He trailed the two dogs by a dozen yards as they trekked the open, muddy space between the two natural obstacles, searching the ground and the air for clues. The Eagle Eye had moved off to the west; the MH-6 was still audible but no longer visible.
"I’ve got movement!"
It was Sawicki. He had taken a step or two into the wall of grass.
Before Campion could move the soldier cried out, "Tango! Tango!"
Then something came out of the grass.
Campion got a brief look from a distance; Sawicki was up close and personal.
The creature shrieked and then Sawicki flew backwards through the air like a tossed toy soldier.
It came charging out, rushing headlong toward him.
To Campion, this was not a demonic-looking alien life form from another world; it was not a terrifying animal that had been cornered and now chose to fight. No, to Captain Campion this was the objective — the target — of their mission. And that mission was to capture it alive.
Despite the fact that it raced at him with the obvious intent to do harm, the idea of mowing the creature down with his HK MP5 never entered the captain’s thought process. Instead he immediately focused on finding a way to divert the creature west by northwest, closer to "Catcher’s Mitt" and closer to completing the mission.
Campion squeezed the trigger on his weapon, firing shots not into the pinkish, big-eyed monster but into the mud directly in the creature’s path. Globs of soft soil sprayed like shrapnel from the impact.
Instantly the fierce attack turned into retreat, with the devilish thing returning to the cover of the tall, prickly saw grass.
Roberts and Wells raced to his side while the dogs held their enthusiasm in check and waited for direction.
Campion knelt next to Sawicki. The man tried to shake away the cobwebs and sat with one hand on his ribs. He had been hit and thrown but not slashed or cut.
Campion transmitted coolly and professionally, "We have contact with target — repeat, contact at grid reference—" he paused and flipped open the computer screen to consult the map, " — 9–4 south. Target is bipedal, five feet tall, aggressive, very strong, and heading west-northwest on foot and fast."
As Campion relayed the information he signaled for the attention of his dogs. He paused his transmission, held two fingers horizontally and wagged them in the direction their quarry had run, ordering, "Tyr, Phobos … flush, flush."
The two shepherds did not hesitate; they pursued the creature into the grass at a brisk pace.
Campion finished his communiqué, "Alpha team is in pursuit, target is heading straight for catcher’s mitt … repeat, target is heading straight for catcher’s mitt … ETA two minutes, tops."
Campion followed his hounds into the brush.
The hunt was on.
Gant received Campion’s transmission,then sent one of his own to the circling helicopter: "Listen up, Van Buren. Get that gear working and get over to ninety-four south."
"Roger that."
"What about you?" the major asked Galati. "We hot yet?"
Sal did not answer at first. He flipped a switch on the power supply and the stunner hummed to life.
"Oh yeah, we’re hot."
"Good, because we have company coming."
The MH-6 "Little Bird" banked again and flew fast, keeping to a higher altitude. The job was no longer to pin or scare the target. Indeed, the chopper wanted to stay out of sight yet close enough to monitor the enemy's location with the infrared tracking gear.
"Okay … I think I’ve got it …" Van Buren spoke to himself before radioing his commanding officer. "Major, I’ve got a target — three targets. Two trailing the lead by about twenty yards. All three are moving pretty damn fast. I’m thinking the lead target is our friend, followed by the dogs."
Gant responded, "Distance?"
"Two hundred yards to catcher’s mitt. The guy’s headed straight for your front door."
The downdraft nearly forced Franco to his knees. The soldier walked — stooping — away from the area of effect around the gigantic HH-3E "Jolly Green Giant" helicopter’s single main rotor.
The extraction team was a mix of green-fatigued soldiers in bio warfare gear and technicians in white HAZMAT suits. They raced around the craft in search of points to affix cables.
Franco opened a channel to Major Gant: "Bravo here. The extraction team is on-site, expect e-vac of the property in about fifteen minutes. I’ve got the army engineers standing by. When the extraction is complete they’ll come in and doze over the skid mark. In about two hours CNN could have a picnic here and never know what happened."
Gant’s static-distorted answer came, "Understood, good job Bravo. Keep the inner perimeter secure until the job is finished."
Of course, I'm always left to clean up the mess.
Van Buren’s voice came over the headset: "Fifty yards and closing fast."
Gant to Galati: "Light her up."
Sal raised the heavy weapon to his shoulder, his eyes focused on the wall of grass.
The barks came closer. The sound of grass being trampled grew louder. And with it all was another noise; a combination of a grumble and a snort, perhaps meant as a violent warning toward its pursuers, maybe just the frightened ramblings of a trapped animal.
"Thirty yards," came the voice on the headset.
"Steady, Sal, nice and steady. You know what to do. Don’t think — just do it."
Gant had insurance in the form of his baton and his rifle. He glanced over at Twiste, who stood further back, away from the heart of the action. More doctor than soldier, Twiste preferred not to carry weapons and would be defenseless if the Taser failed. That did not sit well with Major Gant. Twiste was more than one of his soldiers, he was a friend. Sooner or later he knew he had to convince his friend to be better prepared for the threats Archangel faced.
Still, Gant hoped he did not have to use the rifle. Using the rifle meant another dead, useless carcass. Using the rifle meant another failed mission. He did not want to fail. They had come close twice before; he did not want to fail a third time.
"Twenty yards."
Twiste said, "Remember, this is a short range weapon but it needs a couple of yards of flight for the net to deploy."
They saw stalks thrash about as the target closed.
Galati gently touched the trigger. A single red laser target beam sliced forward with precision, its pencil-thin light ended at the wall of grass; a wall of grass that was like a curtain waiting to rise so as to start the show.
"It’s all yours, Chief," came Van Buren’s last update.
The grass parted.
The pink-skinned alien creature stopped dead in the gun sights of the hunter. Its black eyes rolled white in surprise, its big beastly jaw dropped open, aghast.
Galati fired.
A thick line shot from the fancy rifle, expanding in midair from a bundle to a wide, wiry net.
The quarry flailed its short, muscular arms in an instinctive flinch, only to be more thoroughly ensnared in the meshwork.
An electrical jolt enveloped the beast, burning the alien’s skin and eliciting a quick, haunting squeal. Sparks flew, a puff of foul-smelling smoke drifted in the morning air.
The shepherds emerged from the grassy curtain behind the thing but gave it a wide birth as they watched it twitch, cringe, then finally fall flat on its back.
Galati removed his glasses and wiped the sweat from his brow. Twiste patted the soldier on his back and said, "Nice shot."