“I already have a handle on the situation.” Karl Webster kept his voice low and calm. “I’m only waiting on a call that should resolve this matter to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“And I’m here to ensure that happens.”
The two men glared at each other, a storm building between them. Before it could break, Karl’s phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out and answered it. He listened to the caller for several minutes, asked two questions, and got the answers he needed.
Lyon never took his gaze off him.
Karl smiled back coldly. “I know how to find our target.” He glanced over to the tarp-shrouded Shrike. “And how to deal with him.”
8
October 13, 7:20 P.M. CDT
Huntsville, Alabama
After a couple more drinks with Frank Ballenger at the bar, Tucker headed back to his motel. It had rained while he had been chatting with Frank, leaving the night air muggy and smelling of warm asphalt. Kane sat on the passenger seat, his muzzle resting on the doorframe of the open window.
Tucker sped west away from the traffic of the city, then turned south along the edge of the massive swamp that backed up to his motel. His headlights swept over cypress branches gauzed in Spanish moss. Unseen insects ticked against his windshield.
Alone on the road, he glanced out the side window and spotted the dark silhouette of the abandoned concrete factory in the middle of the swamp. He remembered the story of the levee break along the Tennessee River and tried to picture the subsequent flooding that had turned the industrial field into this vast plain of swamps and marshes. From the roadway, he could make out catwalks and conveyor belts that still connected the various buildings and silos, with metal buckets still dangling.
Suddenly the SUV’s radio blared to life, startling him, making him swerve slightly on the lonely road “. . . Evening, folks, you’re listenin’ to WTKI, Huntsville talk radio . . .”
Scowling, Tucker turned off the radio. As he did so, the engine sputtered, the dashboard lights flickered, and the vehicle began to slow.
Uh-oh . . .
Kane’s head pivoted toward him. The shepherd let out a whine of complaint.
“Hey, it’s not me.”
The radio came on again, then went silent. The windshield wipers began to flap.
What the hell . . .
Tucker steered the SUV onto the shoulder—and just in time. With a double cough, the engine died.
He sighed and patted Kane’s flank. “Buddy, it’s finally happened. We’re being abducted by aliens.”
Figuring the more likely cause was a loose battery connection, Tucker reached down and popped the hood latch. He climbed out with Kane and crossed to the front of the SUV. Under the glow of the service light, he studied the engine for a moment, then began checking wires and connections.
Everything seemed okay.
From the swamp, a muffled buzzing sound arose, faint at first, then slowly increasing in pitch.
Kane stalked over to a neighboring grass berm that overlooked the swamp.
Tucker joined him.
A loud thunk drew their attention back to the dead Explorer on the side of the road. Something had struck the SUV’s quarter panel. Steam burst from the engine.
Recognizing that particular sound, Tucker ducked and drew Kane closer.
Someone was shooting at them.
Two more bullets slammed into the truck. The windshield shattered. With an explosive hiss, one of the rear tires burst. Now the rounds were coming faster, one every couple of seconds, all centered on the SUV.
Reacting quickly, Tucker signaled Kane to follow—then he turned, sat on his butt, and slid down the grassy embankment and into the swamp.
Kane obeys the command and leaps high.
As he flies, his nose takes in strange scents: mold and moss, rot and algae. He hears the creak of branches, the whine of bats, and the cries of distant birds—then he strikes the cold water and plunges deep, wiping all his senses clean. Water muffles his ears, blinds him, too.
As his heart pounds, his paws paddle for purchase, but find only more water. Then claws strafe along the bottom. He scrabbles, his paws sinking into mud—then his pads brush against something solid. Tree roots. He pushes off them until his nose breaks the surface, returning the world, first in scents, then in sounds.
He thrashes, his eyes searching, his ears tucked back in wariness and fear.
Something grabs his nape, then his collar.
He turns to instinctively snap, but his nose swells with the scent of familiar breath as he’s drawn close.
“Easy, easy there, buddy . . . I gotcha.”
Gripping Kane’s nylon collar, Tucker scissor-kicked deeper into the swamp and sheltered behind the bole of a large cypress tree. He kept the trunk between him and the road. He took a moment to massage Kane’s neck, to further reassure the dog.
“Good boy,” he whispered.
Kane’s coat was plastered with moss. Tucker fared little better, his face and arms coated in slime. He draped more moss over the dog’s shoulders.
Good camouflage . . . and we might need it.
Tucker leaned against the trunk and spied toward the road and their abandoned Explorer. What the hell had just happened? No doubt they had been ambushed—but how? Had someone tampered with the vehicle while he was talking with Frank inside the bar? Though this seemed the most likely explanation, it didn’t account for the timing.
And what about that buzzing?
As if summoned by this thought, the sound returned. Kane tensed, and his head swiveled to the right, then slowly tracked the target as it crossed back toward the embankment. It whispered over the dark treetops and came to sweep over the road. After another moment, the buzzing rose steeply upward, fading away and vanishing into the darkness.
Unbidden, one of Sandy’s keywords popped into Tucker’s head.
Link 16.
He swore under his breath as he now suspected the significance behind that reference. From his earlier Google search, he had learned Link 16 was a military tactical data exchange, mostly used to communicate with aircraft, including UAVs—unmanned aerial vehicles—or drones. Such vehicles were used more and more by all branches of the military, both for surveillance and for aerial attacks. They ranged in size from the massive Global Hawks to the smaller Ravens.
But what’s hunting us?
He had no way of knowing, but it was clearly a hunter/killer version. He stared up past the black treetops. He knew drones could see not only in the dark but through clouds, dust, and smoke. Their vision was sharp enough to read a license plate from two miles up.
As he searched the patches of sky, Tucker’s hairs stood on end. He and Kane had been hunted by helicopters in the past, most recently in Siberia, but this was much worse—like treading water at night with a shark circling beneath you.
Only this time the threat came from above.
With his eyes now adjusted to the darkness, he surveyed his surroundings. Even with the moonlight filtering through the canopy, he saw nothing but black water and jumbles of cypress trees. He knew, with a hunter in the sky, that returning to the road was not an option. Glancing over his shoulder, he pictured the drowned concrete factory far off into the swamp. It could offer better shelter.
But what then?
From his earlier canvass of the Huntsville area, he knew about a half mile past the factory were the grounds of a country club. It meant a lot of open water to cross, with an unknown number of enemies in the sky and maybe on foot.
Still, it was safer than the open road.
Tucker groped around until he found a clump of moss. He mashed it through his hair and draped strands over his shoulders like a dank shroud.
Kane studied his new look with his head cocked to one side.
Tucker leaned closer and whispered, “Boo.”
The shepherd licked his face.
“Yeah, nothing scares you.”
Tucker turned and headed away from the road
. As he sidestroked into the deeper water, Kane paddled alongside him, the dog’s snout just above the surface. Tucker chose a path that hugged root mounds and fallen trees. Still, after only thirty yards, he felt a sting at the edge of his right ear—and a few feet ahead of him something splashed into the water.
Goddamn it . . .
He grabbed Kane’s collar, hugged the dog close, and whispered in his ear. “HOLD YOUR BREATH.”
Tucker ducked with Kane beneath the surface. He kicked and dug with one arm, swimming hard toward a half-submerged log. He surfaced with Kane beneath it, keeping both of them pressed against the curve of bark. Somewhat sheltered from above, Tucker watched and listened.
So far, no more bullets came.
He strove to pick out any telltale buzzing. But as his breath heaved and his heart pounded in his ears, he couldn’t be sure.
Closer at hand, an owl hooted three times. A moment later, the heavy flapping of wings passed overhead, followed by a feeble screech as the hunter found its dinner.
Let’s hope that’s the only successful hunter this night.
Tucker reached up, touched the edge of his ear. He winced at the tiny gouge in his flesh. But he had no reason to complain. Another inch to the left, and the round would have drilled through his skull.
Knowing they had to keep moving, Tucker floated the log slowly through the water. He tried his best to stay hidden from the drone, but eventually the log snagged into a tangle of roots, forcing them to continue on a labyrinthine path that kept them pressed against logs, tree trunks, and root mounds. Whenever they reached a stretch of open water, they continued underwater, only surfacing long enough to snatch a breath.
Then after what seemed like hours, Tucker’s toes touched solid ground. After a few more steps, the mud underfoot turned to something even firmer. He reached down and scooped up a fistful of rough pebbles.
Gravel.
They had reached the edge of the factory complex. The jumble of buildings, silos, and moss-shrouded catwalks rose fifty yards away.
With the goal in sight, Tucker continued more slowly. As the embankment sloped upward, he soon found himself having to crawl in order to keep only his moss-covered head above the water’s surface. Finally, he shimmied out of the shallows and up a gravel shore. With Kane pressed to his side, he chose a path through a stand of tall reeds to keep them hidden.
But it wasn’t enough.
Without any warning, a burst of rounds shredded through the reeds and pelted into the gravel.
Tucker bunched his legs and shouted to Kane, pointing toward the ruins of the factory.
“RUN AND HIDE!”
Kane wants to ignore the order, to keep the pack together. But he trusts his partner and obeys.
He races low to the ground, his ears high, his tail straight back. He hears gunfire roaring in short spats. He knows guns, knows the damage they can cause. He swerves through bushes, around piles of old equipment, under the rusted hulk of a massive vehicle with flattened tires.
Rounds ping off metal and ricochet off gravel with bright sparks in the night.
By now, he has left the other far behind him. Kane’s blood races with the urge to turn and return to his side, but he sticks to the path assigned him. He clears the vehicle’s bulk and crosses the last distance toward a black doorway in the nearest building.
Behind him, gunfire erupts—but it no longer chases him.
With no choice but to obey his last order, Kane flies over the threshold and into the waiting darkness.
As soon as Kane had leapt from his side, Tucker had dodged away in the other direction. By splitting up, he had hoped to divide the drone’s attention as its operator tried to decide which target to pursue.
It seemed to work initially. The gunfire had momentarily ceased as he and Kane took off. That lapse had allowed Kane to get a head start in his flight toward the factory. Still, gunfire rained down from above soon thereafter. First toward Kane’s path—then the drone’s deadly attention returned to Tucker.
But Tucker had used the distraction to reach a small thicket of trees. Rounds tore through the canopy and pelted into the ground. Tucker dodged past trunks as shards of tree bark peppered his face.
Don’t look back . . .
With his heart pounding and his thighs burning, he focused on the goal ahead: a tall silo that speared into the night sky.
Slipping and sliding, Tucker dodged from tree to tree, hoping to present less of a target.
Crack!
A branch above Tucker’s head snapped.
Crack!
Something tugged at his pant leg, but he ignored it and kept running and weaving. Moonlight brightened ahead, reflecting off water, warning that he had reached the end of the copse of trees.
He didn’t slow.
He burst out of the tree line and dove low across what appeared to be a shallow lake, likely a former industrial pond for the factory. He slid beneath the surface as a scatter of rounds spat around him, but then the fusillade suddenly stopped.
Had the drone run out of ammunition?
With no way of knowing, he surfaced briefly, listening for any telltale buzzing, but he heard nothing. He pictured the drone banking away, readying to come back around again for another run. Confirming this conjecture, the nattering whine returned as he swam, growing louder by the second.
He searched for the enemy.
There!
Silhouetted against the moonlit sky, he spotted a fleeting, elongated shadow as it circled toward his position. It appeared to be a fixed-wing drone, but there was something off about it. The drone wasn’t quite a shadow, more like a fuzzy, mottled shape that seemed to blend into the stars.
Some kind of stealth material, he realized.
Tucker swam faster, aiming for a dark, diagonal line that rose from the pond’s far bank. It was an old rubber conveyor belt that climbed toward a door high up the neighboring silo. He had no better option, especially with the whine of the drone almost upon him again.
Tucker dove back underwater, praying the pond’s reflective surface would hide him from the hunter in the sky. He kicked and paddled his way to the submerged end of the conveyor and ducked underneath it; only then did he risk coming up for air.
He glanced over his shoulder, studying the sloping belt and the metal buckets that dangled from beneath it. His plan had been to climb up to that silo door, keeping to the underside of the conveyor. The scheme had seemed far better from a distance.
But up close . . .
Above his head, the scaffolding dripped with Spanish moss. Wrist-sized vines snaked around the crossbeams and angle irons. What little steel Tucker could see was scabrous with rust. Even the rubber belt was worn thin with multiple holes.
He doubted the structure would hold his weight—and certainly not for long.
Any further reservations came to an abrupt halt as a fresh spatter of rounds tore into the conveyor, pinging off the scaffolding and ripping through the belt.
The drone must have spotted him after all.
Tucker lunged up, grabbed a crossbeam, and began to climb along the bottom of the conveyor belt, doing his best to use the large metal buckets as shields. If the drone didn’t kill him, the ascent might. He lost his footing several times as pieces of the conveyor’s support scaffolding gave way under his weight.
Still, he kept going.
Another round punched through the belt and sparked off a crossbeam beside Tucker’s hand.
He cursed brightly—but then the barrage abruptly stopped.
The hunter must be circling around again.
He started counting in his head. When he reached thirty seconds, the buzz of the drone’s engine returned. It seemed there was roughly half a minute from one pass to the next. Knowing this, he took shelter beneath one of the buckets as the drone swept over, raining rounds all around. The conveyor’s scaffolding shook and shimmied. More sections came crashing down.
Tucker could swear that the entire structure had begun
to list to one side.
Not good.
Then the world went silent as the drone banked away for the next pass.
Counting down in his head, Tucker moved quickly. He had only this one chance. He pulled himself around the scaffolding and onto the top side of the belt. He stood up, teetering on the decomposing rubber. The belt swayed under his weight—or maybe it was the scaffolding, as the structure groaned beneath him.
Either way, he had only one path open to him. He headed up the conveyor’s slope—at first cautiously, then with more urgency as the distant buzzing rose in volume.
He ran the countdown in his head.
Another fifteen seconds . . . plenty of time, he promised himself. Only another thirty yards to go.
He glanced over his shoulder.
A mistake.
His left foot plunged through the rubber, and he belly slammed onto the belt. He jerked his leg, but his boot was stuck in a tangle of vines below.
No, no, no—
He yanked harder and managed to pull his foot out of the boot. With his limb free now, he rolled and pushed back to his feet. Whether from his struggling or from the simple ravages of time, the entire conveyor’s structure began to give way, slowly toppling sideways.
Tucker sprinted.
The pitch of the drone increased, seeming to come from everywhere.
Out of time!
Six yards ahead, the end was in sight. The dark opening in the silo loomed, a black hole that led to who knows what? He didn’t care. It was either death by bullet or death by falling.
A bullet punched through the belt behind him.
Three yards to go.
Tucker flung himself headlong as the scaffolding collapsed beneath him. He dove through the opening—and found nothing but open air on the other side.
With a gasp of defeat, he plummeted into the dark.
9
October 13, 9:34 P.M. CDT
War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel Page 8