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“I have a question,” a gruff voice said. It was the foreman of the roustabouts, Creel. He alone had not put on a parka, and was against the wall, burly arms crossed.
Gonzalez eyed the man, nodded.
“Just what is it you’re pla
“We’re pla
“You mean, you’re going to hunt it.”
“Whatever this thing is, I think it’s done its fair share of hunting. Now it’s our turn.”
“Just the three of you,” Creel said.
Gonzalez eyed the cache of weapons, then smiled mirthlessly. “Why? You think our force is insufficient?”
“Given the state of your intel, I think the larger the force, the better.”
Now Gonzalez examined the man more carefully. “Were you in the service, mister?”
Creel threw out his chest. “Third Armored Cavalry, Desert Storm.”
Gonzalez stroked his chin. “You’re not part of this little group, right? You’re the local foreman.”
The man nodded. “George Creel. Out of Fairbanks.”
“Ever do any hunting?”
The foreman gri
“That’s sufficient. Want to join the party, Mr. Creel?”
Creel’s grin widened. “And let me do this for free? Are you kidding?”
“Very well.”
Barbour heard her own voice almost before she realized she was speaking. “I think that’s a mistake.”
Gonzalez turned toward her. “What, exactly, is a mistake?”
“You’re hunting it with so little information. Sully and Faraday are in the lab, analyzing its blood, learning what they can. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to do it harm.”
Gonzalez’s eyes narrowed. “What can they possibly learn that will help us?”
“They can find a weakness. Learn its vulnerabilities. Make observations.”
“They’re welcome to make all the observations they want-of its carcass.” Gonzalez glanced around the weather chamber. “All right, people. Follow me.”
They passed into the staging area, where Gonzalez paused to line them up three abreast. Then the outer doors were opened and they marched into the storm. The ragged procession huddled close together, tramping through drifts that curled around their ankles. Gonzalez led the way, M16 at the ready, while Corporal Marcelin brought up the rear, lugging an improvised sled stowed with cases of water and emergency supplies.
Barbour heard the eighteen-wheeler before she saw it: the snarl of an idling diesel, filtering back through the gloom. She kept staggering forward through the storm, head bowed, until she bumped heavily into the person in front of her. Looking up, she realized the procession had stopped. There was the truck, covered with tiny yellow lights like some immense holiday offering, its headlights lancing the coruscating snow. Carradine had attached Davis ’s trailer and was framed in its wide doorway. He was busily throwing objects out of the trailer and into the snow: hatboxes, racks of expensive designer dresses, a vanity table. As Barbour watched, a small leather suitcase went cartwheeling out the trailer door. Hitting the ground, it sprang open, sending forth an explosion of cosmetics. The wind caught a flimsy negligee and scooped it up into the air, flapping and rippling like a silken kite. It got caught briefly on the trailer’s ante
Carradine brushed one hand against the other in satisfaction. “That’s better,” he said over the rumble of the diesel. “Okay. Bring ’em on.”
Gonzalez did one last head count. “Get inside,” he told the first row of people. “Find a comfortable spot to stow yourselves.”
“Don’t all bunch up together,” Carradine added. “Distribute the weight as evenly as possible.” He jumped down into the snow. “I’ve placed a spare battery-powered CB radio inside to communicate with the cab. Somebody will need to take charge of it.”
A tentative hand went up. “I will.” It was Fortnum.
Barbour watched as the two casualties were helped into the trailer: Toussaint, slumping, clearly under heavy sedation, babbling quietly to himself, and Bria
“I’ll do it,” Barbour said.
Carradine looked at her. “Can you program a GPS unit?”
“I’m a computer scientist.”
“Good enough for me. Let me check the belly tarp and the alcohol evaporator, and we’ll be on our way.”
She stepped out of the line and into the relative shelter beneath the cab. As the last of the group climbed into the trailer, Marcelin handed up the cases of water and the emergency supplies. Carradine made a final inspection of the rig. Then he climbed onto the trailer and, after briefly surveying the interior and showing Fortnum the CB, he closed the door. Walking around to the rear, he disco
“Ready?” Gonzalez asked.
The trucker gave him a thumbs-up.
“Then good luck and Godspeed.”
Carradine helped Barbour up into the cab, then trotted around the front and clambered into the driver’s seat. He did a quick equipment and instrument check against a clipboard list that hung on the wall behind him, buckled his seat belt, then plucked the CB hand-set from the dash. “You with me back there?” he spoke into it.
“We’re here,” came the reply.
“Ten four.” He replaced the radio, glanced over at Barbour. “Ready?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s go.” He released the air brake, shifted into gear, eased off the clutch. The truck shuddered, then began rolling slowly forward.
Barbour looked out the window, into the scudding snow. As they headed into the wastes and the dark, her last view of Fear Base was of the three soldiers-Gonzalez, Marcelin, and Phillips-standing by the empty sled, weapons ready, watching them depart.
38
For the last hour, the officers’ mess had been a scene of frantic activity. One by one, groups had been assembled, their readiness checked, and the soldiers had escorted them to the staging area. At one point Gonzalez had radioed, making a final appeal for Conti to see reason, to leave with the rest. Conti, watching rough takes on the digital video camera Fortnum left behind, barely listened. At last, Gonzalez muttered something about Conti not being worth the time it would take to force him into the truck and warned him to stay put. “You want to film something? Film the mess once we’ve killed it.” Marcelin and Phillips returned to escort the final group of six to the staging area.
That left the three of them alone.
Kari Ekberg glanced at the other two occupants of the mess. Conti, having finished watching the rough takes, was now feverishly scrawling notes on the clipboard he never seemed to be without. Wolff had secured two heavy-caliber sidearms from the military store and was toying with them. The way he jammed rounds into the extra clips with his thumb, as if filling an oversize Pez dispenser, made it seem as though he could be relied on to handle them properly.
This hardly made Ekberg feel better. She had been growing less and less confident of her decision to remain. Loyalty to a project was one thing; ambition was one thing; but being marooned here with some killing machine seemed increasingly like a questionable career move.
She tried to shake her reservations away. After all, hadn’t two of the scientists elected to remain behind with their data and their samples? Logan had chosen to stay with them. And Marshall – Marshall was out in the storm somewhere. He’d be returning, too. Be sides, there was the military contingent to think about-combat-trained and sporting a very impressive arsenal of weaponry, ready to hunt the creature down once the truck had departed. She told herself that her chances were better here, warm and dry, than in an eighteen-wheeler out on the ice.