War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel

by James Rollins

  He passed it to Edith, who was careful to keep her weapon from his reach.

  She glanced at the photograph, a frozen snapshot of a happier time.

  “That was taken at Fort Benning,” Tucker said. “We served together. All of us.” He motioned to Kane.

  Edith sighed, nodded, and passed him back the photo. She shifted the shotgun’s barrel to her shoulder. “Sandy’s gone missing?”

  “For about a month. I came down here to find her.” He glanced back to the storage locker. “I had hoped to find some clue here.”

  “A month ago, you say.” Her gaze grew thoughtful. “That’s about the last time I saw her myself. She came out here. Was in a big hurry. Usually she joins me and Bruce for a beer.”

  “Bruce is your husband?”

  She patted the Doberman’s flank. “Nope, somebody who’ll never cheat on me.”

  Tucker smiled, fully understanding the love in her eyes, noting how the Doberman leaned against her side, returning the affection. “How well did you know Sandy?”

  Her manner changed subtly, became guarded. Most people would have missed it, but Tucker’s empathic skills went beyond his ability to relate to his canine partner. He could guess the source of Edith’s hesitation. It likely centered on another of Sandy’s secrets, one she only let a handful of people know about, especially due to the threat of this secret to her classified clearance ranking in the past.

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” he said with a shrug, letting Edith know he understood and further establishing his close ties to Sandy. “It’s no longer an issue in the military.”

  “That may be true up north . . .” she mumbled sourly, but then shook her head. “I knew Sandy from a local gay bar. It’s a close-knit community down here. When she needed a place to store some stuff, she approached me. Knew I could keep a secret.”

  He nodded. By now, Kane and Bruce had approached each other, sniffing and doing the usual dance of sizing each other up. “The last time you saw Sandy, did she give you any hint of where she might be going?”

  “Said she was going to visit her mom.”

  That fits with the timeline.

  “But I could tell she was scared,” Edith said. “Told me she would be gone for a while.”

  “Did she ever tell you what she was doing out here with the locker?”

  Edith gave a small shake of her head. “I didn’t want to pry. She would often spend the night in there. I got the impression it had something to do with her work at Redstone, something that rubbed her the wrong way.”

  Hmm . . .

  “And did she ever tell you what she was working on over there?” Tucker asked.

  “Not Sandy. She knew how to keep her lips sealed and was loyal to a fault.”

  Tucker asked a few more questions, but it was obvious that Edith was as much in the dark as everyone else. Finally he asked a favor. “Whatever Sandy was working on in there looks important. In case anyone else comes sniffing around later, is there another locker we can move her stuff to temporarily?”

  Edith nodded. “There’s an empty space a few rows over.”

  Over the next half hour, Tucker got everything moved, said his good-byes to Edith and Bruce, and was back on the dark roads with Kane. As he rounded a tall hill, he could make out the glare of lights near the horizon, marking the massive complex of Redstone Arsenal. Whatever Sandy was working on, whatever rubbed her the wrong way, the answers lay out at that base. But he could not go traipsing in there himself.

  Tucker admitted a hard truth to himself.

  “I need help.”

  9:10 A.M.

  Back at their motel room, Tucker slept for four hours, grabbed a breakfast of scrambled eggs and a stack of pancakes at a nearby diner, and then, armed with a jumbo cup of coffee, he settled before his laptop.

  He had one immediate goal: find someone working at Redstone who could serve as his eyes and ears on the military base. After his years in the service and multiple tours, he had accumulated a wide network of connections . It was one of the great aspects of the military: a bond of brotherhood that spanned years of time and swaths of the world. With military personnel regularly shifting posts and assignments, you eventually learned that you had a close friend—or at least a friend of a friend—on almost any base.

  After hours of dragging up files and placing a few discreet calls to distant friends, he began to worry that this search was a lost cause. He came close to calling a secure, encrypted line, one that would connect him to Ruth Harper, his contact with Sigma, a covert force connected to the Defense Department’s research and development agency. They owed him a favor or two. But he refrained from pulling out the big guns at this point, especially as he didn’t know how intimately the military was involved with Sandy’s disappearance.

  Finally, as hunger pangs began to gnaw at his belly again, he found himself staring at a military ID on the laptop’s screen, one with a familiar face smiling back at him. The man was a decade older than Tucker, with a blond crew cut, bushy eyebrows, and a ready smile.

  “Hello, Frank. Good to see you again.”

  During Tucker’s time in the Rangers, Frank Ballenger had been attached to his unit as a 98H, a communications locator/interceptor. Frank’s role at the time had been to analyze intelligence and pinpoint an enemy, allowing people like Tucker to destroy them. While he and Frank hadn’t been the most intimate of friends, they had gotten along well enough, mostly because Tucker had been curious about how the 98Hs did their job. Few shooters showed interest in the technical stuff—and to be honest, most of it went over his head. Eventually Tucker had to admit as much and summarized their relationship to Frank: you line them up, and I’ll knock them down.

  It would take Tucker another three years in the sandbox to realize how naive those words were. He found his right fist clenched on his knee and had to force his fingers to relax in order to call up Frank’s phone number on Redstone’s website. Frank was now a master sergeant, stationed at the base’s Development and Engineering Center.

  Hopefully he’ll remember me.

  He dialed Frank’s number, expecting to go to voice mail, but instead a voice with a familiar Alabama twang answered. Tucker smiled, suddenly remembering now that Frank had grown up around these parts. No wonder he ended up at Redstone.

  “Frank,” Tucker said as an introduction, “I think I owe you a drink.”

  After a few minutes of small talk, Tucker soon realized that not only did Frank remember him, but Tucker must’ve made a significant impression on the older sergeant back in Afghanistan. The man also remembered Kane . . . and Abel.

  “And Kane retired with you.” Frank chuckled. “That’s good to hear. You two were always tied at the hip.”

  Without offering any further explanation for the sudden call, Tucker coaxed Frank to meet at a local bar that evening. As he hung up the phone, he let out a long sigh. He glanced over to Kane, who lay on the bed. The shepherd had lifted his head when he heard his name mentioned during the call.

  “Looks like we’re going to meet another old friend.”

  Despite his satisfaction at reconnecting with Frank, Tucker could not dismiss the knot of anxiety at the back of his neck. After abruptly leaving the service, he had strived to leave the past in the past, to let sand cover all the blood and horror, but now he felt himself being drawn back.

  Before a familiar cold sweat could build—which he knew would come if he didn’t do something—he turned his attention to another mystery. He pulled up the photographs of Sandy’s secret workstation and began plugging some of the words scrawled on her whiteboards into Google.

  He didn’t expect to find anything, but he needed to keep his head in the game. He searched one word after the other.

  Odisha was a state in India.

  Scan Rate could refer to any of a number of things.

  Clojure was a computer programming language.

  Turing might be a reference to a WWII-era cryptologist. Alan Turing was the man who broke t
he German Enigma code, an accomplishment that played an essential part in ending the war.

  But what does he have to do with any of this?

  Tucker continued down the list. All the remaining words seemed related to computer programming or high-level mathematics, except for one. He studied the photograph. Sandy had circled this phrase multiple times on the board: Link 16. A Google search revealed this could be a reference to a secure tactical data network, most often used to communicate with aircraft.

  He stared at the emphatic circles drawn around that citation.

  What was so important about that, Sandy?

  3:45 P.M.

  After hours of futile searching, Tucker finally admitted defeat. He leaned back and stretched the strain out of his spine.

  I need to clear my head.

  Kane shifted up from the bed, likely recognizing his partner’s exhaustion and aggravation.

  “How about some fresh air, buddy?” Tucker called over, earning a happy thump of a tail.

  They left the motel and started driving. After stopping at a burger joint and splitting a cheeseburger and fries with Kane, Tucker drove aimlessly. He mostly wanted to get the lay of the land, to familiarize himself with Huntsville in case he ran into trouble.

  The city was situated in the Tennessee River valley, surrounded on all sides by the Appalachian Mountains. The town itself was a jumble of antebellum mansions mixed with gabled Victorians and smaller saltbox homes lining shaded boulevards. Pedestrians and cars moved at a leisurely pace; no one seemed to be in a hurry.

  Tucker relaxed, driving slower, even stopping to enjoy a few sights. At a big open park, he spent an hour tossing Kane’s red rubber Kong toy; then another hour hiking along a shallow creek, where frogs hopped clear of their path and into the water. Kane bounded after them, splashing through the creek in a futile chase.

  Finally, as the sun sank toward the horizon, stretching long shadows all around, Tucker called in a wet and happy Kane, and they returned to the SUV. Tucker drove a half mile north of the main gates to Redstone Arsenal and pulled into the parking lot of Q Station Bar & Billiards. He considered leaving Kane in the rental, but then thought the familiar presence of the shepherd might help Tucker gain Frank’s cooperation. If anyone gave him trouble for bringing his dog into the bar, he had papers—courtesy of his friend Ruth with Sigma—that listed Kane as a medical companion, allowing Tucker to take the dog almost anywhere.

  As Tucker pushed through the double doors into the dimly lit interior, a few eyes glanced toward them, but no one said a word. The patrons then returned to their drinks or to the scatter of billiard balls on green felt. Tucker scanned the place as Lynyrd Skynyrd belted out “Free Bird” from a jukebox. To his left was a long bar, along with a row of booths pressed up against a low wall.

  From the last booth, a hand waved.

  Ah . . .

  Tucker and Kane strode over.

  Frank Ballenger greeted them with a warm smile, which turned somewhat crooked with amusement. “You and Kane . . . now that’s a sight I haven’t seen in a long time. You two make a fetching couple. Heard you two had to elope, even got yourselves into some trouble for it.”

  Tucker shrugged and shook the man’s hand, doing his best to hide his discomfort. Frank must have made a few calls and had learned the circumstances surrounding Tucker’s exit from the service, how he had absconded with Kane against orders. Eventually Sigma had helped clear up that sticky matter, as payment for services rendered. Still, as much as it bothered Tucker that Frank knew these details about his life, it was also a testament to the man’s ability to gather intel.

  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.