“Meaning?”
“Thunder beings, as savage as the storm itself. Merciless and indestructible.”
“Let’s hope not.”
Chapter 8
Tuesday’s dusk was barely three hours away when Blaine and Johnny emerged from the death-filled complex. In all they had found twenty-eight bodies, and even McCracken found himself shaking slightly.
“We must go, Blainey,” Wareagle announced, gazing ahead as if to sniff the air.
“Are you on their trail, Indian?”
“Yes and no.”
“No riddles. Please.”
“The only trail I can find is Norseman’s. Following it will take us to what we seek.”
Two miles back into the jungle, Wareagle crouched down and began working his fingers in the dirt. “Norseman?” Blaine asked.
“There’s more. Now part of another trail separate from his team’s. Fresher.”
“You’re saying he’s being followed?”
“Doubled back on is more like it.”
“How many?” McCracken asked, thinking of the dozen empty beds plus one they had found at the complex.
“I cannot tell. The evidence is slight, a slip, or perhaps one of them leaning over to do just what I’m doing now.”
“What you’re telling me is that you can’t find a single track belonging to whatever doubled back on Norseman?”
“For a creature in harmony with the land, walking without any trace is quite possible.”
“How far are they behind Norseman?”
“An hour, maybe two.”
“And us?”
“At least that much behind them.”
The jungle turned harsh and brutal from there, more humid and steaming than ever. The animal and bird sounds lost their harmonious ring. The heavy green foliage became tangled and more difficult to part. The route was hilly, irregular. Sudden drops occurred without notice. Branches scratched at McCracken’s flesh, and he flailed at them in frustration. Blaine couldn’t have said if fatigue and foreboding were to blame, or if the Wakinyan, as Johnny called them, had led Norseman’s team into these treacherous parts for a reason. In any case, this direction also led to the trunk river, where Luis would be waiting with their boat.
Night’s dark fingers were starting to spread across the sky when Johnny went rigid in his tracks.
“What’s wrong, Indian?”
“I heard something, Blainey.”
“Where?”
“Ahead of us…As much as a mile.”
“Any idea what?”
“I’m…not sure.”
Wareagle’s gait changed from there; now he moved like a great predator approaching prey that had its back turned. McCracken followed — and stopped abruptly behind Johnny when the big Indian froze, his arms flexed by his sides. “Sniff the air, Blainey.”
McCracken did. “I don’t — Wait a minute…Holy shit, you’re right!”
There was an unmistakable scent of gunpowder and sulphur-based explosives sifting through the wind.
“How far, Indian?”
“A half mile, at most.”
They covered that distance with little regard for the fact that the Wakinyan might be retracing their steps directly for them. Somehow Blaine felt even if the enemy knew they were here, it was not in their plans to do anything about it. That enemy had other priorities, which it would pursue with all haste.
The gunpowder smell grew into a full-fledged assault on their nostrils in the last dozen yards before they stepped into the clearing. They stopped dead still.
“Norseman,” Blaine muttered.
Or what was left of him. The seven ravaged corpses had been arranged in a trio of yard-deep chasms in the ground. Crosses made of branches had been jammed through the center of their chests, and the bodies had been left so that the crosses flowed in one precise row, so precise that only by changing his perspective could Blaine actually tell there was more than one.
Wareagle had moved further into the clearing, and bent to pick up discharged shells and empty clips on the ground. A bit deeper in he came upon discarded grenade pins and the tripod for an M-60 that lay nearby.
“How did this happen, Johnny?”
“Norseman’s men didn’t know they were being ambushed until it was too late. They responded with fire in all directions.”
“Then whatever they killed must have been hauled away.”
“I don’t believe they killed anything, or even hit anything. Their shots were wild. It is clear they had no targets, only sounds they were supposed to hear.”
“And then our friends from the complex rushed in and opened fire when they were facing in the wrong direction?”
Wareagle shook his head. “No, Blainey. All the shells here belong to Norseman’s men. Their bodies have no bullet wounds.”
“Wait a minute! You’re telling me seven Green Berets armed to the teeth couldn’t protect themselves from an unarmed attack?”
“I said no guns. I did not say unarmed.”
“How could they let the Wakinyan get so close? How could Ben Norseman’s men let those things parade right into the middle of a firefight and not take a single one out with them?”
“I can’t say, Blainey. There are no tracks leading in or out except for Norseman’s. Everything stops here.”
“Except us, Indian. The one good thing is that the Wakinyan left all the weapons behind. Virtually confirms the fact that they still don’t know we’re in the neighborhood.”
“Or suggests they want to give us a chance. More sport.”
“No, they want out. They hit the installation because they had somewhere else they wanted to be. Norseman was in their way. We’re not.”
“Not yet.”
McCracken moved to Ben Norseman’s corpse and stripped the pack from his back. Inside was a thick, oblong metallic cylinder about eighteen inches in length. As Johnny brought the cylinder closer to him, it seemed to tremble in his hands.
“Blainey?”
“It’s a fuel air explosive, Indian. Once activated it spreads a highly volatile gas over a wide radius for a predetermined period of time and then detonates. The gas ignites, and what you end up with is a huge air blast that leaves nothing behind.”
“Perhaps Norseman was out to set a trap of his own.”
“And then he never even got the explosive out of his pack. He would have tried, you know. When what was happening to him became clear, he would have used it.”
“Which means the Wakinyan didn’t give him the time.”
“Wouldn’t have taken much, so they must not have given him any,” Blaine said, and started away.
Stepping through the clearing, Blaine’s foot bumped something solid concealed beneath a bed of leaves. He pushed them aside and grasped a black electronic device. He found the On button and the screen jumped to life, showing a square grid dominated by a circle sweeping over it and then starting again, like a miniature radar screen.
“A range finder, Blainey?” McCracken nodded. “Five-hundred-yard radius, by the look of it. Norseman wasn’t taking any chances with his pursuit. High tech all the way. Doesn’t look like it helped much.”
“They knew he was coming. They knew where.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure. The men were killed at close range — when they should have had plenty of warning as well as time. They had neither.”
McCracken’s eyes fell to the range finder. Its sweep continued, programmed, he assumed, to the specifications of what Norseman had been told he was hunting. The circle closed and started again, nothing showing in the grid.
“Coast looks clear, Indian.”