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"Wolf War"
May. 13th, 2022 04:19 pm"Wolf War"
10/23/2001
I.
It was late afternoon when Jeremy Bane emerged from the dense forest and stood at the bottom of the hill, gazing up at Harris West House. He had been hiking through difficult Adirondack terrain for five hours but did not seem tired in the least. His pace as he headed up the incline was brisk and easy. The Dire Wolf was wearing the full field suit with its inner layer of flexible Trom armor, its waist-length jacket and visored helmet. He also had a sizeable backpack high up across his shoulders. In one hand, he carried a thick walking stick he had trimmed from a tree branch to help with the ascent.
He knew Harris West House had been built in 1909 as a retreat for an unreasonably wealthy Connecticut family. It was solid as any fortress, with walls of rocks mortared tightly together and a log roof. There was no road leading to it. The area for twenty yards around the building had been cleared down to the soil, and high iron posts supported floodlights. Adjoining the main structure was a garage. Bane knew that the members of the Hunting Party drove Land Rovers and Jeeps here through wilderness, with a trip of four hours to the nearest village. Electricity came from three generators. Food and medical supplies were always well stocked, and the fortress had been built adjoining its own well, with a septic tank in the rear. The building had been constructed on the edge of a precipice. Right behind the back walls, the ground dropped straight down one hundred and twenty feet to the jagged rocks of a dried creek. One lone tree had been left standing on the edge of the cliff, a gnarled old oak with no leaves on its twisted branches.
Starting as a millionaire's leisure retreat, Harris West House had ended up as a command center for a secret war. Only the five members of the Hunting Party and a handful of government officials had known of its location. Now, Bane was here.
He was being watched from the woods, but he had known that. The past few miles, he had caught glimpses of scurrying forms in the brush and a faint occasional growl in the distance. A porch ran the width of Harris West House, with a handcarved railing and wicker chairs. As Bane drew nearer, the front door swung open. A man in dark clothing raised a Browning Automatic Rifle with a telescopic sight and gestured frantically with his free hand. "Hurry!" he yelled. "Get in here." At that urging, Bane accelerated his pace so rapidly that he was up on the porch and through the door before the rifleman could process his motion.
In a second, the Hunting Party member had slammed the door shut and yanked down a lever on a panel next to it. They were in a small foyer with a bench and coathooks, as well as a dozen firearms lined up on one wall. "Alarms are activated," he said. "Did you walk here?! We expected to go fetch you in an armored vehicle. We were expecting you tonight."
"I was stalked for a few miles by a howler," Bane said as casually as if discussing what he had for breakfast. He unfastened the chin strap and lifted the helmet up off his head. This revealed him as a man in his mid-forties, with a narrow face and short black hair. Under heavy brows were two cold grey eyes that were so intense they startled even those who knew him. He turned to the rifleman and held out a hand. "I know Dr West but I haven't met any of you men yet."
A bit over feet tall, the Hunting Party man was limber and rangy in his dark flannel shirt and work pants. He carefully placed the BAR in its place on a wall rack and accepted the handshake. "Scot. That is, me name is Andrew Dunham but we normally address each other by our nicknames. Call me Scot." Except for the noticeable Highlands accent, he did not look particularly Scottish. He had wavy medium-brown hair and dark brown eyes in an olive-skinned face.
"Glad to meet you, Scot," Bane said. "There weren't any roads reaching up here, but a few friends dropped me off from a helicopter and I hiked here to get a feel for the terrain." He did not feel it necessary to explain that Sable and her new KDF team had then gone on in the CORBY toward Florida to investigate Gator Joe sightings. Returning to civilization was something he could worry about when this was all over.
"Well, I'm glad to see you and glad you got through uneaten. This is a real siege. Come on, the rest of the Party is in the next room." They went through the inner door into an enormous high-ceiling room where a modest fire burned in the hearth beneath a stone mantlepiece. The furnishings were those of an exclusive men's club of an earlier era. Deep, leather-bound easy chairs and coffee tables piled with newspapers and magazines sat on a plush rug. Shelves along two walls held reference books, standard literature like Dickens and Twain, and various curios. One oil painting showed a seascape with a high-masted sailing ship in the distance.
As Bane and Scot entered, the other three members of the Hunting Party turned around in their chairs and put down their various drinks. It was an older man in a neatly tailored charcoal grey suit who came forward to greet the Dire Wolf.
"It's been forever, Jeremy," Edwin West said with a wry smile. "I haven't seen you since you put that silver bullet in my arm."
( the rest of the story )
10/23/2001
I.
It was late afternoon when Jeremy Bane emerged from the dense forest and stood at the bottom of the hill, gazing up at Harris West House. He had been hiking through difficult Adirondack terrain for five hours but did not seem tired in the least. His pace as he headed up the incline was brisk and easy. The Dire Wolf was wearing the full field suit with its inner layer of flexible Trom armor, its waist-length jacket and visored helmet. He also had a sizeable backpack high up across his shoulders. In one hand, he carried a thick walking stick he had trimmed from a tree branch to help with the ascent.
He knew Harris West House had been built in 1909 as a retreat for an unreasonably wealthy Connecticut family. It was solid as any fortress, with walls of rocks mortared tightly together and a log roof. There was no road leading to it. The area for twenty yards around the building had been cleared down to the soil, and high iron posts supported floodlights. Adjoining the main structure was a garage. Bane knew that the members of the Hunting Party drove Land Rovers and Jeeps here through wilderness, with a trip of four hours to the nearest village. Electricity came from three generators. Food and medical supplies were always well stocked, and the fortress had been built adjoining its own well, with a septic tank in the rear. The building had been constructed on the edge of a precipice. Right behind the back walls, the ground dropped straight down one hundred and twenty feet to the jagged rocks of a dried creek. One lone tree had been left standing on the edge of the cliff, a gnarled old oak with no leaves on its twisted branches.
Starting as a millionaire's leisure retreat, Harris West House had ended up as a command center for a secret war. Only the five members of the Hunting Party and a handful of government officials had known of its location. Now, Bane was here.
He was being watched from the woods, but he had known that. The past few miles, he had caught glimpses of scurrying forms in the brush and a faint occasional growl in the distance. A porch ran the width of Harris West House, with a handcarved railing and wicker chairs. As Bane drew nearer, the front door swung open. A man in dark clothing raised a Browning Automatic Rifle with a telescopic sight and gestured frantically with his free hand. "Hurry!" he yelled. "Get in here." At that urging, Bane accelerated his pace so rapidly that he was up on the porch and through the door before the rifleman could process his motion.
In a second, the Hunting Party member had slammed the door shut and yanked down a lever on a panel next to it. They were in a small foyer with a bench and coathooks, as well as a dozen firearms lined up on one wall. "Alarms are activated," he said. "Did you walk here?! We expected to go fetch you in an armored vehicle. We were expecting you tonight."
"I was stalked for a few miles by a howler," Bane said as casually as if discussing what he had for breakfast. He unfastened the chin strap and lifted the helmet up off his head. This revealed him as a man in his mid-forties, with a narrow face and short black hair. Under heavy brows were two cold grey eyes that were so intense they startled even those who knew him. He turned to the rifleman and held out a hand. "I know Dr West but I haven't met any of you men yet."
A bit over feet tall, the Hunting Party man was limber and rangy in his dark flannel shirt and work pants. He carefully placed the BAR in its place on a wall rack and accepted the handshake. "Scot. That is, me name is Andrew Dunham but we normally address each other by our nicknames. Call me Scot." Except for the noticeable Highlands accent, he did not look particularly Scottish. He had wavy medium-brown hair and dark brown eyes in an olive-skinned face.
"Glad to meet you, Scot," Bane said. "There weren't any roads reaching up here, but a few friends dropped me off from a helicopter and I hiked here to get a feel for the terrain." He did not feel it necessary to explain that Sable and her new KDF team had then gone on in the CORBY toward Florida to investigate Gator Joe sightings. Returning to civilization was something he could worry about when this was all over.
"Well, I'm glad to see you and glad you got through uneaten. This is a real siege. Come on, the rest of the Party is in the next room." They went through the inner door into an enormous high-ceiling room where a modest fire burned in the hearth beneath a stone mantlepiece. The furnishings were those of an exclusive men's club of an earlier era. Deep, leather-bound easy chairs and coffee tables piled with newspapers and magazines sat on a plush rug. Shelves along two walls held reference books, standard literature like Dickens and Twain, and various curios. One oil painting showed a seascape with a high-masted sailing ship in the distance.
As Bane and Scot entered, the other three members of the Hunting Party turned around in their chairs and put down their various drinks. It was an older man in a neatly tailored charcoal grey suit who came forward to greet the Dire Wolf.
"It's been forever, Jeremy," Edwin West said with a wry smile. "I haven't seen you since you put that silver bullet in my arm."
( the rest of the story )
