War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel (27 page)

Tucker called back to Frank. “Think you can disable it?”

Frank leaned his head next to Jane’s shoulder as he inspected it. “Maybe, but I don’t think we should risk it. I wager it’s been tamper-proofed.”

Jane already had the map Tucker had ripped from the trailer wall and studied it. “That means we have a twenty-five-mile electronic leash attached to us. If we go any farther, men in black helicopters will come hunting us.”

Tucker turned to Frank. “How far out were those communication markers that Rex picked up from eavesdropping on Tangent Tower?”

“At least
thirty
miles.”

Jane looked to Tucker for a solution.

He had only one. “That means we’ll have to ditch the Expedition and go the rest of the way on foot.”

Frank didn’t look happy with this option. “If we get caught in the open desert, we’ll be sitting ducks.”

Jane offered a solution. “Then let’s not get caught.”

9:01
P
.
M
.

Karl Webster ignored the bustle of the makeshift command center behind him. He and his crew occupied a set of old concrete bunkers about two miles east of the test site. They had arrived less than forty-eight hours ago and were operating on an accelerated timetable to perform this test run tonight. Pruitt Kellerman had been firm on this schedule, especially after the raid at Redstone.

Beyond the concrete bunker, engineers and ground crew serviced rows of drones parked on the surrounding tarmac, readying the group for the midnight assault.

Nothing must go wrong
.

Inside the bunker, technicians were seated at various terminals along the walls, busy with last-minute finessing of the drones’ monitoring and communication equipment.

Karl, as head of Tangent security, had his own station. He had already cleared operations with the brass at White Sands. A total communication blackout of this immediate area had been initialized. While waiting for the approaching zero hour, Karl had been doing a final review of the various checkpoints surrounding this area. Earlier in the day, this off-limits region had been evacuated of any military personnel, but he was taking no chances.

And it was lucky he was so thorough.

On his monitor was video feed from the Stallion Gate thirty miles to the north. The footage was from an hour ago and showed a power company truck idling at that gate. Karl was well aware of the company’s ongoing survey in that remote corner of the base and would normally have dismissed the vehicle’s presence. The DoD contract limited the power company’s vehicles to a patch of sand well beyond this restricted area.

But his paranoia was running high this night.

So he had studied the video feed more closely. There were two passengers, but their faces were obscured by the reflection of the streetlamp off the windshield. Then the guard on duty had shone his flashlight into the back of the SUV. Karl had caught a glimpse of the employees’ faces. He didn’t recognize the driver, but the other—a woman—turned to say something to the guard. Karl felt a cold chill travel through his bones. He knew that woman, that smile, all too well.

It was Jane Sabatello, the only one to escape his purge of Project 623.

He leaned closer to the image frozen on the screen as questions ran through his mind.
What are you doing here, Janie, especially now? How did you find out about this operation? Why did you foolishly come out of hiding?

He balled a fist. While he might not have any answers, he knew she was the one who had sent that commando and his dog to investigate the disappearance of Sandy Conlon.

Karl squinted—his eyes still sore and puffy from the pepper-spray attack—and studied the shadowy image of the driver.

Was this that same man?

A barked order drew his attention back around. Karl punched the keyboard and closed the video feed as Kellerman’s pit bull came stalking over to him after berating one of the techs for getting in his way. Rafael Lyon was dressed in commando gear with a prominent sidearm holstered at his waist. He carried a helmet under one arm.

“I just got off the phone with your boss,” Lyon said with thick disdain, careful not to mention Kellerman by name in front of the others. “Are we still on schedule?”

Karl nodded. “All hell will break loose at midnight . . . as planned.”

Lyon’s left eye pinched very slightly. His gaze flickered toward Karl’s monitor and back again. It seemed Karl was not the only one whose paranoia was running high.

“And no hiccups with security?” Lyon asked.

“None at all.” Karl kept his face fixed. “And if anything changes, I’ll deal with it personally.”

9:19
P
.
M
.

“
This is as far as we can go,” Tucker announced.

He brought the Expedition to a stop and shut off the engine. He opened his door, allowing in a frigid breeze, perfumed by some night-blooming desert flower. The temperature had dropped precipitously since they’d first climbed into the stolen vehicle.

The change brought back memories of Afghanistan.

Boil during the day, freeze at night—and get shot at the entire time
.

“Let’s get Rex in the air,” Tucker ordered Frank as he climbed out.

They all offloaded. Kane stretched his legs and sniffed around the immediate area, lifting his leg a few times before he was satisfied enough to return to Tucker’s side.

Frank hauled the Wasp drone out of the rear compartment and set about doing an internal systems check, testing Rex’s thrusters and guidance fins. The plan was to use Rex to scout ahead of them, to search the coordinates that the drone had acquired by hacking into Tangent’s communications.

“Is the bird ready to fly?” Jane asked.

Frank wiped his palms on his jeans. “Seems so. But I wish Nora were here. She knows far more about this tech than I do.”

Tucker put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’ll do fine.” Tucker looked up at the cloudless night sky, where the bright sickle of the moon hung amid stars as crisp as ice. “You certainly can’t crash Rex into anything out here.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Frank waved them all back, and a moment later Rex’s engine hummed louder and the craft rose fifteen feet off the ground and hovered. With its matte-black exterior, the drone was already nearly invisible in the dark.

“All set?” Frank asked, staring down at the glowing screen of the control unit.

Tucker didn’t bother answering, knowing his friend was talking to Rex.

Frank ran a fingertip across the pressure-sensitive interface, and the drone shot forward with barely a whisper of its motors. Jane and Tucker joined Frank, flanking him on both sides. Together, they watched the feed from Rex as the drone began its aerial patrol. Most of the screen was devoted to a bird’s-eye view through Rex’s camera, while a row of blue-tinted rectangles flowed with readouts for altitude, speed, compass, battery level, and other flight data.

Frank sent Rex skimming south, slowly bringing the drone up to its top speed of sixty miles an hour. He kept Rex flying low, hugging the terrain as much as possible. Low hills and scrub brush—lit up brightly by the camera’s night-vision capability—swept below the drone’s path.

“You’re doing great,” Tucker said.

“It ain’t me.” Frank lifted his hand away from the drone’s controls. “I just entered the coordinates. Rex is flying on his own under a feature called
contour matching
. And I would swear he’s getting better at it, beginning to anticipate wind shear and changes in the terrain.”

Like he’s learning
.

Tucker watched the drone make its own altitude adjustments, climbing and dipping over the wrinkled landscape of the desert. While it was amazing, it was also a touch frightening.

After another thirty seconds, Rex popped over one last hill and abruptly began to slow.

“He’s approaching the target,” Frank explained and returned his attention to the controls. “I’m activating Rex’s electronic warfare suite. Just in case of trouble.”

Rex continued to close in on the coordinates, skimming low.

“He’s a hundred yards out,” Frank said.

“See anything?” Jane asked.

“Looks like some buildings coming up,” Frank said. “But so far Rex isn’t picking up any transmissions or movement. What do you want me to do?”

“Take Rex in another fifty yards,” Tucker ordered. “But let’s get a higher view.”

Frank followed his instructions, sending Rex sailing upward as the drone approached the coordinates. A cluster of buildings—more than two dozen—became visible, ranging from bungalow homes to a stretch of storefronts that looked straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting, all centered around a town square.

“Can you zoom in?” Tucker asked.

“Hang on.”

A moment later, the view narrowed and spanned one of the rows of homes. Curls of white paint flecked the exteriors, but most of the walls looked sandblasted down to cracked, gray wood.

“You sure these are the coordinates?” Jane asked.

“Yeah, but—” Frank flinched. “Wait. Rex just picked up some electromagnetic radiation. It’s faint, but there’s definitely some electricity flowing down there. Though it seems to be pooled in patches throughout the town.”

“Any idea what it might be?”

“Not a clue. I’ll get Rex circling. See what else he can find.”

As the view swept wider, Tucker spied with the others. Something appeared on the far side of the little town, something that certainly didn’t belong there.

“Is that what I think it is?” Jane asked.

Tucker nudged Frank. “Bring us closer, but be careful.”

The anomaly sat outside the town’s perimeter, parked in the sand. As Rex swept for a closer pass, there was no doubt.

“It’s an army tank,” Frank said.

“But not
our
army,” Jane murmured.

Tucker recognized the foreign design, too. “It’s a Soviet-era tank. A T-55, I think.”

“And judging from its condition, it hasn’t been there for long,” Jane added. “Look. You can see tread marks in the sand where it was driven up here. With all the blowing wind, it shouldn’t be that fresh.”

Tucker estimated it must have been parked out there today.

And that wasn’t all that had been left.

Beyond the tank was spread an array of Soviet-era military hardware: infantry vehicles, artillery pieces, along with trucks of various sizes. They all appeared in immaculate condition, untouched by the harsh sand and sun.

“What now?” Frank asked.

“I think Rex has done all he can,” Tucker answered. “It’s time we go look for ourselves.”

Frank sighed and mumbled under his breath, “I was afraid you’d say that.”

21

October 22, 11:07
P
.
M
. MDT

White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico

After ninety minutes of hiking over the rolling terrain, Tucker’s group neared the derelict town. It lay over the next hill in a shallow bowl of a valley.

Two keen-eyed scouts kept watch on their surroundings: Rex in the air and Kane on the ground. Outfitted in his K9 Storm tactical gear, the shepherd ranged the desert under a tight
MEDIUM
ROAM
SCOUT
order, while the drone hovered a hundred feet above, offering a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding terrain.

So far no one appeared to have noted their trespass, and periodic sweeps by Rex still showed no activity at the town ahead: no transmissions, no heat signatures, no movement. Even the Soviet tank remained dark and quiet.

As the group reached the last hill, Tucker waved for Jane and Frank to hang back. He signaled Kane with a soft whistle. The shepherd bled out of the shadows and glided up to his side. Together, they climbed to the crest of the hill and dropped to their bellies. A panoramic view revealed a wide sandy depression ahead, sheltering the cluster of wooden structures at its center.

Tucker got out his night-vision monocle and studied the town, making sure all remained quiet. After waiting another ten minutes, he motioned the others to come up. As they joined him, a coyote howled in the distance, the lonely note echoing across the dark desert.

Frank sprawled into the sand next to him. “Forget White City . . . should have named this place Spooky City.”

“Amen to that,” Jane replied, crouching next to Kane. “But let’s hope this is the right place.”

Only one way to find out
.

“Stay low and follow me.” Tucker lifted up. “As a precaution, we’ll enter the town on the opposite side from where that tank is parked.”

Frank stared up toward the night sky as he stood. “I’ll set Rex to hovering a thousand feet overhead, to watch our backs in case of trouble.”

And Kane will guard our fronts
.

Tucker pointed to the edge of town and let the shepherd loose. “S
COUT
AHEAD
LOW
.”

Kane raced down the far side of the hill, sweeping around boulders and under bushes. Tucker lost sight of his partner in two breaths, but he monitored the shepherd’s progress on his phone’s screen. As Tucker and the others approached the town, Kane had already reached its outskirts and padded between buildings and across dark porches. Tucker kept an eye on the shepherd’s progress. Kane gave no alerts, and the dog’s relaxed gait suggested no immediate threats.

Trusting Kane’s instincts, Tucker began to have his doubts.

Maybe we’re at the wrong spot
.

Still, he couldn’t shake the knot of apprehension in his belly as his group reached the town itself. As if cued by a Hollywood director, a large tumbleweed bounced across their path and disappeared between a pair of buildings.

“If the ghost of Wyatt Earp shows up,” Frank whispered nervously, “I’m outta here.”

Continuing cautiously through the outlying homes—a few still framed by gap-toothed, weathered picket fences—they reached the sandy square in the town’s center. The dilapidated facades of the surrounding structures appeared to be various faux businesses: a bakery, a clothing shop, even a general store. The last was fronted by a rickety porch with a bleached wooden sign dangling from the eaves. Faded letters read: