War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel

by James Rollins

  With the stealth technology and the cover of night, no word of strange craft in the sky had made it into the mainstream media. He suspected some people might have reported such sightings, but as part of the psy-ops protocol, any mention would be quashed, replaced with more false stories and fabricated videos.

  “Oh my God . . .” Laura gasped out.

  He turned his attention back on his daughter. “What?”

  “A high school was just bombed. Rescue services are trying to get inside.”

  He checked the wall clock. “It’s nearing midnight out there. Surely there were no children on the premises.”

  Laura stared at him. Her face had gone pale, which made her freckles stand out all the more. “According to a series of Facebook posts, the school was having an early Halloween party. When the attack began, they kept the children indoors for their protection.”

  Pruitt winced—not so much at the potential loss of life, but at how to spin this to his advantage. He wanted to make some calls, but instead he crossed to Laura’s side and pulled her close.

  She didn’t resist, settling her cheek against his chest. “Why . . .?” she mumbled. “Who could be so cruel?”

  He just pulled her tighter, trying to protect her from the harshness of life, as he always had. He prayed she would find a way to balance her sense of justice with the realities of the world. It was what he wanted to give to her, to her children: the power and wealth to make a better world.

  Even if I must bloody my own hands to accomplish it.

  That was one part of the Kellerman legacy he didn’t want to bequeath to her. Over the course of U.S. history, many captains of industry—Rockefeller, J. P. Morgan, Andrew Carnegie—were ruthless in ambition, drive, and practices, but later in life became philanthropists for the betterment of mankind. He intended to follow that example.

  Let me be ruthless, so she can be kind.

  “Why don’t you take a break,” he said. “I can man the fort for now.”

  She pulled back and stared up at him. “Dad, I can—”

  “I know you can. But humor your old man.”

  She smiled, though tears still glistened in her eyes. “Okay, just for twenty minutes. I’ll grab us both some coffee. It’ll be a long night.”

  That was definitely true.

  “Go on then,” he said, helping her out of his chair.

  She hugged him before leaving. “I love you, Dad.”

  “Me too, honey.”

  He stayed rooted until she left and still stared at the door for several breaths, waiting for his guilt to ebb and girding himself for what must be done next. He found his center again in one firm determination.

  She must never know my hand in all of this.

  To that end, he slipped out his private phone and dialed Rafael Lyon’s number. As the connection was made, he demanded an update, settling at the end on the one threat that continued to plague these operations.

  “What about our friends who arrived in Port of Spain?” he asked.

  Lyon sighed. “I see now why Webster had such difficulty dealing with that man—and his dog. Little fucker nearly took a chunk out of my leg.”

  “I’ll take more than your leg if that group isn’t dealt with.”

  “Not a problem, sir. They’re trapped on a deserted island with no way off. I’ve dispatched all three Warhawks from Trinidad to burn that place to a blackened cinder. And if they should try to swim away, I have a Shrike patrolling the waters.”

  Pruitt smiled, recognizing why he had placed such trust in the French soldier. “So you’re telling me they’re toast.”

  Lyon chuckled. “Extra burnt.”

  29

  October 25, 11:28 P.M. AST

  Patos Island, Venezuela

  Panicked and panting, Tucker sped low across the beach.

  Bitter smoke cloaked the skies overhead, while dozens of fires churned across the island, joining into a hellish conflagration that glowed through the dark trees. As he ran back to Jane and Kane, fiery ash rained down across the beach and floated atop the water of the cove.

  “Anything?” Jane asked, her voice muffled by a wet cloth tied across her nose and mouth. Kane lay next to her with a damp handkerchief draped over his muzzle.

  He shook his head. “No sea caves on that side either.” He had searched both ends of the beach for somewhere to hole up, somewhere to weather this firestorm. “We’ll have to swim out and let the current draw us farther along the cliffs. Try to find a deep enough cave to protect us.”

  That is, if the currents don’t simply drag us all to a watery grave.

  Jane’s eyes seemed to hold the same fear. They were all too weak to fight the riptides and unpredictable currents that made up the Bocas del Dragón Strait. There was a reason these waters had been named the Dragon’s Mouth. Many had been swallowed up by that dark beast.

  Still, Jane nodded, knowing they had no other choice, not if she ever wanted to see her son again.

  Behind them, napalm bombs continued to explode in great gouts of smoke and flame. Tucker’s ears rang with the blasts. Occasionally the ghostly passage of a Warhawk stirred the pall over the beach as one of the drones banked out to sea and back again. It was only a matter of time before a Warhawk unloaded its weapon’s bay upon this strip of sand or the wildfires swept down from the burning jungle.

  “Let’s go,” Tucker said.

  He patted Kane on his flank and got the dog up. At least Kane was back to gingerly bearing weight on his wounded leg—but how long would the dog’s strength last battling the tides and currents of the Caribbean Sea?

  Jane looked worse, still clearly compromised by the blow to the head.

  With no better options, he led the pair across the sand and into the ash-strewn waters. Another explosion erupted behind them, close enough to feel the blast wave of overheated air push them forward. The reek of burned gasoline rolled over them, setting Jane to coughing harshly.

  “Keep going!” Tucker urged, waving an arm. “We need to get clear of the cove!”

  Kane paddled next to him, his nose held high, riding the swells. After wading waist deep in the water, Tucker leaned forward to dive into the waves, when a new noise intruded, cutting through the ringing in his ears.

  He paused and glanced to Jane. She had also stopped, clearly hearing the same. It was the whine of an engine, echoing over the water. It took Tucker a breath to pinpoint the direction. From around the cliffs to the left, a silver powerboat sped across the mouth of the cove, cutting them off. It banked into a sharp turn, coming full around as the pilot must have spotted them.

  The boat rocked in the swells as the engine cut to a rumbling idle.

  Tucker momentarily held out hope that it was a rescue party, someone who had come to the besieged island looking for survivors.

  He stared as the lone occupant rose from behind the wheel.

  Tucker instantly recognized his adversary.

  It was Karl Webster.

  The man lifted the black tube of a rocket launcher to his shoulder and pointed it toward them. Tucker had no time to free his Sig Sauer from its shoulder holster under his wet clothes. He glanced to the smoky inferno behind him, then back to Webster.

  Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  Webster pulled the trigger.

  Tucker ducked at the noise of the blast. Webster’s form was obscured by the weapon’s smoky exhaust. The rocket-propelled grenade shot past overhead, sailing high, trailing a ribbon of smoke.

  Tucker twisted around to see the round hit its target above the beach. The blast of fire revealed a wedge-shaped threat hidden in the smoke. It was a Warhawk. The drone shattered above the tree line at the beach’s edge and rained debris across the sand and into the water.

  Webster yelled, “Get your asses over here!”

  Jane was already moving, half wading, half paddling. Tucker followed, pushing Kane ahead of him. He didn’t have a clue what was happening, only that there was a way off this fiery rock.r />
  Webster met them with the boat, then leaned over the gunwale to grab Jane’s arm. He hauled her inside, then bent over the rail, grabbed Kane’s vest with two hands, and pulled the dog to safety. Tucker leaped high enough to catch a grip and climbed aboard on his own.

  With everyone in, Webster gunned the engine, yanked the wheel, and sent the boat careening around and away from the island. Once clear of the cove, he turned to the group, his eyes settling on one of them.

  “Janie, are you okay?” Webster asked.

  Jane looked to Tucker, then back to Tangent’s security head. She nodded. “Better now, Karl.”

  “What the fuck?” Tucker gasped out. He seldom used that phrase, but this situation certainly deserved it.

  Jane touched his arm. “I can explain later.”

  Tucker fought his wet clothes and freed his SIG Sauer. He pointed it at Webster. “Screw later. What the hell is going on?”

  “What does it look like?” Webster yelled back, ignoring the threat. “I’m pulling your asses out of the fire.”

  “But . . . but why?”

  Jane forced his pistol down. “It was Karl who helped me survive the purge at Project 623.”

  Tucker struggled to understand. He gaped at Jane as conflicting emotions flooded through him: betrayal, relief, bewilderment, anger, and feelings the English language had no words to describe.

  Webster used his moment of confused silence and asked, “Nora . . . I know she made it out of Redstone. What about her teammates? Stan, Takashi, and Diane?”

  At the mention of those names, Tucker’s swirl of emotions finally settled on one.

  Fury.

  “What the hell do you care?” he spat out, lifting his weapon again.

  Webster nodded at his rebuke. “I did what I could,” he muttered, his words all but drowned out by the boat’s engine. He glanced to Jane. “I didn’t have any choice, Janie. You gotta know that. Back in Silver Spring, just before Project 623 was shut down, that bastard Lyon showed me pictures of my ex-wife and my daughter, Amanda. He was blunt. I either kept silent or I would end up in a shallow grave alongside them.”

  Tucker read the pain in the man’s eyes as he glanced guiltily away.

  “I didn’t kill any of the others,” Webster said. “You gotta know that, too. But by going along, I figured I could save you. You were smart and had connections. It wasn’t that hard to make Lyon believe you escaped on your own. Plus, Janie, you know how I felt about you.”

  Jane sank into one of the seats. “Karl . . .”

  “I know you didn’t feel the same, but it didn’t make what I felt any less real.”

  Tucker stared at the back of the man’s head. He remembered Nora describing how the intimate, close quarters of such research groups often made for strange bedfellows.

  “When I was transferred to oversee The Odisha Group at Redstone,” Webster continued, “I was already in too deep. I convinced myself into believing I could do something to protect this new group with my position.”

  “What about Sandy Conlon?” Jane asked.

  “Again, that was Lyon and his men cleaning house after Sandy’s success in creating the AI core for the drones. They no longer had a use for her or her team. But I knew Sandy was doing something else, something in private. The girl was clever at covering her bases. I tried to have her back, too . . . though she never knew it.”

  “And what about us?” Tucker asked.

  Webster looked back at Tucker, then to Kane. “At first I had no clue who you were. I thought maybe you were working for Lyon or some unknown third party. Eventually I learned that Jane had sent you sniffing around Redstone.” He waved to Jane. “When I picked you both up on a surveillance camera at White Sands, I kept quiet and tried to see if I could find you before all hell broke loose. But doing so put me on Lyon’s radar.”

  Tucker remembered his conversation with the French soldier. Lyon had eventually learned about his group’s trespass onto the military base. Apparently it was one too many mistakes for Lyon to swallow or accept.

  “I had to run. I got Amanda and Helen whisked away to safety, then I checked in with a couple guys still loyal to me at Tangent. From them, I learned what Lyon was planning for you all, so I came down here. Still, I barely made it. Lyon had pushed up the timetable for operations here by a day. When I saw the island blow up, I figured you were all dead, but I had to check.”

  Tucker stared toward the fires glowing through the smoke that clouded Port of Spain’s skyline. “What the hell is the plan for Trinidad?”

  Karl shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure. But Trinidad is a real-world test for something much larger scheduled for three days from now. In fact, the secondary goal of this mission was to distract world attention, to get all eyes looking here, while the real attack occurred elsewhere.”

  “Where?” Jane asked.

  “I don’t know . . . I truly don’t.”

  Tucker had a more important question. “Who’s behind all of this? Who does Lyon work for?”

  Webster turned toward him with a frown. “You don’t know?”

  “How could we?”

  “Lyon works for Pruitt Keller—”

  Webster’s chest exploded outward, spattering Tucker with gore and blood. The deadly round struck the empty seat next to Jane. As the man fell from behind the wheel, Tucker caught sight of the shimmering passage of a drone against the stars.

  It was a Shrike, likely the same one that had ambushed the runabout.

  The drone banked around for another attack run on its target.

  “Get down!” Tucker hollered.

  He dashed forward and rolled Webster’s body to the side, freeing the length of the rocket launcher from under his dead weight. Upon entering the boat, Tucker had noted an open box of RPG rounds on the floor next to the pilot’s seat. He grabbed a grenade, shoved it into the barrel of the launcher, and rolled onto his backside. He lifted the weapon to his shoulder and centered the sight upon that blurry patch of stars.

  He waited until the drone dipped toward the boat.

  Now, time for a little payback.

  He fixed his aim and fired. The blast was deafening and enveloped him in a cloud of smoke. Still, through the pall, a flash of flame lit the sky, revealing the shattered form of the Shrike. The grenade had struck one of the drone’s fixed wings, sending the war machine spiraling into the sea.

  As a plume of water shot high, Tucker gained the pilot’s seat and grabbed the wheel. “Hold on!”

  He shoved the throttle forward and raced across the flat waters, not knowing if there were any other Shrikes in the air or if the remaining two Warhawks bombarding Patos Island would be given new instructions and dispatched their way.

  In the rearview mirror, Tucker saw the island was cloaked in smoke, fires smoldering at its heart. A fresh spiral of flames shot high into the night sky, marking the continuing destruction of the island.

  Tucker turned his attention forward, flying the powerboat toward the fiery skyline of Port of Spain.

  Though he was relieved to have survived, a worry plagued him.

  What had happened to Frank and Nora?

  11:58 P.M.

  Tucker eased back the throttle and let their boat coast to a stop a hundred yards from the commercial docks of Port of Spain. The acrid stench of fire was thick in the air. A cacophony of emergency sirens, car alarms, and loudspeaker-enhanced voices echoed across the water.

  Several shore-side warehouses still burned, but the docks themselves were mostly intact. Unfortunately the same could not be said of the Hyatt.

  The main hotel tower was a column of flame, wrapped in smoke.

  “Nora and Frank . . .” Jane moaned.

  “They could have gotten out,” Tucker reminded her. “Rex had their backs.”

  But even he had trouble putting much conviction in his voice.

  As he aimed the boat toward the nearest dock, he noted that the main coastal highway was choked with evacuees, the road packed wi
th unmoving or abandoned vehicles. Military trucks raced along the shoulders, some heading toward the city, others away. The central business district looked the worst hit, transformed into a fiery wasteland of blasted skyscrapers.

  “Why would they do this?” Jane asked as Tucker reached the docks and tied them off. “Why?”

  Tucker remembered their earlier suppositions that this all had something to do with controlling a new oil field. But if Webster was right, that was only an ancillary benefit. The true objective of the attack was a test run for something even worse.

  Tucker helped Jane and Kane out of the boat. They had covered Webster’s body with a tarp. Though Tucker was still angry with the man, the guy had saved all their lives. When the time was right, they would get his body back home to his loved ones.

  Just like with Sandy’s remains.

  Tucker stared across the devastated city, trying to fathom the number of deaths, of other loved ones who would mourn this night for what was stolen from them. A deep-seated fury settled into his bones.

  “If Nora and Frank survived,” Jane asked, “how do we even begin to find them?”

  “There must be some sort of emergency command center, a place for the injured or homeless to find shelter. If Frank is thinking straight, that’s where he’ll take Nora.”

  “What about trying your phone again?”

  He had attempted multiple times while en route, both calling the hotel and trying to raise someone in the States. “Still nothing. I think they’re jamming outgoing transmissions, keeping the islands locked down. We’re going to have to hoof it.”

  He set off with Jane on one side and Kane on the other. They were lucky to still be alive, and he could only hope that same good fortune extended to Nora and Frank.

  In short order, an emergency crew directed them to Queen’s Park Savannah, where a makeshift refugee camp was being set up. Normally the park’s two hundred acres were recreation space, complete with cricket fields, rugby pitches, and a botanical garden. Now thousands of people filled the fields, milling around or huddling together on the grass or on benches.