos. The head and body were mostly a dark blur, though the hair, even here, was unmistakable. However, the real focus was the left arm, and more particularly the hand, which were both much clearer.
The arm, solid and muscular, was clad in a shimmering, skin-hugging garment that reminded Scott of fish scales. But the hand… oh my God, the hand…
Scott gazed at it, open-mouthed.
Scaly and taloned, it was less like a hand, and more like an alligator’s claw. But whereas an alligator’s claw was thick and stubby, this was long-fingered and shapely, if shapely was an apt word to use for such a powerful, brutal appendage.
“Is this real?” Scott asked. He knew it was a dumb question, but it was all he could come up with right now.
Schaefer looked the picture of calm as he sipped his coffee. Nodding, he said, “Those pictures you’ve got there were hard to come by. Usually the Hunters wear helmets, armor, gauntlets. More often than not they’re cloaked. Photographs of them without their various forms of protective shielding are rare.”
Most of this washed over Scott, but there was one word that he managed to grasp as it swept by. “Hunters?”
“That’s what we call them. Hunters or Predators. Because that’s what they are.”
“But what are they?” Scott said.
Schaefer glanced at the photograph Scott was holding. “Look at the next picture.”
Scott drew in a breath, realized he was bracing himself. He put the picture of the claw aside to reveal the next one, and jerked in shock.
“Holy shit.”
At first he thought that what he was looking at was an extreme close-up of an attack dog. Its jaws were open wide, teeth bared, eyes glaring. Then he realized that the jaws were far wider than they should have been, and they appeared to have opened not only up and down, but sideways too. Also the face seemed more fish-like than dog-like, the furiously glaring eyes positioned just above the gaping, jagged-toothed mouth. The flesh of the high-domed forehead was hairless, mottled and pale, like the belly of a lizard.
Scott stared and stared at the picture, trying to get his head around it, to convince himself this wasn’t some ridiculous hoax. He thought again of the gauntleted arm, the green blood, the fury and strength needed to kill all those armed men.
“This is a Hunter?” he said.
Schaefer nodded. “It is.”
Scott realized he was holding himself so rigid that his chest was starting to hurt, and he forced himself to exhale slowly.
“Is it an animal?”
Schaefer had the look of a doctor who did not want to excite an unstable patient. “It’s an alien. By which I mean, it’s not from this planet. Highly intelligent, highly resourceful, with reflexes you wouldn’t believe.”
Scott couldn’t help it. He laughed. It was a high-pitched, unhappy sound. He pressed a hand against his mouth to stifle it. He’d never been a hysteric and he wouldn’t become one now. He forced himself to take another deep breath, then said, “Sorry. I believe you. I really do. All the evidence I’ve seen over the years… well, this kind of makes sense of it. It’s the only thing that does make sense of it.”
“That first time we met,” said the Major. “In LA. The crater you were guarding was made when an alien ship belonging to one of these creatures tore itself out of the earth.”
Scott stared at him, then asked the first question that came to mind. “How did the ship get under the earth in the first place?”
Schaefer half-smiled. “I’ve often asked myself that question.”
Scott stared at the photograph again. He’d seen monster movies. Animatronics, special effects, CGI. He knew what could be done with a computer these days, and there was a part of his mind that desperately wanted to believe this was a hoax, a joke, or that he was being fed a batshit crazy story in order to hide the real truth.
As if all this was evident on his face, Schaefer said, “Take your time, Sergeant. I know your mind is racing right now. I know part of you wants to believe me, and the other part is thinking this can’t possibly be true. I know you’re scared on a deep and fundamental level, because your world has been turned upside down. I know there’s a part of you that’s thrilled because your horizons have just been broadened. I know you’re feeling relieved, vindicated, but also more uncertain than you’ve ever felt before.”
Scott tore his gaze away from the snarling nightmare in front of him and looked at the Major’s grizzled face. “You sound as though you speak from experience, sir.”
Schaefer inclined his head and gave an almost wry smile. “It was a little different for me. The first I knew of the Hunters was when I found myself fighting for my life against one of them.”
Scott gaped at the Major. “Did you kill it?”
“Eventually. But not before it had wiped out my entire team. And not without a few scars.”
Before now, Scott had been unsure whether the enemy was singular or plural. He’d assumed plural, but what he hadn’t reckoned on was actual aliens. Far-fetched though it seemed, he’d been prepared to believe in something homegrown: robots, cyborgs, even chemically enhanced superhumans. But intelligent, technologically advanced, warlike beings from outer space?
“So these Hunters?” he asked as a sudden thought struck him. “Is this an invasion force?”
The Major shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyway. Up to now, the Hunters have come here for sport.”
“Sport?”
“They hunt us as we hunt big game. They find our planet a fertile and challenging hunting ground. Because of that, over the last fifteen years or so, they’ve been coming to Earth in greater numbers and at more frequent intervals.”
“And you’ve been trying to… what? Kill them? Drive them away?”
“We kill them if we can. Then we salvage what they leave behind – their remains, their technology – and we learn from it.”
“Learn what?”
“Whatever we can. But primarily how their technology works. They’re a far more advanced species than we are. Whoever can harness their technology and apply it…”
“Can rule the world,” Scott said.
Schaefer shrugged. “At least keep one step ahead of the opposition. Imagine if this technology were to fall into the wrong hands.”
Scott smiled. “Some would say our hands are the wrong hands.”
“Some would,” Schaefer agreed. “And they would be right, too, about certain people.”
Scott paused, then said, “As we’re being transparent with each other, sir, can I ask who you’re specifically referring to?”
Schaefer regarded him for a moment. Then he said, “I have an understanding with a government organization called the OWLF – the Other Worldly Life Forms Program.”
“An understanding?”
“They like to think I work for them.” The Major grinned suddenly. “And I find the resources at their disposal extremely useful.”
“So these ‘certain people’ you mentioned?” Scott asked. “Do they work for the OWLF too?”
Schaefer shrugged. “Some p
erhaps. Who knows? The corridors of power are murky places, Sergeant. The factions and affiliations that form within them are many and complex.” Lacing his big hands together and leaning forward on his elbows, he continued carefully, “The simplest explanation I can give you is that some, perhaps even the majority, of OWLF operatives I associate with are genuinely working toward what they, and I, believe to be the common good. However, this other faction, although with a similar agenda to the OWLF and nominally still answerable to the government, are gradually becoming more… autonomous.”
“Autonomous how?” Scott asked.
Schaefer unclenched his hands and wafted his right one in the air in an almost magician-like flourish. “It’s a tangled web,” he said, “with multiple strands that lead nowhere.”
“False trails created by this new faction?”
“That’s one assumption.”
“But for what purpose? To hide their true agenda?”
Now Schaefer spread his hands. “Who knows? What we have are only rumors, whispers. But my own opinion is that this new group – and be aware that I use this term loosely; they have no official status, no hard boundaries, no membership roll – is becoming increasingly unscrupulous. They use mercs to do their heavy lifting. This we know. And indications are – though there’s no evidence for this – they’re privately funded, which means they’re less accountable to those they reputedly serve.”
“What are the rumors?” Scott asked.
Schaefer shrugged. “Take your pick. Some say that certain government employees are selling off salvaged alien tech to the highest bidder – foreign powers? Criminal organizations? Millionaire masterminds with criminal agendas? Who knows.”
“But surely, if that was happening right at the heart of government, someone would know about it?” Scott said, appalled. “There would be questions asked, internal investigations even. Or am I being naïve?”
“I don’t get involved in internal politics,” Dutch said. “All I know is what I’ve been told by my OWLF contacts, and even they keep their cards pretty close to their chests. There is no evidence for any of what I’ve told you, so there have been no outright accusations, and therefore no official inquiries or investigations. All of this is so hush-hush that no one even seems to know whether the salvaged alien tech that is supposed to have been sold off ever even existed. If this new faction found it, then it’s unlikely they’d have registered it. Which means there would be no paper trail.”
Scott nodded. “Six years ago, when I had my little run-in with a group of government suits at H12, they had a box full of weapons. Weapons like the ones in these photographs.”
Schaefer seemed unsurprised. “That wouldn’t be enough to incriminate them.”
“No, I know,” Scott said. “So for the time being, this new group, whatever their agenda, are pretty much just a pain in the ass to you, sir?”
“A royal pain in the ass. With each new reported incursion, it’s a race as to who gets there first – us or them. Which is where you come in, Sergeant.”
With everything else that had been thrown at him today, Scott had almost forgotten to wonder what the Major’s motivation was in arranging this meeting with him. “Me, sir?”
“You and your team. With Hunter incursions increasing year on year, my own team is stretched to its limits. I’ve been given permission to bring in some peripheral teams to help – and yours was the first one I thought of. It would mean you and your men working with my team on occasional ‘bug hunting’ missions, with the aim of wiping out any Hunters we find and salvaging whatever they leave behind. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how perilous this work will be. I know you’re accustomed to danger, Sergeant, but this would be on a whole different level. It would mean additional training, and a course of pretty intense briefings to bring you all up to speed. And there’s one other thing…” Schaefer spread his hands again, a gesture of apology. “The counterterrorism work you’re doing now is, of course, of vital international importance, so there would be no respite from that. The work you do with me would be in addition to the work you’re doing now, so the workload – initially at least – would be massive. But unless you’re totally against the idea, I can fix up another meeting, this time with your whole team, and put the idea to them. Due to the sensitivity of the information, I’d prefer you not to speak to them yourself. What do you say?”
Scott was stunned. He didn’t know what to say. He looked again at the ferocious, predatory face in the photograph; thought of Moreno and his force of fifty tough, hardened men, ripped apart, mutilated, their weapons useless. How could he even contemplate putting himself and his men into the firing line of such an opponent? On the other hand, as a soldier, how could he turn down the Major’s incredible offer?
If this was just me, he thought, if I was being offered a place on Schaefer’s team, I’d say yes.
“Fix up the meeting, sir,” he said. “If my men are up for this, then so am I.”
CHAPTER NINE
2007
The guys were nervous, Scott could tell, though they were trying not to show it. The laughter and banter bounced back and forth between them as usual, but Scott sensed a brittleness to it, almost a feverishness, that it was doubtful a less attuned ear would detect. It didn’t worry him, their nervousness. He knew that when the time came they would use it and channel it correctly. It would provide them with an extra level of sharpness, of alertness, which they would need if they were to come through this experience unscathed.
He tried to project an air of calm, a sense that he regarded this as just another mission, but inwardly he too was bubbling with nervous excitement and, yes, more than a little fear. It had been over eighteen months now since Major Alan “Dutch” Schaefer had blasted Scott’s horizons wide open, and since that time the tension had built up and up inside him. The special training and the endless briefings, slotted in between missions that could never be described as mundane, but which were based very much in the “real” world of human conflict and violence, had come to an end almost nine months ago, since when the men had been on tenterhooks, waiting for Schaefer’s call. Just as Scott had begun to think that he and his team would be on permanent standby, it had finally come last night, with orders to mobilize immediately.
And now here they were, sitting in a Chinook, waiting for the Major and his men to join them. Where they were going and what they would face, they had no idea. Scott had been told that time was of the essence, and that Schaefer would brief them en route.
Right on cue, a pair of Humvee troop carriers emerged from the open doors of the hangar in the distance and sped across the airfield toward them. Scott moved to the open rear of the chopper to watch them approach, and was joined by Marcus, who had been promoted to sergeant, on his recommendation, after Scott himself had become a captain last year as replacement for the deceased Captain Graham.
“Here they come,” Marcus murmured.
Scott glanced at his old friend. As always, he conveyed an air of serenity.
“Are you really as calm as you look?” he asked.
Marcus considered the question for so long Scott thought he wouldn’t have time to answer before the vehicles were upon them. Then he said, “Despite everything we’ve learned, despite everything we’ve been told to be prepared for, I still feel as though we’re jumping off a cliff into the unknown. And that’s scary. But once we’re out there, wherever the hell it is we’re going, I also know our training will kick in and we’ll do our best. And that’s all we can do.”
“That’s very… Zen,” Scott said.
Marcus smiled. “It’s just the way I roll.”
The Humvees came to a halt and Dutch Schaefer swung himself out of the passenger side of the lead vehicle. He marched up the ramp of the Chinook, followed by his men. At the top he saluted Scott and Marcus and they saluted back.
“Ready for the fray, Captain Devlin? Sergeant Thorne?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be, sir,” Scott said.<
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Schaefer’s men settled in, renewing old acquaintances with Scott’s team, who they had got to know during the endless training sessions and briefings that they had shared. Once they were airborne, Schaefer moved forward to address Scott’s men.
Spreading out a map on the floor, he said, “Our destination is the Zuni-Bandera Volcanic Fields in New Mexico. It’s a terrain that will pose various challenges, not only for ourselves but hopefully for the enemy too. It’s an area of instability, full of craters, low hills, deep caverns, and many other nooks and crannies caused by various volcanic eruptions over the centuries. It’s also heavily forested with trees and foliage, which provide many, many places where the enemy can not only hide, but also lay traps and ambushes.
“According to our intel, an unidentified flying object crash-landed in a crater late last night. Cell-phone footage captured by a witness would indicate that the object was a two-man shuttle used by Hunters on previous missions. The shuttle is badly damaged, and from subsequent drone footage it’s thought at least one of the Hunters is dead, but the other is likely still at large, possibly wounded. Our mission, as always, is to neutralize the enemy and to salvage as much tech from the crash site as we can. We have to assume we are not the only ones who know about this crash site, so to get a jump on our rivals we must find the Hunter and strip that place clean as quickly and efficiently as possible.”
For a large chunk of the remainder of the three-hour flight, Schaefer and his second-in-command, Angus, went over the minutiae of the mission with the men, providing them with so much detail that by the time the Chinook touched down on a plateau less than a mile from the crash site, each of them knew exactly what to expect from the location, and what their individual roles in the mission would be.
The only thing they didn’t know was the precise capabilities of their enemy. As the Major had explained in painstaking detail during their many meetings over the past months, the Hunters came in a variety of shapes and sizes, and possessed not only an impressive array of combat techniques, but also a mind-boggling arsenal of weapons.
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