War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel (16 page)

Tire tracks
.

Tucker followed them to the ravine’s edge. He got out his binoculars and scanned the half-mile-wide quarry. Far to his right, past a cow gate bearing another red warning sign, a service road cut down along the cliff face and ended at a shoreline of boulders and dun-colored gravel.

Tucker spent a full five minutes panning the lake’s surface. Then, thirty feet from shore, he spotted the barest outline of something. He zoomed in. It took another thirty seconds to recognize what he was seeing.

The hemmed end of a seat belt
.

It floated like a lone strand of kelp.

Tucker’s belly turned to ice.

He lowered his binoculars and marched over to the service road. The gate was no obstacle. He hopped over it, while Kane ducked under it. Together, they headed down the road toward the shoreline. The crisp scent of pine was soon overpowered by a metallic scent, a mix of salt and oil, with an underlying bitter tang.

Tucker stepped to the lapping bank of the lake and studied the floating seat belt offshore. He followed its length into the green murk and made out the glint of silver below, the same color as Sandy’s Ford Taurus.

“Maybe it’s just her car,” he said, holding out hope.

He didn’t relish what he had to do next.

He turned to Kane and waved a finger in the air. “P
ATROL
. F
ULL
ALERT
.”

Tucker did not want any surprises. He dropped his bag and half hid his rifle under it. He then stripped naked. With his LED flashlight clamped between his teeth, he waded into the water until it reached his chest, then swam over to the hovering seat belt.

He girded himself for a breath.

Just do it
.

He took a deep breath and did a pike dive into the colder depths. The alkaline water stung his eyes, a burning reminder to hurry. He reached the bumper with a single kick. He clicked on the flashlight and shone it along the bumper until he found the license plate.

It was a match for Sandy’s.

No question now
.

He kicked again and twisted around to the driver’s-side door. A few feet farther along the sedan’s side, the side panel was crushed inward. He ran his fingers over the damage and discovered a trio of crisp sharp-edged punctures through the steel.

Bullet holes
.

Tucker pointed his flashlight through the open driver’s-side window and searched the passenger compartment, both front and back.

Empty.

Out of air, Tucker rose to the surface. He treaded water, breathing deeply, blinking the sting from his eyes. So where was she? Had they kidnapped her and dumped the car to cover their tracks? Something told Tucker this wasn’t the case.

There was only one place he hadn’t searched.

Tucker glanced to shore, where Kane remained on watch. Tucker lifted a thumb’s-up toward the dog. Kane barked once, his way of sounding the
ALL
CLEAR
.

With apparently no danger setting off his dog’s keener senses, Tucker dove down again. He kicked to the driver’s door and eased his torso through the open window. He clawed around until he found the trunk release. He pushed the button, hoping the battery had enough juice to pop the trunk. Otherwise, he would have to climb all the way back up to the Dodge and fetch a tire iron.

Instead, a muffled clunk sounded behind him.

He shoved out and pulled himself over to the rear of the car. He paused at the bumper, set his jaw, then rounded the corner to the trunk.

Tucker stifled the rush of air from his mouth.

A body stirred inside the compartment. The face was pasty, the skin rippled and already sloughing off in places. The mouth was half open, and milky-white eyes gazed back at him. As he stared in horror, limp arms floated upward as though trying to reach to him for help.

It was Sandy Conlon.

Tucker hovered there, his mind blank before mentally shifting gears. He’d seen plenty of dead bodies. This was no different.

But it was . . . it goddamn was.

Despite the disfigurement of her face, Tucker could clearly see a bullet wound in her left temple. He also saw that her belly had been slashed open. It was most likely done postmortem, to puncture organs that would have filled with gas during the decomposition process. If the trunk had sprung open later, her body still wouldn’t have floated to the surface, but rather it would have remained in place until the alkaline water had dissolved her flesh.

He cursed silently.

Those sons of bitches . . .

Tucker writhed back to the surface, fury burning the chill from his body.

If he hadn’t stumbled upon the car, the trunk might have been Sandy Conlon’s eternal tomb. Whoever had done this, they tossed people away like garbage. He remembered Jane telling him about the deaths and disappearances of her other colleagues. The same fate likely awaited Jane and her son, Nathan, if he didn’t do something.

That’s not going to happen
.

He swam toward shore.

It ends here
.

12

October 15, 8:17
P
.
M
. EDT

Kingsport, Tennessee

Chased by ghosts and fleeing from a faceless enemy, Tucker made good time reaching the rendezvous point. After clearing the Appalachian Mountains and leaving Sandy’s body where it lay for now, Tucker had called Jane, telling her they needed to meet face-to-face.

She had suggested a highway diner in Kingsport, Tennessee, three hundred miles north of where Sandy was murdered. Tucker could guess why Jane had chosen Kingsport. The city lay halfway between Huntsville and Washington. Jane was mostly likely hiding with her son in DC, a place she knew well.

Today he hoped to find out precisely
why
she was hiding—and from
whom
.

It was time he got more answers.

Fueled by that desire, he reached Kingsport in under four hours and pulled into the parking lot of a fifties-themed diner off Highway 81. A bell jingled when he entered. It sounded gratingly loud—but at least it matched the decor. The booths were stitched in red vinyl fabric, the tables topped by black-and-white-checkered Formica with chrome trim. He gave the hostess his usual service-dog pitch to cover Kane’s presence, then crossed to where Jane was seated in a rear booth.

This late in the evening, the diner was only half full. The clink of forks on plates and the soft babble of conversation filled the space.

Good
.

He joined Jane. She had placed Nathan in a booster seat beside her. The kid was currently staring at his own reflection in a spoon.

Jane stood and embraced Tucker. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered in his ear, then she pulled back and studied his face. “You’re hurt.”

He shrugged. “Just part of the job description.”

She fingered the abrasions along his jawline, then lightly grabbed his chin and turned his head. She frowned at the bandage on his ear. “If I asked, I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me the truth?”

“Actually, I would. Later, though.”

“Hmm.” Jane dropped to one knee and greeted Kane with equal affection. “You’re supposed to be keeping him out of trouble.”

“I’m doing my best.”

She grinned. “I was talking to Kane.”

She waved the shepherd into the booth. Kane settled between Tucker and Nathan.

The boy pointed. “Bog!”

“
Dog
, honey,” Jane corrected softly.

“Bog, honey!”

Jane shook her head with exasperation. “Close enough.”

Nathan shoved a finger toward Tucker. “Hi!”

“Hi, yourself.”

Apparently it wasn’t a good enough answer for the boy. Nathan returned his attention to Kane, wagging a hand in front of the dog’s nose and getting his fingers licked. From the giggling, that was clearly much more entertaining.

As Tucker watched the boy and dog play, he found himself imagining what it would have been like if Nathan had been his son, Jane his wife, about that road not taken. He stifled that train of thought. Now was not the time to start second-guessing his choices—both those in the past and what was to come.

Tucker realized he had been staring too long and returned his attention to Jane. “Sorry.”

“No apology necessary. I spend a lot of my day staring at him. It’s one of the superpowers children possess.”

The waitress arrived to take their order: a cheeseburger and fries for Tucker, a Cobb salad for Jane, and a fruit cup for Nathan. The waitress placed a coloring sheet before the boy, who set to work with a handful of crayons.

Kane sighed as he was abandoned for the boy’s new project.

As they waited for their food, Jane leaned back and looked like she was bracing herself. “I could tell on the phone that you didn’t have good news. So spill it.”

Tucker glanced at Nathan, cocking an eyebrow

Jane understood. “It’s okay. When he’s coloring, he’s oblivious.”

Tucker cleared his throat and decided to be blunt. “Sandy’s dead.”

Jane stared a moment, frozen in place, then closed her eyes. Her lips tightened, trembling, and a couple of tears squeezed out her lids and ran down her face. She gave a shake of her head and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Of course, that’s what I was afraid of . . . but to hear it. I didn’t want to give up hope.”

Tucker hated to take that from her. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Tucker told her about his discovery at the quarry. He left nothing out.

“Do you think she went quickly?” Jane asked.

Tucker swallowed, remembering the bullet wound on her temple. “I hope so.”

“Have you told her mother?”

“I . . . couldn’t.”

She reached over and patted his hand. “I’ll do it tomorrow. Once I’m somewhere safe. I’ll explain everything and ask her to keep quiet for now.”

“Good.” Tucker studied his hands. “But, Jane, it’s time to lay all our cards on the table. I’m going to tell you everything I know, then you’re going to do the same. Agreed?”

She nodded.

After glancing around to be sure none of their fellow diners were within earshot, Tucker started talking, recounting the firefight at Sandy’s house, the discovery of her storage locker, his meeting with Frank Ballenger, and the ambush at the swamp.

“And you’re sure it was a drone that attacked you?” she said.

“And probably Sandy, too.”

Jane took a deep breath. “And we know Sandy wasn’t the first to go missing or to die suddenly. The only connection is that we were all part of Project 623, a program under the auspices of the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

“What were you working on?”

“Mathematics, computer programming, cryptology, statistics. No one was ever given the big picture, the endgame. We only had knowledge of the piece of the puzzle assigned to us. But, Tuck, I know we were operating in the black—
far
into the black. So much so that I’m not a hundred percent certain we were even working for the DIA.”

“Where was this all happening?”

“In a nondescript building in Silver Spring, Maryland. They had heavy security and strictly controlled access, including conducting regular pat downs and searches. Even our computers’ firewalls had firewalls.”

“How long did Project 623 run?”

“We were disbanded eight months after we started.”

“And at the end, you never learned the ultimate goal of this project?”

Jane shook her head.

“What about the name? Project 623. Does that mean anything?”

“It does. What do you know about Alan Turing?”

Tucker stirred. “I saw that name written on Sandy’s whiteboard in her locker. He’s that British mathematician who broke the German military code.”

“The Enigma code. But that accomplishment barely scratches the surface of Alan Turing’s true genius. His work laid the groundwork for the modern computer. Arguably, every piece of computing tech you see today exists because of him. At Bletchley Park, where he worked outside of London, he invented the first electromechanical machine, a rudimentary computer. It was used to break the Nazi code. With this knowledge, Allied forces were able to predict German troop movements, feed the Nazis false information, and reroute supply convoys around hidden U-boats. Breaking Enigma shortened the war and saved hundreds of thousands of lives.”

Tucker nodded. He had read as much when he had performed a Google search on the few clues written on Sandy’s boards. “And as I understand it, Turing was arrested by the Brits a few years later.”

Jane nodded. “It was discovered he was gay, and he was convicted of gross indecency. He was given the choice of prison or chemical castration. He chose the latter. His security clearance was revoked, and he was ostracized. Two years later he killed himself.”

“Unbelievable,” Tucker muttered. “But what does that have to do with the name of the project—623?”

“Alan Turing was born on June 23.”

Working from a hunch, Tucker mentioned something that Frank had dug up. “After Project 623 shut down, Sandy joined a new classified group at Redstone. It sounds a lot like that setup in Silver Springs. Closed campus, all locked up tight, etcetera. It’s called The Odisha Group. Does that name mean anything?”

Jane began to shake her head—then stopped. “No wait.” She pulled out an iPad and typed for a few minutes. “I was right. Turing’s father worked for the Indian Civil Service. He was stationed in Odisha when Turing was born.”

“So another program with a connection to Alan Turing.” Tucker stared hard at Jane. “It seems too much of a coincidence. I think whoever closed down Project 623 reopened something similar over at Redstone.”

“But why move it there?”

“More important, why start killing members of 623 so long after the first project shut down? And why did they spare Sandy until now?”