Hunted by William W. Johnstone Page A

admiral said, obviously highly irritated. Headquarters, Office of Naval Intelligence. “How come we dropped the ball on this one?” He lifted a manila folder and tossed out the question to the men seated around the long table.
    â€œSir, I can’t even get a fix on what is going on. Everything is screwed down tight.”
    â€œWell, somebody had damn well better unscrew it and do it fast. It looks like we’re the last ones to know.”
    â€œKnow what?” a ranking officer said.
    The admiral slid the folder down the table. The officer opened it and stared at the single sheet of paper. “This doesn’t tell me anything. What the hell is operation Mountain Goat?”
    â€œThat’s what we’re calling this,” the admiral said. “Where is Jay Gilmore?”
    â€œWashington state.”
    â€œI want him moving by twelve hundred hours.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    * * *
    â€œYou’re leveling with me, right? You’re not pulling my leg, are you, Darry?”
    â€œNo. I’m telling you the truth.”
    â€œBut . . . how . . . ?”
    â€œI don’t know. For years I thought I was placed here by God for some reason. I rejected that theory centuries ago. I was a priest at one time; but I soon realized that was not my vocation and left the priesthood.” He smiled. “I like the ladies too much for that.”
    â€œWait until you see Stormy. She’ll knock your socks off.”
    â€œStormy what?”
    Rick told him.
    Darry blinked. “You’re kidding!”
    â€œNope. Catchy name, huh?”
    Darry sat down on the ground and laughed until tears were running out of his eyes.
    * * *
    â€œI hate horses,” Stormy said. She hadn’t been in the saddle an hour and her butt felt like it was on fire. Back at the outfitter’s, Ki had told her to put on a pair of longhandles to help prevent chafing on her inner thighs. Stormy had refused. Up until now. “Let’s stop,” she said. “I want to put on those longhandles.”
    â€œAccording to the map, we’ll be in camp in about thirty minutes. Can you wait?”
    â€œOnly if you brought along a well-stocked first aid kit. I think I’m dying.”
    Ki laughed at her. “Tomorrow will be even worse; then you’ll begin to toughen up. I promise.”
    â€œThis nag only has one gait,” Stormy bitched. “Uncomfortable.”
    â€œYou’ll live,” Ki assured her friend.
    â€œIf I go to hell, I know now what my punishment will be. Riding around the pits on a horse.”
    â€œYou’ll hurt your horse’s feelings.”
    â€œNot nearly as much as he’s hurting me.”
    â€œThese are mares we’re riding.”
    â€œNightmares, you mean.”
    Ki started laughing and it was infectious. Soon Stormy was laughing at herself—despite the pain in her ass.

6
    Rick Battle had left Darry’s cabin with just enough daylight remaining to see him safely back to the station. He had talked with Darry for hours, and was convinced that Darry was who he claimed to be. It boggled his mind. He still could not entirely grasp the enormity of all that Darry had said . . . he doubted he ever would.
    Rick had a telephone at the ranger station—the government had seen to that—and there was a message on his answering machine to call Tom Sessions at the district office.
    â€œTom? Rick. What’s up?”
    â€œRick, I spoke with Munson up at the springs this afternoon. He told me an even dozen hard-looking men parked their vehicles up there and off-loaded equipment, then headed south, toward your area. He said if they weren’t military types, he’d kiss a beaver’s butt.”
    â€œMilitary? That’s odd. We’ve had no word that the military would hold any survival training in this area, and they always tell us.”
    â€œMunson said if they were still in the military, they had to be senior