War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel (17 page)

Jane thought for a long moment. “My guess,” she said softly. “Sandy was the brightest of us by far. Maybe instead of starting from scratch after Project 623, they needed Sandy to keep the momentum going. She got the offer from Redstone only one month after 623 closed up shop. But if she was their rainmaker, why kill her?”

Tucker clenched a fist. “Whatever the answer, I’m going to keep going until I find it.”

Jane reached across the table and gave his fist a squeeze. “I know you will.”

“This all must tie to Alan Turing’s work, but how?”

Jane shrugged. “Though everyone at 623 was kept in the dark about the project’s end goal, it didn’t stop us from speculating.”

“Explain.”

“There have always been rumors that Turing was working on a secret project, both during the war and after.”

“What project?”

“First, you have to understand that at the outset of his career, Turing recognized the limits of computers. He hypothesized a supercomputing device, one that would blast through those barriers. He named it the Oracle and believed that building randomness into a computer was the key to creating it. He even proposed putting radium into one of his computers, hoping that its unpredictable radioactive decay would trigger that chaotic randomness he sought. Of course that was never done, and most believe that Turing never went any further in trying to create the Oracle.”

“But you’re thinking that might not be the case.”

She just lifted her eyebrows.

“Why?” he asked.

She leaned closer. “One day, just a few weeks before Project 623 was shut down, we were all called into a room and shown a series of blown-up photographs. They were photos of equations and algorithms taken from what looked to be an old lab journal or notebook. They were rudimentary but groundbreaking.”

“What were they related to?”

“An innovative way to analyze vast amounts of data, specifically what’s called
big data
.”

Tucker shook his head, confused.

Jane sighed. “On any given day, the Internet produces over three quintillion bytes of data. A quintillion is one followed by
eighteen
zeros.”

“That’s certainly
big
.”

“And it’s growing larger every year.”

“What kind of data are you talking about?”

“You name it. Business trends, disease tracking, worldwide crime statistics, traffic conditions, meteorology. Collecting all that data is the easy part. The hard part is what to do with all the noise. How do you collate it, analyze it, share it, visualize it?”

“Has anyone ever tried?”

“They’re doing it all the time. Take the Los Angeles Police Department. They started a pilot program using big data for what they called
proactive policing
. They achieved a twenty-six percent decrease in burglaries. But even their methods were crude, just scratching the surface of what could be possible. At Project 623, we were assigned to explore those handwritten algorithms to learn how to better extract information and exploit the results.”

“To what end?”

“I think we were trying to create the ultimate electronic espionage system, a version of Turing’s Oracle. Those equations we were shown were designed to penetrate
any
encoded data. No information would be safe, not in the private sector, not in any government. We’re talking about a living, self-adjusting code breaker.”

Tucker felt queasy. “It would be the beginning of a whole new kind of warfare. No bullets and bayonets. Just exploited data.”

“Exactly. Nothing would be private any longer. Which is also why that advanced drone that hunted you has me worried.”

“Why’s that?”

“One of the biggest trends in big data is RSD—remote sensing devices. It’s a euphemism for drones. While there’s a staggering amount of data coming from the Internet, it’s only a fraction of what’s truly out there. There are also radio waves, microwaves, landline communications, and so on. The goal of RSD is to build something that can
actively
go out and gather data. Something small, unobtrusive, and smart.”

Like a drone capable of learning
.

“And you’re thinking Sandy’s group might have been working on something like that?” Tucker asked.

“Redstone is home to NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center and other commands involving high-altitude, long-range avionics. If an outfit wanted to experiment with the next generation of smart drones, that would be a good place to start.”

“Do you really think Sandy would have participated in such a program?”

“I can’t imagine she knew at first. Even back in Silver Spring, she grew nervous about the direction things were taking. We all did, really, but it was worse for her. Maybe that’s why she set up that storage locker, so she could try to either stop or expose those involved.”

And she was killed for it
.

Jane reached over and grabbed his wrist. “Someone has to get into that place at Redstone. That’s the only way we’re going to learn anything more.”

“I’m already working on that. But I’m going to need you to work on this.” He reached into a pocket and slipped out the USB flash drive that Bea had given him. “Sandy hid this at her mother’s house. I tried to open it, but it’s deeply encrypted. She also warned her mother that her coworkers at Odisha could be in danger.”

Jane looked ill. “You’re thinking those assassins might start cleaning house like they did with the Project 623 team?”

“Maybe they’ve already begun.”

Starting with Sandy
.

Jane frowned at the drive, as if he had just placed a rattlesnake atop the table. Still, she covered it with her palm and drew it to her lap. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And be careful,” Tucker warned.

“Only if you do the same.”

Then we’re both screwed
.

11:48 p.m. CDT
Huntsville, Alabama

As Tucker pulled into the parking lot of his motel, he found Frank Ballenger sitting on the wooden bench outside his door.

“You keep long hours,” Frank said as he stood and greeted them. He gave Kane a pat on his chest, but even the shepherd was too tired to respond with more than a weak wag of his tail.

Tucker appreciated his dog’s response. After driving to Kingsport and back, his butt and legs were asleep. “What’s with the bags? Planning on moving in?”

Frank glanced down to the three black waterproof cases and shrugged. “I’m taking some vacation leave.”

“Come again?”

“For a month. I’ve got the time.”

“So instead of going to Hawaii, you’re moving in with me and Kane?” Tucker stuck his key into the door’s lock, pushed it open, and let Frank pass. “What’s in the cases?”

“The tools of my trade. Hopefully everything a man needs to deal with killer drones.”

“Frank, you said you were going to be my behind-the-scenes guy. This sounds more like frontline soldier stuff.”

Frank shrugged. “I know we were never best friends, Tucker, but we were still brothers in green. Somebody on my post is trying to kill you guys. You came to me for help, so I’m going to help.”

Tucker wasn’t sure Frank truly understood what was at stake. Maybe it was high time he did. “Listen, Frank, I found Sandy Conlon.”

“What?”

“They shot her, ripped open her belly, and stuffed her in the trunk of her car. That’s who we’re dealing with, Frank. If they catch us, we can expect the same or worse.”

Tucker’s words had the desired effect. Frank walked to the room’s desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down. He stared silently at the wall for a while. Finally he looked at Tucker. “Okay, yeah, I’ll admit that scares the bejesus out of me. But it doesn’t change anything. I’m either in all the way or not at all.”

Tucker sighed, not willing to bend on the matter.

“You’re going to need my expertise,” Frank pressed. “Especially when you hear what I learned while you were driving all over the country.”

Tucker frowned. “What?”

Frank lifted one of his cases to his lap, undid the snaps, and opened it. He removed a familiar length of white polymer. It was the guidance pod Tucker had recovered from the swamp.

“I did some tinkering with this. The avionics on this are beyond micro, and the circuit boards are made out of some kind of rare-earth element. I don’t know which one, yet. Something exotic for sure. And see these raised veins along the surface? They’re acid ducts.”

“Acid?”

“Meant to dissolve this cartridge after firing, to leave nothing salvageable. But it plainly malfunctioned, suggesting this is a prototype—like the drone itself—something still in the beta stage of testing.”

Great . . . and I got to be a guinea pig
.

“But they’re close to perfecting this,” Frank warned. “Very close.”

Tucker took this in. “What about that license plate number I gave you, the one on the Suburban outside Sandy’s house?”

Frank returned the sabot to the case. “You guessed right on that matter. The plate number belongs to one of eight Suburbans assigned to the same area where The Odisha Group is segregated. But here’s the kicker. The vehicles are all registered to a single private defense contractor.”

“Who?”

“Tangent Aerospace.”

Finally, a name . . .

“They’re based out of Las Cruces, New Mexico,” Frank explained. “Unfortunately, I don’t know much more. At least not yet. It’s on my to-do list.”

“Were you able to assign any names to that particular Suburban?”

“No. It’s a fleet vehicle. Any Tangent worker could’ve used it. But I did get a list of all Tangent workers at Redstone.”

“Let me see it.”

Frank turned, pulled out a hard-copy printout from his case, and handed it over.

Tucker scanned it, looking for one name—and found it.

“
Webster
. . . Karl Webster,” he read off the sheet. “Head of Tangent security.”

“You know that guy?”

Tucker slowly nodded, picturing the sprawled body inside the abandoned factory.

Gotcha
.

He handed the printout back to Frank. “Time to go to work.”

“What’re we going to do?”

“Go hunting. Find out what’s really happening over at Redstone.”

Frank stood up. “If we’re going hunting, I’m going to need a gun.”

“Are you still sure you want to go all in?”

Frank chewed his lip, plainly giving it full consideration, then said, “I’m all in.”

Tucker clapped him on the shoulder. “Then welcome aboard. I hope you don’t live to regret it.”

“If it’s okay with you, I’m just going to hope to continue
living
. Period.”

Tucker nodded.

Now there’s a smart man . . .

13

October 18, 11:34
P
.
M
. CDT

Lacey’s Spring, Alabama

As midnight approached, Tucker lay sprawled on his stomach in the tall grass of a riverbank. Crickets sang all around him, while frogs chirruped from the Tennessee River behind him. Kane—already outfitted in his K9 Storm tactical gear—crouched at Tucker’s hip.

Together, they waited, watched, and listened.

Fifty yards ahead, a perimeter fence stretched through the woods. It enclosed the remote corner of Redstone Arsenal that segregated The Odisha Group from the main military base. It was like a private gulag, tucked deep into a pine forest. Beyond the fence, a well-lit dirt road circled the small forest that hid the cabins of The Odisha Group. It was patrolled regularly by Tangent security teams in black Suburbans. As they passed, the drivers would pan a spotlight along the razor-wire-topped fencerow.

A burst suddenly came through the headset of Tucker’s portable radio.
“Hey, Jimmy, you there?”

It was Frank, laying extra thick on his Alabama drawl.

Tucker tried his best to imitate him, hoping the radio’s static helped mask his feeble attempt. “You got me. What’s the word?”

“Spotted some eye shine, so Buster’s on the run. Any luck your way?”

Tucker gritted his teeth, not knowing who might be listening to their radio chatter. As a precaution, he and Frank had worked out a code, taking advantage of Frank’s knowledge of raccoon hunting along the Tennessee River. It was a favorite pastime for local hunters, who had developed their own unique jargon for the sport.

Frank’s radioed message meant that he had spotted another of the Suburbans making its way along the perimeter road. Frank was hidden farther to the south, dressed in camouflaged hunting gear like Tucker.

Tucker checked his watch.

The night patrols seemed to be running every fourteen minutes.

Tucker radioed back to Frank to close on his position. “If Buster loses the trail, let’s try our luck farther down the bank.”

“Will do, Jimmy.”

To establish their cover, he and Frank had left Huntsville at dawn yesterday and driven down to Lacey’s Spring, a small town on the far side of the Tennessee River from the military post. They rented a hunting cabin near the river, where they’d spent the better part of the last forty-eight hours lounging in lawn chairs, fishing in the river, or drinking beer from Piggly Wiggly cozies.

Just a couple of good ’ol boys blowing off steam
.

Tucker imagined their presence at the cabin did not go unnoticed by base personnel, so as a precaution, he kept Kane inside, out of sight, fearing the shepherd might be recognized. To mask his own features, he wore a slouch hat and mirrored sunglasses whenever he went out during the day.

Only after he felt confident that their presence here wasn’t considered a threat did he set their mission in motion. Two hours ago, they had floated across the dark river on rubber rafts, choosing a spot out of the direct sight lines of the base. From there, they had split up to spy on the encampment.

With the patrol schedule now worked out, it was time to move forward.

Frank arrived ten minutes later. Together, they waited for the next Suburban to grind along the dirt road, flashing its spotlight along the fencerow. Once the vehicle moved on, Tucker led Frank and Kane through the woods to the fence. He searched to make sure the boundary wasn’t electrified or alarmed.