Huntsville, Alabama
Tucker squeezed his eyes shut as he fell, certain a bone-shattering impact was coming. But instead, after plunging for a long, frightening breath, he struck a surface that caved under his impact, knocking the wind out of him. Gasping, he slid and tumbled down a steep slope, then struck the far side of the metal silo with a ringing bang.
He lay on his back, gulping air back into his lungs. His fingers dug into the surface beneath him. Sand. He rested his head back as more rivulets of grains sifted around his body. This must be a sand collection silo for the factory.
Overhead, a scatter of rounds pinged off the outside of the silo, echoing through the hollow space. But he knew he was safe for the moment—at least from the drone.
So far, he had seen no sign of any hunters on the ground. But he knew the military often used drones to flush out quarry, to chase them into the arms of ground troops. He had to assume that might be the case or that others might be circling down upon his position.
Gotta keep moving.
But first he had to find Kane—which could prove challenging. After leaving the meeting with Frank, Tucker hadn’t bothered to equip the shepherd with his Kevlar jacket and communication gear. He mentally kicked himself for not doing so, but how could he have anticipated this aerial ambush on the road back to his motel?
Okay, so we do this old school.
By now, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. In the faint moonlight coming through the conveyor opening, he spotted another door opposite the one he had dived through a moment ago. The dark rectangle was about two yards up the wall on this side. He imagined it led into the main factory building. As well as he could tell from his brief and frantic survey of the grounds, there were four silos attached to the central building, one at each corner, like turrets on a castle.
When he and Kane had split up, the shepherd had taken off for a silo on the other side of the main building. Kane was likely still holed up in there, following Tucker’s last order: RUN AND HIDE.
Intending to reach his partner there, Tucker knee-walked through the sand to the ladder that led up to the dark door. He wrapped his hands on one of the rungs and gave it a tug, then another. Satisfied it was solid enough, he mounted the ladder and climbed up to the doorway.
He poked his head through and discovered a catwalk extended from the door and crossed high above the main collection floor of the factory. Large sections of the roof had caved in, allowing moonlight to better illuminate the cavernous space, which stretched a football field wide and twice as long. Below, old equipment and a row of massive ore carts—each the size of a train car—had rusted to the concrete floor. Above, a labyrinth of steel beams was entwined in a jungle of vines.
Tucker frowned, trying to judge the viability of using the catwalk to cross to the other side of the main floor. He pictured the conveyor’s structure collapsing a moment ago as he leapt for his life. If the catwalk didn’t hold under his weight, it was a four-story drop to the hard concrete floor.
To his left was a skeletal staircase that led down to the floor, but the middle section had broken away. He might be able to leap the gap, but once he landed on the lower section, would it hold him? He had no way of knowing.
So which way?
As he hesitated, a familiar buzzing swept by overhead as the drone continued hunting for its escaped quarry. Disturbed by its passage—or by the drone’s ultrasonic whine—several roosting bats took flight from the vine-encrusted beams and shot out through the collapsed sections of the roof.
Tucker eyed them, wishing he had wings, too.
He knew he could wait no longer. If the drone failed to flush him out, ground forces would soon be closing in on this position, if they weren’t already here. He took out a small LED flashlight to better study his two options: the collapsed stairs or the rickety vine-encrusted catwalk. Neither was a great choice.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
Tucker decided to take his chances with the catwalk. At least it was still intact, unlike the staircase. He proceeded cautiously, testing each step, his senses tuned for any warning. With the catwalk continuing to hold secure, he increased his pace.
Then a familiar humming grew in volume. The drone had returned, still timed, it seemed, to pass over the factory grounds every thirty seconds, intending to keep him pinned down.
Tucker paused on the catwalk until the drone left, fearful of being spotted through one of the holes in the roof. Once clear, he set off again. He was halfway across the main factory floor when he heard a series of rapid, overlapping pops ahead of him.
Oh, shi—
The catwalk broke from the scaffolding ahead. The section of grating underfoot fell at a steep angle, throwing him onto his back. His flashlight bounced out of his grip and rolled over the edge. His body followed, sliding down the grate. His fingers clawed, but he could find no purchase.
As his legs slipped over the edge, something brushed his face.
A vine.
He grasped it without thinking. The rest of the catwalk tore free beneath him. He fell with it, but he jerked to a stop, hanging by the vine, swallowing a scream. He heard the clattering crash below him but refused to look down.
With his heart hammering in his chest, he firmed his grip and looked up. The edge of the remaining catwalk was almost within arm’s reach. If he climbed another foot, he should be able to—
A tearing sound was the only warning. The vine ripped free from its neighbor and Tucker dropped ten feet before again jolting to a stop.
With his eyes squeezed tight, he took three deep breaths.
Up was no longer an option.
He finally stared down. He was still three stories above the floor. Directly below him were the ruins of the broken catwalk, now a tangle of sharp steel. But ten feet to his left was the row of giant ore carts he had spotted earlier, still rusted to their tracks. The angle was wrong to tell if they held anything, but the closest one was under one of the large holes in the roof.
It’ll have to do.
Tucker began swinging his body, first right, then left, dolphin-kicking his legs to build up momentum. Above him, the vine creaked, and debris rained down on his head.
“Come on, come on . . .”
He kept swinging, extending the arc each time, picking up speed. Then the vine popped and started to give way. Knowing he could wait no longer, he let go—and flew toward the nearest ore cart. He balled his limbs tight and dropped into the train-car-sized cart. He hit the inner wall on the far side and rebounded into three feet of rainwater that filled the bottom of the cart.
Despite the cushion of the pooled water, he hit the bottom hard enough to bruise his tailbone. He sputtered up, gasping out his relief. He stared at the hole in the roof, grateful for whatever past showers had filled this cart. Still, the water’s surface was covered in a thick layer of scum: a mixture of algae, bird droppings, and bat guano. It clung to his clothing like a foul paste, reeking of rot and ammonia.
“Getting really tired of this place,” he muttered.
A quick search revealed a row of toe- and handholds sculpted into the cart’s inner surface, a ladder for workers to climb into and out of these massive carts. Tucker waded to it and started climbing.
Now to find Kane . . .
As his head cleared the top edge of the cart, he noted the flashlight he had dropped a moment ago. It glowed amid the wreckage of the catwalk—but that wasn’t the only light source now.
Outside the factory, a beam of light swept along a wall of grime-encrusted windows. A figure stepped through one of the broken-out panes, moving cautiously into the factory, an assault rifle fixed to his cheek.
“The crash came from in here,” the man said, leaning toward a radio affixed to his collar. “Lyon, hang back while I check it out.”
Tucker ducked his head as the beam swept toward him. He quietly slipped back into the dank water. As he had feared, an armed detachment had been sent in on foot. He listened as the hunter crossed closer,
likely drawn by Tucker’s flashlight, intending to check the debris for his body.
“Got something,” the gunman radioed. “They’re here. Maintain watch outside. Shoot anything that moves.”
“Roger,” came the reply.
Tucker pictured Kane, hoping the shepherd stayed out of sight.
But that thought gave him an idea.
Kane crouches in the shadow of a doorway. Ahead stretches a vast space. His senses extend into it. He smells dank water, along with the droppings from all manner of beast and bird. He had been drawn to this spot after hearing a thunderous crash. Before, he had been holed up in a neighboring space to this one, where he had been obeying his last order.
HIDE.
From this spot, he had watched his partner fall from above, heard him land with a loud splash, followed by a sharp gasp. Kane had wanted to run out, to bark, to demand to know if the other was okay, to re-form their pack once again.
But he obeys, stays hidden.
Now another man stalks the space, coming with light and with the scent of gun oil. Kane slinks lower, refusing to break command. His heart pounds, his chest heaves in quiet breaths, stirring dust motes and the spoor of mice.
Then a new noise piques his attention, drawing his ears straight and stiff.
A soft whistle, meant to sound like a bird.
But Kane knows the true source.
It is a new command.
He knows what he must do and rises up to obey this new order.
Kane lifts his muzzle and howls into the night.
Tucker hung by his fingertips from the top edge of the ore cart, his toes jammed into the ladder, his legs bunched under him. He had waited until he heard the armed hunter draw close to his hiding place before signaling Kane. The shepherd understood a vocabulary broaching a thousand words and the ability to comprehend hundreds of hand signals. But recently Tucker had begun training his partner with audible cues.
Like the soft call of a mourning dove.
It was the equivalent of the command SOUND OFF.
As Kane’s howl echoed across the cavernous factory, seeming to come from everywhere at once, Tucker shoved with his legs, vaulted over the lip of the cart, and dropped toward the enemy below.
Caught off guard and startled by the dog, the gunman still reacted with surprising speed. Possibly alerted by the scuff of Tucker’s boot, the hunter started to bring his weapon up, but Tucker fell heavily upon him anyway. He crashed atop the figure, grabbed the man’s face, and slammed the back of his head into the concrete floor again and again. The body went immediately limp, out cold, maybe dead.
Tucker checked for a pulse.
Nope, just out cold.
Good . . . a dead body wasn’t worth the trouble.
He whistled sharply, ordering Kane to his side, knowing he had to act fast. There was at least one other hunter out there. Tucker grabbed his opponent’s weapon. It was a compact, noise-suppressed Heckler & Koch MP-5 SD with optical sights. It was a good weapon.
But an even better one arrived.
A dark shadow arrowed out of the darkness and came close to bowling him over.
He caught Kane up in a one-armed hug, gave him a kiss on his ruff. Any further greeting would have to wait. Still, Tucker could not discount how happy he was to have Kane at his side again. He felt whole now, more centered.
Over the man’s radio came his partner’s voice: “Webster, you there?”
Tucker heard a faint French accent. He quickly patted down the unconscious man until he found the radio handset. He tapped the transmit key twice. It was a radio-silent roger signal. In soldier parlance, it meant the sender wasn’t free to speak.
Tucker got a double click in reply, confirming the other understood.
It also corroborated that these hunters had military training.
Tucker acted accordingly, knowing this Webster guy’s partner wouldn’t wait long for an update. He gestured for Kane to stick to his side. He crossed back to the tall ore cart, dropped to his knees, and crawled underneath it. With Kane next to him, he sheltered behind one of the metal wheels frozen in the old tracks.
Tucker lay flat and flicked the MP-5’s selector to three-round bursts.
He didn’t have long to wait for the French soldier to make an appearance. The only warning was a shift of shadows by the silo door where Kane had been hiding. The man outside must have been drawn in that direction by Kane’s howl a moment ago. The soldier came in low, stalking forward with his assault rifle tracking left and right. A flash of moonlight revealed a heavily scarred face with a crooked nose.
This guy had seen his fair share of fights.
Tucker instinctively knew he could take no chances with this one. He adjusted his aim lower, laying a red dot on the man’s chest. His finger tightened on the trigger. But as he fired, the man suddenly sidestepped left. Tucker had witnessed this kind of intuitive action before in combat—when a soldier gets that something ain’t right feeling in the pit of the stomach. It can force one to duck, run, or take cover. It was a phenomenon that veteran soldiers never discounted and that few talked about lest they jinx themselves.
Whoever this Frenchman was, he had been shot at plenty of times.
Still, despite the target moving, Tucker’s first two rounds struck home, hitting the man in the chest; the third went wide. Rocked by the bullets’ impacts, the man stumbled backward through the silo door he had entered. For him to still be on his feet, he must be wearing body armor.
Silence followed.
Tucker stayed tense, expecting an immediate barrage of return fire. He searched the factory for other hunters, any backup for these two. No one showed themselves, and a moment later, he heard distant splashing from outside.
Was the French soldier fleeing—or going for help?
Through the optical sight of his MP-5, he spotted a rifle abandoned on the floor near the door. He remembered hearing a metallic thud when he had fired earlier. One of the rounds must have struck the other’s weapon, likely damaging it and knocking it away.
No wonder the other took off.
Wounded and disarmed, the man must be retreating so he could live to fight another day. No ego, no fear, just the pragmatism of combat. Here was yet another indication Tucker was dealing with a professional.
But Tucker could not count on the soldier being gone for long. He could return with additional reinforcements at any time. Tucker had been lucky that this pair had underestimated him, placing too much trust on that deadly eye in the sky.
A low buzzing overhead told him that threat remained.
Tucker crawled out and searched the unconscious man. The gunman appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, craggy faced, with auburn hair, graying at the temples. Tucker found two spare magazines, a portable radio, and a set of vehicle keys, but no identification of any kind. In a leg pocket, Tucker withdrew a paperback-sized device that he could not immediately identify. He found the power button and pushed it. A blue screen glowed to life, revealing a grid of touch-buttons.
Tucker ran his fingers along the engraved four letters along the top of the portable unit: CUCS. From his years in Afghanistan, he knew those initials stood for Core UAV Control System. This was essentially the remote control unit for the drone that had been hunting them.
Tucker noted the one highlighted button.
Tucker frowned, fearing what this meant, remembering the actions of the drone, how it had seemed to hunt and fire at him all on its own. It must have some autopilot feature, capable of autonomously attacking once a target was acquired.
Tucker knew such robotic drones were currently in various stages of investigation by a slew of military contractors.
Looks like someone is well along that road.
Tucker examined the CUCS control module. It could be his ticket to escaping this swamp and the hunter in the sky, but he knew nothing about operating drones. With a shrug, he went for the most direct approach: blindly pushing buttons.
What cou
ld go wrong?
He tapped the button marked CLOSE ORBIT ON STATION. A light blue rectangular box appeared beneath the rows of buttons, along with a miniature keyboard. A flashing prompt appeared, asking for a password.
Hitting this obstacle, Tucker tried tapping the MAIN MENU button, but he got the same password prompt.
He sat back on his heels and muttered, “Well, that was too good to be true, wasn’t it, Kane.”
The shepherd wagged his tail.
Tucker rubbed his chin, puzzled by one detail. If this drone is set to fire at will, how did it know not to attack this Webster guy or his French partner? He stared down at the portable unit. The most obvious answer was that these CUCS were equipped with a targeting exclusion program, some signal that radioed the drone not to shoot whoever was holding the unit. Which begged the question: did the device require a command to enable this shielding program?
Tucker stared toward the swamp.
There was only one way to find out.
He gathered what he had taken from Webster, collected his abandoned flashlight, and clipped the MP-5 around his waist. He then headed in the opposite direction from the Frenchman. He reached a broken section of windows on this side and waited for the drone to make a pass and vanish again.
Thirty seconds.
He boosted Kane through the window, hopped out after the dog, then set off at a sprint for the swamp. He wanted to get under as much cover as possible when the drone returned, just in case he was wrong about the protective shield of this device.
Reaching the swamp, he splashed into the water and aimed for the densest section of cypress trees and tangles of root mounds. A glance at the stars showed him he was still headed on a path that should take him to the country club on the far side of the swamp.
“A half mile to go, buddy,” Tucker promised Kane.
He was counting on the drone backing off once he reached a public space. Whoever was running this campaign certainly seemed to like to keep their secrets.
Tucker continued toward the refuge of trees, waiting for the return of the drone’s engine buzz. As if on cue, the sound rose from the south. Tucker waved Kane toward a nearby root mound.
War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel Page 9
