The Radical: Chapter 1

He had to get out of this mess right now, or he was going to die.

Right now the idea of death was not so bad. He was tired of running. He was tired from running. They had hounded him for three straight days--this time. They could have had him several times. They were playing with him, punishing him--and he knew it only too well. .

Getting up from the ditch into which he had thrown himself only moments ago, the runner pressed himself flush against the right side of the ditch. He realized that he was pointing directly uphill. The rounded side of the hill was slightly between pursuer and prey.

Whoever that sniper was, he was green as a twig. The evasive manuever he had employed only moments ago told him that. An experienced sniper would have anticipated his movements, and any discussion of life would have been moot. Once again, he knew that he had been lucky. Luck was with him, it seemed. A runner pulling that rookie stunt would have been dead with anyone but the greenest sniper. His fatigue had caused his mind to fail him for only a moment. Even as he plunged headlong into the ditch, he knew he was making a major mistake. He had considered his options well. This was his only option, and he took it.

He supposed upon reflection, as he struggled to regain control of his breathing, the maneuver had actually out-performed his expectations. Then he forced himself to enjoy one heartless laugh. Sometimes close DID count! It was, more than anything, a momentary celebration of the life he still had. Bruised, no doubt, but alive. And that was just enough--at least for the moment.

He knew he was being tracked. There was no doubt the sniper was searching for him through the powerful scope mounted upon the weapon which he himself had designed only months ago. Trackers did not make such mistakes as this one .

Trackers did not usually allow rookies on tactical missions. Their training was really quite good, all things considered. He must not give this rookie another opportunity to prove his accuracy. The runner knew this tracker had accuracy. If he hadn't misjudged the runner's angle into the ditch....

Looking furtively around him the runner worked, getting a fix on his location. The nighttime was more to his benefit, yet it still hindered his ability to recconnoiter. He had to get his bearings--fast! He knew the trackers would still be moving towards his last location. Given the overwhelming joy they took at doing their job well, the runner felt certain they were still moving. He also considered the probability that they were moving in a wide, open "V" formation toward him. It made sense, really. Like the hunting party they were, they were cutting off escape routes. They would keep him in front of them. They would search for his thermal image through their night scopes. The tracker beam would be trying to locate his identity chip, and they would come for him. Considering the punishment for failure, he knew the trackers would not stop until they had him, or they were dead.

When they did get to his rather exposed location, he would have two options. He could be there waiting for them, in which case he would die. His other option was to be where the trackers weren't. He must do that with such success that they would not even consider the possibility. The sniper was a rookie, but the tracker leading this team who had been hounding him for over three days definitely was not a rookie. He could pretty well guess which tracker was leading this little cross-country cat-and-mouse game. He very much hoped he was wrong.

This was, as much as anything else, an exercise in logic and tactics. The runner had trained with the very best tacticians in the business years ago. The only difference to him now was that this exercise could cost him his life. He knew what he was talking about. He had trained the best trackers since their inception.

Knowing how he had trained them was an asset, but the runner also knew that he had taught them very well. Failure for a tracker was not an option. Failure for a tracker would cost them their life. That's just the way things were now. To date, no tracker had paid for failure. That record was one he had established. Now, he had to destroy it in order to live.

Slowly, the man low-crawled up the side of the ditch, and onto the side of the steep hill. He saw the dark, almost florescent green outline of trees up the hillside about seventy-five feet in front of him. And, in that moment, he knew he had a plan that could work. The trackers would work to keep him in front of them, but the runner doubted any one of this group, save possibly one, would have the brains to wonder about whether or not he might be above them! He had to get to those trees!

Slowly, silenty, the runner continued the agonizing journey up the hillside. A shot rang out, but there was no sound of bullets ricocheting near him. It must have been a nervous tracker making a wild, idle shot--trying to force movement.

He continued until he reached the trees. Slowly, as if in a state of suspended animation, the runner raised himself up into a "running crouch" position. He moved so slowly as not to make an outline of movement. "Think like a tree!"

He was pleased to see the tree nearest him was a very large Oak. Oak trees, he knew, had no uniform symmetry. If needed, he could quickly find loose canopy cover and disguise his position by lowering himself close to the ground, using it as a body blanket. There was certainly plenty of it close-by and available to him. That could work to his advantage, he thought.

He stopped just at the other side of the first large Oak tree he came to and tried to catch his breath. This tree, he considered must be at least 200 years old! Perfect! Drawing in two large, slow bursts of unchallenged fresh air worked well for him. He began slowly regulating his breathing again, even though his heart was still pounding, his pulse in racing discontent. The runner focused his mind on his breathing, willing it back under his control. Wiping his sweat-covered brow, he looked up, and saw the most wonderful sight of his recent life: a canopy. He was in a small forest of large, mature Oaks. Perhaps, the runner thought, his plan of elevation was the best evasion after all.

He slowly turned in a painfully careful pirouette to search for an access point to the sky. He spotted one of the huge Oak trees only a few feet from him with a twisted, gnarly branch about as big around as a large truck tire, and slowly approached it. He looked up, and saw two distinct wedges about 30 feet over his head. Yes, it would require the very best use of his stealth skills, but this man knew he had a sharp edge on all his skills now. He put his tired and dirty hand on the Oak tree, resting for a moment.

Suddenly, he froze. He sensed the presence of another human. The human he sensed but could not yet see was close and, if smell meant anything he was very close.

Almost simultaneously, his blood began to turn to ice as he heard a human voice very quietly speak to him. He winced as the razor-sharp point of what could only be a standard issue survival knife barely broke the skin in his lower back. Even as the whispered words quietly flowed into his brain, the runner's dread was briefly interrupted by instant recognition. In that instant, his dread became bilious disgust.

"Don't move, Runner. Don't you move a muscle."