War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel (14 page)

Tucker pictured the two-man team that had waylaid him outside of Sandy’s house. Had they somehow identified him after that encounter? And then there was Edith Lozier, the caretaker of the storage facility . . .

Maybe I haven’t been as cautious as I thought I was
.

“It’s possible,” Tucker admitted.

“Okay, then let’s set aside that mystery for now. As a precaution, I suggest you keep your phone powered off with the battery pulled out. I might be able to rig some new components down the line that’ll make it harder to track, but it’ll take a few hours to get everything I need.”

Tucker lifted an eyebrow. “You can do that?”

“It wasn’t my good looks that got me promoted to a cryptologic network warfare specialist.”

Tucker recognized the amused glint in Frank’s eye from back in Afghanistan, when the man had tried to clarify the finer points of communication interception.

“As a soldier in this new era of cyber warfare,” Frank explained, “I’ve had to hone a few new skills since back in my field days. Like hacking into systems. I’ll gather up the components I need for your phone and see if I can batten down its hatches more securely. I can bring what I need to your motel tonight. Hopefully by then I’ll have some more information about Sandy from the feelers I sent out this morning.”

“Good.”

Tucker realized one other task that might be best suited to Frank’s new skill set. He pictured the remote-control device for the attack drone. As a precaution, he had powered the CUCS unit off and buried it a mile from his old motel. If anyone could glean any clues from that device, it would be Frank.

“Before you come to my motel,” Tucker said, “there’s something else you might want to take a look at.”

“What is it?”

Tucker hadn’t gone into great length about the unique nature of the drone that had hunted him through the swamps. He decided to get Frank’s unbiased take on the operating system running the drone before filling in those details.

“I think I’ll let you be surprised,” Tucker said.

Frank cocked his head slightly. “Sounds to me like I’m getting an early Christmas present.”

6:17
P
.
M
.

As the sun set on another warm Alabama day, Tucker returned to the Stone Hearth Inn in Athens. He had spent the remainder of the afternoon with Kane out in the local parks, where the shepherd had demolished three tennis balls and trudged through five more streams. Maybe it would’ve been wiser to hole up out of sight, but he doubted the enemy would be bold enough to strike in broad daylight with witnesses all around.

Besides, Kane had needed to stretch his legs, to work through some of the tension from last night.

And so did I
. . .

As pleasant as the day was, Tucker kept glancing to the sky, one ear always listening for a telltale buzz. He recognized such wariness was triggered in no small part from his own PTSD. Though he had suffered only a few scrapes, the attack at the swamp had affected him, stirring older wounds, those that had scarred over but never fully healed. After leaving Afghanistan, Tucker had been plagued by flashbacks, nightmares, and insomnia, leaving him emotionally numb. While he had gone through mandatory counseling with psychologists who specialized in treating vets, he had found greater peace out in the open, on the road, with Kane by his side.

Still, he knew those nightmares remained, just under his skin.

Maybe that was why he still kept accepting such high-risk jobs, to challenge that enemy within. One psychologist suggested he was perhaps suicidal, but Tucker knew deep down that wasn’t the case. He wanted to live, and if he ever doubted it, he only had to look to the shepherd at his side. At his bedrock core, Tucker knew he would never recklessly endanger Kane in some veiled attempt at ending his life.

Instead, it was one counselor who offered Tucker his greatest insight, refining the diagnosis of PTSD to one born of
moral injury
, a wound where Tucker’s fundamental understanding of right and wrong had been deeply violated by his experiences in Afghanistan. Tucker suspected his recent path through life was an ongoing attempt to find his center again, to make amends—not so much for what he did, but for what he had failed to do. It was what gave his life purpose, to tilt at the injustices of the world.

In the meantime, there was pizza—yet another reason to live.

On his drive back to Athens, Tucker had picked up two pepperoni pies and a six-pack of Sam Adams lager. He had barely placed them on his room’s small dining table when there was a knock at the door.

As punctual as ever, Frank greeted him with a one-armed hug, carrying a small duffel in his other hand. He eyed the room as he entered and offered a halfhearted, “Great digs.”

Tucker didn’t miss the sarcasm in the man’s voice. The place certainly wasn’t the Ritz, but it was clean and cozy, with a decor that could be considered shabby-chic.

As they settled in, Frank helped himself to a slice of pizza and a beer, then plopped down on the bed next to a curled-up Kane, who gave Frank a single tail-wag hello. Tucker had already fed him a giant bowl of kibble.

“He looks happy,” Frank said.

“He’s now the king of Huntsville’s parks and waterways.”

“Damn, and here I forgot to bring him his crown.” Frank zipped open his duffel. “But I did bring some other goodies. Pass me that phone of yours and let me see if I can’t lock that baby up tight.”

Tucker handed the satellite phone over.

Between bites of pizza, Frank opened the back panel and began fiddling with it: unscrewing this and rearranging that before finally inserting a new SIM card. “That ought to do it. At least, until we find out what tracking gear the opposition is working with.”

“What do you mean
we
?”

Frank passed back the phone and smiled wryly. From his duffel, he pulled out the CUCS unit and placed it on the bedspread. He stared lovingly at it. “Such a beauty. Of course, even with your directions, I had a hell of a hard time finding where you buried this treasure. I’ve barely had time to do more than a cursory exam. Still, impressive sophistication . . .” Frank tore his gaze from the drone’s remote control to face Tucker. “Looks like you’re playing in my sandbox. You can’t kick me out now.”

“It could get ugly, Frank.”

“Judging by your condition, it already has.” Frank lifted his palms. “Listen, I’m more than happy to leave the rough stuff to you and Kane. I’ll be a strictly behind-the-scenes guy.”

Tucker sighed, weighing what to say. He knew Frank’s expertise could prove valuable in this search, but Tucker preferred to operate alone. Unable to decide, he said, “Tell me what you learned about Sandy, then I’ll consider your offer.”

“Fair enough.” Frank shrugged. “I know she comes from around these parts like me. Her only living relative is her mother, who lives up in the Appalachian high country, one of the poorest counties, where folks are notoriously wary of strangers.”

Tucker remembered Jane mentioning that Sandy’s mother was one of the last people to see the missing woman. He also remembered Edith Lozier, the caretaker of the storage facility, telling him that Sandy was headed to see her mother after making a hasty exit from her locker.

“It might be worth checking out,” Frank said.

“Why’s that?”

“The mountain people are a close-knit group, bound as equally by their traditions as by their suspicions. They know how to keep their secrets tight to their chest. If Sandy wanted to bury something away from prying eyes, that would be a good place to look.”

Tucker slowly nodded. Frank was right. It might be worth a day trip. “What did you learn about Sandy’s role closer at home, here at Redstone Arsenal?”

Frank frowned. “Not much. I learned she’s not attached to any official military command. She’s part of some quasi-private team—something called The Odisha Group.”

Tucker sat straighter. He remembered seeing that name—Odisha—circled on one of Sandy’s whiteboards in her makeshift command center. Frank was on the right track. It seemed the man’s skill set extended beyond motherboards and computer code.

“What was that group working on?” Tucker asked.

“Above my pay grade, I’m afraid. All I could discover without raising alarms is that the group is mostly made up of mathematicians and statisticians. They operate out of a newly constructed housing unit in a remote corner of Redstone. It’s all segregated with access controlled by MPs. As far as I can tell, the group mostly lives there.”

“You said they were
quasi
-private. What did you mean by that?”

“To operate at Redstone, they surely have the base commander’s approval and support, but as I understand it, Odisha operates independently. They’re run by a private company.”

“Which one?”

Frank shrugged again. “That’ll take some more digging. Perhaps if I knew more details . . .”

Tucker hesitated, then decided he was putting Frank more at risk by withholding information. “I think it’s high time I gave you the rest of the story about Sandy’s disappearance.”

Frank leaned forward. “Do tell.”

Tucker started with the intruders he ran into at Sandy’s house and ended with his discovery of her storage locker. “Whoever chased us through the swamps may be the same pair that showed up at Sandy’s place. At least I’m pretty sure one of the men was.”

That guy named Webster . . .

Frank interrupted his story. “Back up, you said you got the license plate number off the men’s Suburban at Conlon’s house.”

Tucker nodded.

“Good. Give that to me before I leave. If that vehicle ever passed through one of the gates at Redstone, there’ll be a record of it. It might be a good place to start.” Frank waved to him. “Go on. What else happened?”

Tucker continued with his story, filling in more details about the nature of the drone that had hunted him and Kane.

With a pizza slice halfway to his mouth, Frank blinked several times and blew out a breath. “Whoa,” he murmured. “I’ve got like a few hundred questions.”

Tucker smiled. “I thought you might.”

“First, let me see that sniper round you dug out of the tree trunk and the guidance pod you found floating in the water.”

Tucker walked over to his pack, retrieved the objects, and passed them over.

Frank remained silent for a full minute while he examined both. “Definitely the assembly for a PGB, a precision guided bullet. But this is beyond anything I’ve seen. I’ll do my best to pick it apart later at my place.” His gaze returned to Tucker. “As for the attack drone, how was the accuracy of its targeting systems?”

“Good, but not perfect. A lot of near misses. Why?”

“Did it seem to get better over time?”

Tucker thought back, then slowly nodded. “Now that you mention it. I thought maybe it was because I was slowing down, but you may be right.”

“Hmm . . .”

“What?”

“From the level of engine muffling you described, along with stealth camouflaging, we’re talking about a next-gen level of drone technology. If that’s the case, one of the engineering facets currently under investigation—where the most money is being funneled at the moment—concerns building drones that can not only operate autonomously but
learn
on the fly.”

Tucker felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. “You think that’s what we encountered out there? Some new prototype?”

“I do. But the question remains, how
autonomous
was that damned thing? Can it be given a whole mission profile and execute it?”

“As in, fire and forget?”

“Or even worse. With current tech, drones can already zero in and target various features of an enemy: visual identities, electronic emissions, travel routes, that sort of thing. But the next-gen drones will likely be programmed to make independent judgments upon what they find out there.”

“Including shoot to kill.”

Frank nodded. “Removing humans from the equation. To save the lives of boots on the ground, there has been growing pressure to give such robotic warriors greater autonomy and decision-making capability.”

Tucker swallowed, trying to imagine that future war.

Or maybe I don’t have to imagine it
.

The buzzing of the drone’s engines filled his head.

Frank continued. “Both military designers and independent programmers are racing toward that goal. It’s a gold rush out there right now. Even Blackwater, the private military firm, added an unmanned division to its business model back in 2007, opening the door for robotic mercenaries, autonomous drones operating beyond the stricture of military command.”

Frank must have noted Tucker growing paler, but the man apparently wasn’t done. “One more thing. Whoever engineered that drone, you can bet it wasn’t their only model. Drones come in all shapes and sizes, built for various purposes, designed to travel through the air, across the ground, or even underwater.”

Tucker took these words of caution to heart.

Frank sat back and smiled. “So what do you think?”

“About what?” Tucker forced out.

“Do I have the position? Can I stay onboard with you and Kane? I told you I could be of use to you.”

Tucker didn’t hesitate. “You’re hired.”

Frank’s grin broadened. “What do you want me to do first?”

“Look into the Suburban’s license plate and see what you can find—but be careful.”

Frank nodded. “What are you going to do?”

Tucker pictured Frank’s description of where Sandy’s mother lived. “I’m going to buy myself a banjo.”

11

October 15, 10:14
A
.
M
. CDT

Appalachian Mountains, Alabama

Maybe I should’ve bought that banjo after all . . .

As Tucker headed east into the mountains, the signs of traditional civilization began to fade. Once off Highway 35 and onto the back roads, the way quickly grew more potholed, the homes more scattered, diminishing into simple cabins. He filled up at a gas station with a rusted pump that looked like it dated from the fifties. As he passed along, children stopped playing in yards and stared at him, the girls in faded dresses, the boys in baggy shorts. Tucker waved to one man on a porch, who simply narrowed his eyes.