War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel (10 page)

Tucker slipped into the booth and waved Kane down. “Doesn’t look like you changed much, Frank,” he said, which was true. Though older than Tucker, the man looked wiry and solid. He clearly kept himself in shape.

“Thanks for saying so.” Frank rubbed at his temples. “But I think these turned a bit silver since we left the trenches.” He then reached down and slid a sweating bottle of cold beer toward Tucker. “Gotcha a Sam Adams. Hope that’s all right.”

“More than all right.”

“It was really good to hear from you.”

“Yeah, it’s been awhile. Wasn’t sure you would remember me.”

“Hell yeah, I remember you. You were one of the only Rangers who ever paid any attention to what we communication geeks did. Plus you and your two dogs. I used to watch you working them when I had a break. It was impressive, like you all were reading each other’s minds.”

Tucker found his fingers tightening on the beer bottle, picturing Kane’s littermate. Memories flashed like lightning, sharp and glaring, glinting with the flash of falling knives, booming with gunfire.

Frank must have realized something was wrong. “Hey, man, sorry. That was stupid of me to bring that up. I should know better.”

Tucker breathed more deeply until he could finally unclench his fingers. “It’s . . . it’s all right.”

It wasn’t. Frank seemed to recognize this, and gave Tucker a few moments to collect himself.

After a couple of deep breaths, Tucker finally pressed on. “Master sergeant, huh? You’ve really moved up in the world.”

Frank offered an understanding smile, moving to safer territory. “I’m a lifer. Who would a guessed? And stationed here in Huntsville, I get to see my family every weekend. But what about you?”

“Me? Nothing special. Odd jobs. Mostly security work, that kind of thing.”

They shot the breeze for another half hour, exchanging memories, comparing notes, sharing gossip about mutual friends. Finally, Tucker moved closer to the matter at hand.

“Frank, how long have you been at Redstone?”

“Four years. It’s nice. I’m now a cryptologic network warfare specialist.” Frank read the confusion on his face and smiled. “I get that a lot. It’s a new MOS, started in 2011. Covers mostly cyber warfare stuff.”

Tucker gave a sad shake of his head. “The times are changing.” He then cleared his throat. “Listen, Frank, I have a confession. I’m here for a reason.”

“What? You mean beyond seeking out my delightful company?” Those bushy eyebrows rose higher, then settled back down. “Yeah, I figured. You all but dropped off the map after leaving the service and now you end up on my doorstep. It’s okay, man. What’s up?”

“I’m looking for a missing friend. She was stationed at Redstone.”

“Missing?”

“For over a month. Her name is Sandy Conlon.”

“Never heard of her, but that’s no surprise. Redstone’s a big place. Where’d she work?”

Tucker smiled sheepishly. “That’s the thing—I have no idea. She never told anyone close to her. Never even mentioned the name of her command.”

“Hmm . . . curiouser and curiouser. But if you’re here speaking with me, you’re thinking this has something to do with her post?”

“Just trying to cover all the bases.”

Frank slowly nodded, the gears clearly turning in his head. “And let me guess . . . you haven’t called the police or Redstone.”

“I’d like to avoid that.”

Those brows lifted again.

Tucker raised a palm. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble, but I need to find her. She may not be the only one in danger.”

Frank stared at him, studying him. A single finger tapped on the table. Tucker remembered this nervous tic of Frank’s, marking when he was in deep thought, weighing the significance of some new intelligence.

Frank finally came to a conclusion and leaned back, a wry smile fluttering. “Let me do some poking around. If there’s any trouble, it’ll be like the old days. As you used to say: I’ll line ’em up, and you’ll knock ’em down.”

Tucker lifted his beer and clinked it against Frank’s bottle. “Deal.”

6:08
P
.
M
.

Karl Webster paced the length of the cavernous cement-block bunker, which housed the installation’s engineering lab. With the sun already down and the technicians safely back in their cabins for the night, he had the place to himself. The bunker was cordoned off into several work spaces, each assigned to explore another facet of the project. But in the center, resting on the concrete floor and hidden under a large tarp, was the latest prototype.

He ran his fingertips along one of its shrouded wings, which spanned an efficient meter and a half. The techs called it a Shrike, named after a little bird—a stone-cold killer—that captured lizards and insects, even other birds, and impaled them on the thorns of an acacia tree to pick apart at their leisure.

He smiled at how apt that name was. Though he only oversaw security for the project, he could not discount the flicker of pride at the accomplishment here. But now all his hard work was at risk.

All because of one man—and his damned dog
.

He pictured the trespasser whom he had discovered skulking about Sandy Conlon’s house, and the brief firefight that had followed. The man had subsequently escaped and vanished into the shadows.

Yet another problem to deal with . . .

A knock drew his attention to the bunker’s main door.

And here came another
.

The door opened and in stalked Rafael Lyon, head of security for Horizon Media. He pushed past one of Karl’s men and entered with a dark glower on his scarred face, the fluorescent light shining off his shaved scalp. The man wore black tactical gear with a rifle over his shoulder. His flight had landed in Huntsville only forty minutes ago, but he clearly was not one to let any grass grow under his boots.

“What have you discovered about the bastard who got away?” Lyon asked brusquely, skipping any pleasantries.

Despite the man’s thick French accent, Karl heard the accusation in his words. He also read the threat in the narrow pinch of those eyes. He knew this was no idle attempt at intimidation. Failure would not be tolerated.

Still, Karl clenched a fist, embarrassed and angry that Pruitt Kellerman had felt the need to dispatch his pet bulldog here. Karl had spent twenty years in military service, most of them in the sandboxes of Iraq and Afghanistan, first as a grunt, later in Special Forces. He didn’t need any help.

“I already have a handle on the situation.” Karl Webster kept his voice low and calm. “I’m only waiting on a call that should resolve this matter to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“And I’m here to ensure that happens.”

The two men glared at each other, a storm building between them. Before it could break, Karl’s phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered it. He listened to the caller for several minutes, asked two questions, and got the answers he needed.

Lyon never took his gaze off him.

Karl smiled back coldly. “I know how to find our target.” He glanced over to the tarp-shrouded Shrike. “And how to deal with him.”

8

October 13, 7:20
P
.
M
. CDT

Huntsville, Alabama

After a couple more drinks with Frank Ballenger at the bar, Tucker headed back to his motel. It had rained while he had been chatting with Frank, leaving the night air muggy and smelling of warm asphalt. Kane sat on the passenger seat, his muzzle resting on the doorframe of the open window.

Tucker sped west away from the traffic of the city, then turned south along the edge of the massive swamp that backed up to his motel. His headlights swept over cypress branches gauzed in Spanish moss. Unseen insects ticked against his windshield.

Alone on the road, he glanced out the side window and spotted the dark silhouette of the abandoned concrete factory in the middle of the swamp. He remembered the story of the levee break along the Tennessee River and tried to picture the subsequent flooding that had turned the industrial field into this vast plain of swamps and marshes. From the roadway, he could make out catwalks and conveyor belts that still connected the various buildings and silos, with metal buckets still dangling.

Suddenly the SUV’s radio blared to life, startling him, making him swerve slightly on the lonely road “
. . . Evening, folks, you’re listenin’ to WTKI, Huntsville talk radio . . .”

Scowling, Tucker turned off the radio. As he did so, the engine sputtered, the dashboard lights flickered, and the vehicle began to slow.

Uh-oh . . .

Kane’s head pivoted toward him. The shepherd let out a whine of complaint.

“Hey, it’s not me.”

The radio came on again, then went silent. The windshield wipers began to flap.

What the hell . . .

Tucker steered the SUV onto the shoulder—and just in time. With a double cough, the engine died.

He sighed and patted Kane’s flank. “Buddy, it’s finally happened. We’re being abducted by aliens.”

Figuring the more likely cause was a loose battery connection, Tucker reached down and popped the hood latch. He climbed out with Kane and crossed to the front of the SUV. Under the glow of the service light, he studied the engine for a moment, then began checking wires and connections.

Everything seemed okay.

From the swamp, a muffled buzzing sound arose, faint at first, then slowly increasing in pitch.

Kane stalked over to a neighboring grass berm that overlooked the swamp.

Tucker joined him.

A loud
thunk
drew their attention back to the dead Explorer on the side of the road. Something had struck the SUV’s quarter panel. Steam burst from the engine.

Recognizing that particular sound, Tucker ducked and drew Kane closer.

Someone was shooting at them.

Two more bullets slammed into the truck. The windshield shattered. With an explosive hiss, one of the rear tires burst. Now the rounds were coming faster, one every couple of seconds, all centered on the SUV.

Reacting quickly, Tucker signaled Kane to follow—then he turned, sat on his butt, and slid down the grassy embankment and into the swamp.

Kane obeys the command and leaps high.

As he flies, his nose takes in strange scents: mold and moss, rot and algae. He hears the creak of branches, the whine of bats, and the cries of distant birds—then he strikes the cold water and plunges deep, wiping all his senses clean. Water muffles his ears, blinds him, too.

As his heart pounds, his paws paddle for purchase, but find only more water. Then claws strafe along the bottom. He scrabbles, his paws sinking into mud—then his pads brush against something solid. Tree roots. He pushes off them until his nose breaks the surface, returning the world, first in scents, then in sounds.

He thrashes, his eyes searching, his ears tucked back in wariness and fear.

Something grabs his nape, then his collar.

He turns to instinctively snap, but his nose swells with the scent of familiar breath as he’s drawn close.

“Easy, easy there, buddy . . . I gotcha.”

Gripping Kane’s nylon collar, Tucker scissor-kicked deeper into the swamp and sheltered behind the bole of a large cypress tree. He kept the trunk between him and the road. He took a moment to massage Kane’s neck, to further reassure the dog.

“Good boy,” he whispered.

Kane’s coat was plastered with moss. Tucker fared little better, his face and arms coated in slime. He draped more moss over the dog’s shoulders.

Good camouflage . . . and we might need it
.

Tucker leaned against the trunk and spied toward the road and their abandoned Explorer. What the hell had just happened? No doubt they had been ambushed—but how? Had someone tampered with the vehicle while he was talking with Frank inside the bar? Though this seemed the most likely explanation, it didn’t account for the timing.

And what about that buzzing?

As if summoned by this thought, the sound returned. Kane tensed, and his head swiveled to the right, then slowly tracked the target as it crossed back toward the embankment. It whispered over the dark treetops and came to sweep over the road. After another moment, the buzzing rose steeply upward, fading away and vanishing into the darkness.

Unbidden, one of Sandy’s keywords popped into Tucker’s head.

Link 16
.

He swore under his breath as he now suspected the significance behind that reference. From his earlier Google search, he had learned Link 16 was a military tactical data exchange, mostly used to communicate with aircraft, including UAVs—unmanned aerial vehicles—or drones. Such vehicles were used more and more by all branches of the military, both for surveillance and for aerial attacks. They ranged in size from the massive Global Hawks to the smaller Ravens.

But what’s hunting us?

He had no way of knowing, but it was clearly a hunter/killer version. He stared up past the black treetops. He knew drones could see not only in the dark but through clouds, dust, and smoke. Their vision was sharp enough to read a license plate from two miles up.

As he searched the patches of sky, Tucker’s hairs stood on end. He and Kane had been hunted by helicopters in the past, most recently in Siberia, but this was much worse—like treading water at night with a shark circling beneath you.

Only this time the threat came from above
.

With his eyes now adjusted to the darkness, he surveyed his surroundings. Even with the moonlight filtering through the canopy, he saw nothing but black water and jumbles of cypress trees. He knew, with a hunter in the sky, that returning to the road was not an option. Glancing over his shoulder, he pictured the drowned concrete factory far off into the swamp. It could offer better shelter.

But what then?