War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel

by James Rollins

“I thought so, too.” Jane let that sink in for a moment.

  “If you had to guess,” he asked, “what do you think happened?”

  “Someone took her.”

  Tucker sat straighter, reacting to the certainty in her voice. “What makes you say that?”

  “After speaking to Sandy’s mom, I started making some discreet inquiries, checking on friends of friends. Both hers and mine. I hoped someone else knew something. Instead, I discovered two more of our mutual colleagues have fallen off the face of the earth. But far more disturbing, four others were dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “All in the past month. One of a carbon monoxide leak in his house, another from a heart attack, and two others died in car accidents.”

  Too many for a coincidence.

  “What’s the common denominator among all of you?” he asked. “Did you work on something together? Were you all stationed somewhere?”

  Jane looked into his eyes and said nothing, which was an answer in itself. Tucker knew her well enough to know she was holding something back, but he decided not to push it, remembering her earlier words: the less you know, the better.

  “Why come to me?” Tucker asked.

  She looked down at her hands. “At this point, I don’t know whom to trust, but I trust you more than anyone else in the world. And you’re . . . you’re . . .” Her gaze shifted back to him. “Resourceful. And someone outside of all of this.”

  “Someone no one would suspect of helping you,” he mumbled.

  “And a new set of eyes. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how good you are at looking past appearances to see the truth. I need that. I need you.”

  He stared at her, knowing there were depths to her last words that were too dangerous to plumb at the moment. If it had been anyone else, he would have slammed the door behind them and made sure he erased his trail from here. Instead, he leaned over and gripped her fingers, feeling the slight tremble in her hand.

  “You’ve got me . . . and Kane.”

  She smiled up at him, stirring those depths. “Together again.”

  3

  October 11, 7:22 A.M. EDT

  Smith Island, Maryland

  Pruitt Kellerman stood before the panoramic windows of his penthouse office. The view overlooked the expanse of Chesapeake Bay, but if he turned slightly, the view extended to the skyline of Washington, DC.

  At this early hour, morning fog still shrouded the country’s capital. It softened the city’s marble-hard edges, erasing its monuments and domes. He imagined the mist eroding DC down to its shadowy heart, exposing the cancerous flow of ambitions that truly fueled the city, aspirations both petty and grand.

  He smiled at his own reflection that overlay the distant capital, knowing he was the master of all he surveyed.

  In a little over two decades, he had taken that city’s dreams of power, its hopes and fears, and turned them into hard cash. Horizon Media Corp had become the dominant outlet for all those crying for attention, those weeping for redemption, those clawing for the top. His media empire controlled countless means of communication: television, radio, print, online. Over the years, he had learned how easy it was to control that flow of information. It was as simple as strangling some channels, while opening others more freely.

  What few truly understood was that the old axiom information is power no longer held water. The true engine of power today was the framing and delivery of that information. In this era of sound bites and short attention spans, perception was everything, and Pruitt was a master at creating it, earning him the keys to that shining castle on the hill.

  There wasn’t a politician or a government servant beyond his reach. An election was coming up and already figures on both sides of the aisle were coming to him, hat in hand, recognizing who truly controlled their ambitions.

  To maintain some distance, he had built the headquarters of Horizon Media on an island in Chesapeake Bay. Smith Island rested between Maryland and Virginia, and while it was mostly a national wildlife refuge, he had used his power to bend a recalcitrant zoning board to his will. He had picked one of the outer islands, the one closest to the coast, a sliver of eroding salt marsh that he expanded by dredging and filling, hiring a crew out of Hong Kong to fortify the foundations. He even had a private bridge built, along with employing a fleet of hydrofoils to ferry visitors back and forth.

  A knock at the door drew his attention around. He checked his reflection, as he always did.

  In his midfifties, he remained straight-backed and broad shouldered. He kept his head shaved, both to intimidate and as a matter of vanity, hiding a hairline that steadily receded. To further mask any signs of aging, he had begun to take injections of human growth hormone, a supposed fountain of youth. He also kept his body lean. Many had come to believe he was decades younger than his true age.

  He straightened his silk tie.

  Perception is everything.

  The door opened behind him without his bidding. Such an action would have normally irked him, except only one person dared such an intrusion into his inner sanctum. He felt his stance relaxing as he turned, a smile coming to his lips.

  “Laura,” he said, greeting the young woman dressed in a prim navy business suit. “What are you doing here so early?”

  She returned his smile just as warmly and waved to the hazy morning. “Like father, like daughter.”

  God, I hope not.

  She crossed toward his desk, a folder tucked under one elbow. “I thought I should get a jump on the day.”

  He nodded with a long sigh and motioned to one of the chairs. His office was a masterpiece of Swedish modern architecture, with light wood furniture, brushed stainless accents, and minimal decoration. What dominated the room was the suite of giant ultrahigh-definition flat-screens that covered the wall behind a conference table. They silently displayed the channels he owned, showing talking-head anchors, while news stories scrolled along the bottom edges.

  His daughter settled into the chair, brushing back a fall of auburn curls. Freckles dotted her cheeks. Few would consider her beautiful by today’s unyielding standards, but over the years, Laura always managed to let her intelligence and charm win over a slew of suitors.

  “Before today’s news cycle kicks into full swing,” she started, “I wanted to go over the message that legal has prepared in regards to this wiretapping business.”

  As director of communications, Laura managed the press, for both Horizon-owned outlets and independent alike. This latest case—this latest nuisance—concerned the accusation that Horizon Media had bugged the phones of the Washington Post.

  “The Post has no proof,” he groused, dropping heavily into his own leather chair. “Just word our response however you think best. I trust you. But stress the point that I had no prior knowledge of any such supposed activity. And if there’s evidence to the contrary, we’ll be happy to respond further.”

  “Done.” Laura crossed an item off the list in the notebook on her lap. “So let’s talk about the Athens trip on Friday. Somehow AP got wind of it.”

  “Of course they did.”

  Over the years, Pruitt had found it advantageous to allow a reporter to ferret out a nugget of information about Horizon now and again. It distracted attention from what he truly wanted to keep hidden.

  Such was the case with this Athens trip.

  “Just tell them the truth,” he said.

  She glanced up from her notebook, cocking an eyebrow with a small grin. “The truth? Since when are we in the business of disseminating the truth?”

  He gave her a scolding look. “I thought I was the only cynic in the room.”

  “I learn from the master,” she said, returning to her notes.

  He sighed, wishing that weren’t true. After Laura had graduated from Harvard Business, he had done everything possible to nudge her away from working at Horizon. But in a world filled with vacuous daughters of wealth who spent their days drinking Frappuccinos and their evenings fla
shing their undergarments at paparazzi, he’d gotten one who wanted to work hard for success and didn’t have a pretentious bone in her body. Still, since bringing her onboard five years ago, he had done his best to insulate her from the darker side of Horizon Media’s enterprises, especially his plans for the next great leap forward for the business.

  She read from her notes. “In regards to the Athens trip, we’re saying that it’s a part of Horizon’s ongoing efforts to modernize and consolidate the Greek telecom companies. We’re also stressing that both Horizon and the Greek government believe in a free-market system, one of openness and transparency.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  Pruitt was only too aware this statement would cause an uproar among the antitrust zealots in this country and in the EU, but as it stood, most of Greece’s telecom industry was already headed toward naked monopolization. Someone had to take the reins.

  Might as well be Horizon.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Yes, one more item on the agenda.” He stood up, crossed around the desk, and took her hand. “You’re everything to me, you know that, Laura, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “Of course. I love you, too.”

  “I’m worried that you don’t take enough time for yourself. Rumor has it you’re here ninety hours a week.”

  “Dad, that’s no different than a lot of people here.”

  “You’re not people. You’re my daughter.”

  “And I love my job. I can handle myself.”

  “Of course you can, but it’s a father’s prerogative to worry. Besides, with your mother—”

  “I know.” Her mother had died of ovarian cancer when Laura was fifteen. It had broken both their hearts, and in the mending, the two of them had become even closer. She squeezed his fingers. “You’ve done a great job, Dad. I’m a well-adjusted, average thirty-something.”

  “You’re anything but average, Laura.”

  She patted his hand in thanks, stood up, and smoothed her pencil skirt. “I should get going. I saw your bulldog waiting outside. He had that steely eyed stare that didn’t look like good news.”

  That would be Raphael Lyon, the head of his personal security team.

  Before she turned away, he wagged a finger at her. “Once this wiretapping nonsense is put to bed, you’re to take a vacation. That’s an order from your CEO.”

  Laura gave him a salute. “Yes, sir.”

  As she exited, Lyon entered in her place, striding stiffly forward into his office. The bulldog analogy was not unwarranted. The man was squat and heavily muscled. His hands were huge and armored with calluses. His face was permanently tanned from years in the desert. Every movement as he crossed to the desk screamed ex-military.

  Rafael Lyon was formerly with the French Special Forces—Brigade des Forces Specials Terre. Six years ago, he had been facing capital war crimes charges for actions in Chad. At the time, Pruitt had found it advantageous to intervene on Rafael’s behalf, mostly because Horizon-run newspapers had been implicated in riling up opposition forces in that country, stoking the fuels that ignited the country into a civil war. Still, when Pruitt spared Lyon from a long prison sentence, the man had become his most loyal asset, one who was not above getting his hands dirty, even bloody.

  Pruitt knew better than to exchange small talk with the man. “So where do we stand with Garrison?”

  Senator Melvin Garrison chaired the Committee on Energy and Natural Resources, which was currently studying a bill that would allow American defense manufacturers to use imported rare-earth elements in their products. Through a series of agents, Pruitt had been encouraging Garrison to ensure the bill never got out of committee.

  Lyon shook his head. “He’s not budging.”

  Pruitt smiled ruefully. “Is that so? Tell me about him.”

  “No vices or skeletons that I could find. Divorced, never remarried.”

  “Children?”

  “A son and daughter. She’s at Harvard premed. The boy is spending the summer backpacking across Europe. He’s currently in. . . .” Lyon took a notebook from his pocket and flipped a few pages. “In Rome.”

  “Do you have anyone out there?”

  Lyon thought for a moment, clearly knowing what was being asked of him. “I do.” His gaze hardened on Pruitt. “How bad do you want him hurt?”

  “No permanent damage, but enough that Garrison doesn’t mistake the message. Let me know when it’s done, and I’ll call the good senator with my sympathies.”

  Lyon nodded.

  “Good. Now where are we with the last of our wayward geniuses?”

  “Snyder and his wife went off the road outside of Asheville. Faulty brake line. Not so original, but effective.”

  “And the last two?”

  “We’re closing in on one of them as we speak. The other—Sabatello—fell off the grid for the moment. We’re working other leads. We’ll find her.”

  Pruitt frowned. He had read the dossier on Jane Sabatello. “Given her background, that might be challenging.”

  “We’ll find her,” Lyon repeated. “She vanished with her son. Should make tracking her easier.”

  “Make sure you don’t fail.”

  “For these last two, I assume you will want the same protocol as before?”

  Pruitt nodded. “Their deaths must look accidental.”

  The truth must never get out.

  4

  October 12, 7:33 P.M. CDT

  Huntsville, Alabama

  Welcome to Rocket City . . .

  Less than a day after parting ways with Jane in Montana, Tucker found himself on the opposite side of the country, cruising in a rental Ford Explorer through the wooded outskirts of Huntsville, Alabama. The place had earned its nickname, Rocket City, due to its proximity to the neighboring Redstone facility, home to both the military’s missile program and NASA’s space flight center.

  Kane sat up front with him, his head out the window, taking in the scents of the surrounding Tennessee River valley. After being cooped up in a crate for the cross-country flight, his partner clearly appreciated the wind whipping through his fur, his nostrils drawing in the world.

  Tucker reached over and patted the dog’s flank.

  Wish I could learn to live in the moment like you.

  Instead, a nagging worry had formed a knot behind his eyes. He had hated to leave Jane behind at the motel, but she had insisted he go on ahead, wanting to get Nathan somewhere safe before rejoining him. Besides, Jane was too well known in this area. No one here knew his face. For now, he would have to take the lead alone.

  Still, he had promised Jane that he would keep her abreast of his investigation. To that end, she had given him two telephone numbers that she called safe. Leave a message on the first number—something anonymous about the birth of a baby or a family reunion or something, she’d instructed him, then wait ten minutes and call the second number.

  Though she had put on a brave face as he left for the airport, Tucker knew she was more frightened than he’d ever seen her.

  Up ahead, a sign glowed alongside the interstate, half buried at the edge of a swampy woodland: FALLS VALLEY MOTEL.

  “Almost home,” he warned Kane.

  He had chosen this place due to its remote location at the far western edge of Huntsville. Off to the left, the decaying remnants of an old concrete factory sat out in the swamps. Back in 1962, a levy had broken in a bend of the storm-swollen Tennessee River and flooded the shallow valley in which the factory sat. Rather than try to reclaim the already-abandoned factory, the state decided to make the best of a bad situation. Like the hulk of a sunken ship that becomes a reef, the factory had become the heart of a flourishing new ecosystem.

  But it wasn’t just the colorful seclusion of the motel that drew Tucker to rent a room here. Gate #7 of the Redstone Arsenal lay only two miles farther down the road. Whether this would make any tangible difference to his investigation, Tucker didn’t know, but having the post with
in eyeshot would help him focus.

  Reaching the motel, he pulled into the parking lot. The facility was made up of individual cabins spread through the neighboring forest. He checked in, asked for the most remote spot, and then drove to the far end of the lot to his room. Once inside, he found flowered wallpaper and an avocado bedspread straight from the 1970s, but everything was clean and smelled faintly of Lysol.

  As he unpacked, Kane did a full inspection of the room. After seeming to find it passable, he plopped down on the queen bed, but not without a long, disappointed sigh.

  “Yeah, not exactly the Ritz, is it?”

  Tucker crossed and pulled open the drapes at the back of the cabin. The window looked east toward Redstone. Above the tree line, he could make out two hills—Weeden and Madkin Mountains—that rose from the forty thousand acres that made up the massive facility, over half of which were test grounds for missiles, rockets, and space vehicles. He had read that there were over two hundred miles of roads, and tens of thousands of square feet of buildings.

  Redstone Arsenal was a city unto itself.

  And somewhere in all that, Sandy Conlon had worked, perhaps on a project that had something to do with her disappearance.

  But what?

  There was only one way to find out. Though tired from all of the travel, Tucker was also jacked up by the prospect of the challenge ahead. And he suspected he wasn’t the only one.

  Kane watched him from atop the comforter, those dark eyes studying him as if anticipating what he would say next.

  He smiled at his partner, which earned him a tail thump. “How about it, Kane. Ready to go to work?”

  Kane bounded off the bed and headed to the door, his tail flagging high.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Before departing, he removed Kane’s uniform from his duffel. The K9 Storm tactical vest was mottled to match the shepherd’s black and tan fur. Not only was it waterproof, but it was also Kevlar reinforced. He checked the pinpoint night-vision camera folded next to his collar and its wireless transmitter. The equipment gave Tucker a two-way streaming visual and audio feed of the shepherd’s surroundings. He could also communicate to Kane via a small custom-fitted earpiece.