War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel

by James Rollins

  Tucker waited until the guard reached the back wheel—then rolled out of hiding with his weapon raised. He laid the red dot of the handgun’s aiming laser on the bridge of the startled man’s nose and pulled the trigger. With no more than a sharp hiss, the charge shot from the barrel. A maroon splotch burst across the guard’s eyes. The man dropped to his knees and started gasping.

  Yeah, I feel for ya . . .

  Tucker strode forward, raised the JPX, and cracked the butt into the man’s head. His body slumped forward and went still.

  Frank joined Tucker, his eyes huge. Together, they dragged the guard into the woods, where they quickly flexi-cuffed him around the trunk of a tree and gagged him. Tucker frisked the man, passing Frank a portable radio and a Beretta M9. He also found a wallet and checked the driver’s license: Charles Walker.

  Frank stared down at the man. “I think that’s my first felony assault.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

  Tucker led him back to the idling Suburban. He retrieved the guard’s cap, which had fallen off his head when they had dragged his body into the woods. He dusted it off and tucked it atop Frank’s head.

  “You’re driving,” Tucker said.

  “Where to?”

  “To pay our neighbors a visit.”

  Frank shoved the Beretta into his belt. “Sounds like the only hospitable thing to do.”

  12:12 A.M.

  Seated in the passenger seat of the Suburban as Frank drove, Tucker studied the video feed from Kane’s night-vision camera. Frank continued along the perimeter road, going slowly, aiming for the cutout that led toward the Odisha compound in the middle of the woods.

  But before reaching the camp, Tucker wanted to know what he would find there.

  On the screen of his phone, he watched as Kane skimmed through the forest. The trees quickly began to thin and a clearing appeared ahead, brightly lit with sodium lamps mounted on poles.

  Kane slowed his pace and slunk lower to the ground.

  Good boy.

  The shepherd finally stopped, sliding under the low branches of a pine.

  Tucker squinted at a set of six log cabins and a pair of cinder-block buildings. The grouping was split by a gravel road. In the middle was a turnaround with a white flagpole rising from the center. At this late hour, the cabin windows were dark. He spotted no movement.

  Was anyone still there? Are we already too late?

  That was a fear that had plagued Tucker over these past three days after speaking to Sandy’s mother. The plan tonight had been to rescue the group and hightail it out of here. But what if the others were already dead, murdered like Sandy and the rest of Project 623?

  There’s only one way to find out.

  “We’re coming to the turnoff that leads to the camp,” Frank warned. “What do you want me to do? Head in or circle around another time?”

  Tucker had no idea what the usual routine was for changing patrol shifts. If they came in too early, it could raise a red flag.

  He studied the feed from Kane. To the left of the cabins was a small gravel parking lot with a fleet of Suburbans parked there. “Frank, how many vehicles did you say Tangent had registered at Redstone?”

  “Eight.”

  “There are six parked at the camp right now. Which means, beside us there’s another Suburban out there somewhere.” That made him uneasy, as did the remaining vehicle in the parking lot. “There’s also a huge moving van sitting over there.”

  “Sounds like someone’s planning on bugging out of here.”

  Tucker remembered Jane’s story, how Project 623 had been shut down, only to resurrect under a new name, at a new location.

  And the old team members were eliminated.

  “We’ve got to go in,” Tucker said. “We can’t risk waiting.”

  Frank’s fingers tightened on the wheel, the knuckles going white, but he nodded. “I agree. So what’s the plan?”

  “Grab the Odisha people, pile them in the back of the Suburban, and drive out the main gate.”

  Frank glanced to him, his face tight with disbelief. “You really think it’s gonna be that easy.”

  Tucker shrugged. “A guy can always hope.”

  14

  October 19, 12:34 A.M. CDT

  Redstone Arsenal, Alabama

  So far so good.

  Tucker sat shotgun beside Frank as the Suburban approached the cluster of cabins. He kept low in his seat, trying to stay out of sight while keeping his JPX handgun ready in case he had to silently take someone out.

  “Where now?” Frank asked, braking as they neared the gravel parking lot.

  “We should get as close to the cabins as possible.” Tucker pointed. “There’s a turnaround in the middle. Stop in front of the second cabin on the right.”

  “Is that where Kane wants us to go?”

  “Seems to be. And I’ve learned never to second-guess him.”

  While en route here, Tucker had ordered his four-legged partner to make a quick and furtive circle of the encampment, allowing Tucker to get a lay of the land. The four cabins to the left bore placards with winged logos on their doors.

  Tangent Aerospace, the private defense contractor running this outfit. The placards likely marked the security detail’s cabins. The last of that row had the words MESS HALL etched into the lintel.

  On the opposite side of the turnaround squatted two massive cinder-block bunkers with a small airstrip behind them. A riot of antennas and communication dishes sprouted from their roofs. Glowing keypads secured all the entrances, which included a set of small hangar doors. Those buildings had to house The Odisha Group’s work spaces. At this late hour, all the buildings’ windows were dark. Apparently no one was burning the midnight oil.

  All the better for us.

  From Kane’s canvass of the encampment, Tucker had noted signs hanging on the remaining two cabins’ doors: MEN’S BUNKROOM and WOMEN’S BUNKROOM.

  He was counting on the civilian personnel being housed there.

  Frank edged the Suburban to a stop in front of the women’s bunk. It was where Sandy likely lived while working here, and where Tucker had the best chance of finding Nora Frakes, the woman Sandy had brought home to meet her mother.

  Frank’s door was closest to the steps leading up to the cabin. As Frank exited, Tucker grabbed the MP-5 assault rifle and followed out on the driver’s side, scrabbling low, and dropped to a knee next to the Suburban. He hoped any casual look this way would only reveal Frank’s head, his face and features shaded under the guard’s cap.

  Holding his breath, Tucker braced for some alarm, some shout of challenge.

  But the night remained quiet.

  “Check the cabin window,” Tucker ordered, plagued by a persistent worry.

  Were any members of The Odisha Group still here?

  As Frank climbed the three steps to the porch, Tucker tapped a button on his radio, sending out a signal for Kane to return. From the video feed, Tucker knew the shepherd was in the woods behind the cabins on this side. He trusted his four-legged partner had already caught his scent, likely even heard his words a moment ago.

  On the cabin porch, Frank peeked through the nearest window. He then hurried back to Tucker and whispered, “Can’t see much. They have blackout curtains. From around an edge, I spotted bunks but couldn’t tell if anyone’s in them.”

  A shift of shadows past Frank’s shoulder coalesced into the familiar shape of Kane. The shepherd angled around the corner of the cabin and joined them in the shelter of the Suburban’s bulk. Tucker scratched the dog’s ruff, welcoming his friend back.

  Kane remained stiff, still on guard, likely sensing Tucker’s tension.

  Tucker pointed under the porch steps and clenched a fist. “HIDE. SILENT GUARD.”

  Kane nudged Tucker’s knee, as if acknowledging the command—then darted beneath the porch, becoming a shadow again.

  “What now?” Frank asked.

  “Let’s see if
anyone’s home.”

  Tucker headed up the steps, letting Frank fall behind him. At the door, he tested the knob. Locked. With an aggravated sigh—couldn’t anything be easy?—Tucker tapped lightly on the door, cringing at even this soft noise.

  He held his breath, then heard someone curse inside, followed by the thump of feet landing on wood. Pine boards creaked as someone approached.

  “Who is it?” a woman called out groggily.

  Tucker thought quickly. “Bed check,” he mumbled gruffly, trusting that security might periodically do a head count.

  Another curse, then a dead bolt released.

  As the door started to open, Tucker pushed inside, almost bowling the woman over. Frank came in at Tucker’s heels. Tucker quickly closed the door behind him.

  The woman—a thirty-something brunette wearing pajama bottoms and a red football jersey for the Alabama Crimson Tide—backed away, clutching a hand to her throat, eyeing them up and down.

  “Who . . . who’re you?”

  “We’re friends of Sandy Conlon.”

  To avoid setting the woman into full panic at two strangers in her dark cabin, Tucker found the light switch and flipped it on. Fluorescent ceiling lights flickered to life, revealing a pair of bunk beds to each side of the room, along with a couple of desks piled high with books and journals. At the rear, a short hallway likely led to bathrooms.

  “Sandy?” the brunette asked, her face scrunching with confusion. “What’re you talking about?”

  A second occupant stirred from a lower bunk—the rest of the beds were stripped and empty. A blanket was tossed back with irritation. “Diane, what the bloody hell is going on?”

  The brunette backed until she was beside the other woman. “Nora, these . . . these guys say they’re friends of Sandy’s.”

  This news drew a deep frown from the woman in the bed.

  Nora . . . that had to be Nora Frakes.

  Nora reached to a bedside table and pulled on a pair of eyeglasses, fashionably bulky in a nerdy way. She was black, in her late twenties, with her dark hair cut into a short crop. She had a slight British lilt to her voice.

  “Who are you?” she asked, rolling out of the bed to her bare feet, wearing a set of thin pajamas.

  “My name is Tucker Wayne. I served briefly with Sandy at Fort Benning.” He pointed a thumb at Frank. “This is Master Sergeant Ballenger. He works at Redstone, at the main base.”

  Frank nodded his head. “Ladies.”

  Nora studied them, still on guard. “Why’re you dressed in camouflage? What’s going on?”

  Knowing time was running short, Tucker needed to cut to the heart of the matter. “Sandy’s dead.”

  He watched emotions flicker across Nora’s features. For a fraction of a second, a crooked smile flashed, as if she believed this was all some joke, then a crinkle of concern formed between her brows, ending with her eyes wide and fearful.

  Diane was not so subtle, her voice sharpening with disdain. “You’re lying. She quit. Joined another outfit. Up in North Carolina.”

  “That’s what your bosses want you to believe. But they shot her in the head. Dumped her body in the trunk of her Ford Taurus. You’re all in danger.”

  Nora stepped forward, thrusting her chest out in challenge. “Prove it.”

  “You know Bea Conlon.”

  “Sandy’s mom?”

  “I know you’ve been to her house a few times.” Tucker pulled his satellite phone from his pocket and extended it toward Nora. “Her number’s already keyed up. She’s waiting by her phone.”

  Tucker had prepared for this moment yesterday, knowing he would need to gain this group’s trust quickly—and decided Nora might be the best way to achieve that. Jane had already informed Sandy’s mother of her daughter’s death and readied Bea for this midnight call.

  Tucker punched the number and held out his phone.

  With a frown, Nora grabbed it and put it to her ear. She waited a breath as the secure line connected. “Bea? It’s Nora.”

  As Nora listened, her breathing grew heavier, her shoulders slumping. When she finally spoke, it was a feeble whisper. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Bea.” She glanced over to Tucker, her eyes glassy with tears. “And he can be trusted?”

  After a moment, Nora closed her eyes and nodded. “We’ll talk soon.”

  She turned slightly away and handed back the phone to Tucker. Her shoulders began to shake. Tucker stepped forward and scooped an arm around the young woman. She stiffened, but then leaned into him.

  “Oh my God . . .” Nora whispered.

  Diane remained still, her eyes on all of them at once. “He was telling the truth?”

  “Sandy’s dead, Di.”

  Diane backed away, as though trying to put distance between herself and this news. “What’re we going to do?”

  “We’re all going to get out of here,” Tucker said, and pointed to the door.

  As if summoned by his gesture, there was a firm knock, followed by a curt voice. “Ladies, you okay in there?”

  Everyone froze.

  Tucker had kept his voice low, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been heard.

  Nora moved first, motioning them to the far side of the door. “Everything’s fine, Karl!”

  Tucker came close to tripping on his way over, remembering the printout of Tangent employees that Frank had supplied him.

  That had to be Karl Webster out there . . . the head of Tangent security.

  Tucker flattened against the wall next to the door. With his phone still in his hand, he pulled up Kane’s camera feed. The angle of view was low, from under the porch, indicating the shepherd had remained in hiding, still keeping silent as ordered. Tucker didn’t see anyone else positioned around the Suburban.

  So most likely it was only Webster out there.

  Closer at hand, the doorknob began to turn, but Nora was already there. She grabbed the handle and pulled the door partly open, shielding the view inside with her body.

  “I saw your light was on,” Webster said.

  “Wasn’t feeling good,” Nora explained. “That chili tonight didn’t exactly sit well, if you get my drift.”

  Webster chuckled—which made Tucker want to rip the door open and shoot the man in the head, remembering Sandy’s watery pale face rising from the trunk of her sunken car.

  “You need anything?” he asked. “Pepto or something?”

  “I think the worst is over. I should be able to gut it out.” She put a hand on her belly. “At least I hope so.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have to deal with Johnson’s cooking much longer. We should be wrapping things up over the next week.”

  Tucker pictured the moving van parked in the lot.

  “You’ll all be back in your own beds before you know it,” Webster said.

  More likely they’d be dead.

  A board creaked out on the porch. “Have you seen Chuck?” Webster asked. “That’s his Suburban sitting in the turnaround. I thought maybe he was in here.”

  “Uh, no,” Nora answered. “I did hear him pull up, and the door slam. Have you checked the kitchen? You know how he likes his midnight snacks.” She clutched her belly again and groaned. “Or maybe you’ll have better luck at the latrine . . . or out in the woods.”

  “You may be right. He did have a double helping of Johnson’s chili.”

  “God help him.”

  Webster chuckled again and retreated. “Hope you feel better, Nora.”

  “Thanks.”

  She closed the door and leaned against it for a moment.

  Tucker pressed an index finger to his lips. He checked Kane’s feed and waited until Webster left. He nodded approvingly toward Nora. Her inventive subterfuge probably bought them a few extra minutes, but that was about it, especially if the Suburban continued to sit out there unattended.

  “We need to haul ass out of here.” Tucker stepped forward and flipped off the light switch. “How many others of you are there?”

&
nbsp; “Only Stan and Takashi,” Nora said. “Over in the other bunkroom. There were another two men, but Karl said they both left for home last week.”

  Nora looked truly sick, as if imagining those men suffering the same fate as Sandy.

  “Let’s hope they made it.” Tucker turned to Frank. “You need to buy us more time.”

  “How?”

  “You gotta play Chuck a little longer. Take that Suburban for another loop around the camp and come back. Make it look like you just came in for a pit stop and took off again.” Tucker glanced at his watch, remembering the schedule of the patrols. “That should buy us fourteen minutes to get everyone together and moving.”

  Frank’s eyes were wide in the dark.

  “Are you up for this?”

  Frank nodded and tugged his cap more firmly on his head. “Back to work for Chuck.”

  Tucker clapped Frank on the shoulder, then stepped to the window and peeked out to make sure it was all clear. He didn’t see any sign of Webster, but there was a light in the mess hall cabin.

  Tucker pointed to the door. “Go!”

  Frank dashed out, hopped the steps, and slid behind the wheel. The engine coughed and started. Tires spat gravel as the Suburban sped away, circling the turnaround.

  As the Suburban neared the mess hall cabin, a figure appeared on the porch.

  Webster.

  Tucker cringed, but Frank flashed his high beams at the man, as if signaling everything was fine. The bright light also momentarily blinded Webster, who shielded his eyes against the glare. As the Suburban passed his position, Webster lifted an arm, acknowledging the driver.

  Frank continued on, making the turn onto the exit road and vanishing.

  Tucker let out a long breath and turned back to the room.

  “We need to get those other two men over here right now.”

  Nora glanced to Diane, who had retreated to her bunk. The two women exchanged a silent look.