“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.
As he did so, Frank breathed heavily behind him, glancing all around.
“Take it easy, Frank,” Tucker whispered.
“I’m fine.” His words came out like a croak.
Tucker glanced back. He had spent the past two days refreshing Frank’s memory on the finer points of soldiering, but being told something wasn’t the same as experiencing it firsthand.
“I’m okay,” Frank assured him, and hiked his pack higher on his shoulder. “I got this.”
Tucker removed a pair of wire cutters and started snipping a hole in the fence.
“Lights!” Frank hissed, grabbing his shoulder and knocking the wire cutters out of his grip.
Tucker followed Frank’s pointed arm toward a glow rising from the south, coming up the road. To cover up their work, Tucker took out some camouflaged duct tape and resealed the few snips in the hurricane fencing. He then backed to the woods and waved everyone flat.
As the headlights drew closer, Tucker realized he had left the pair of wire cutters at the base of the fence. He couldn’t risk them being spotted.
He rolled to Kane and pointed to the cutters. “RETRIEVE.”
The dog immediately bolted from hiding and ran low through the grass. Kane snatched the wire cutters in his teeth, then smoothly circled back, flowing like a dark shadow. The shepherd dropped next to him just as the Suburban’s tires hissed along the dirt road, drawing even with their hiding place.
The vehicle’s spotlight swept across the fence, casting slivers of light through the grass around Tucker, Kane, and Frank.
“Not a muscle,” Tucker whispered.
The Suburban passed them and kept going, its spotlight skimming ahead.
Tucker caught a glimpse of the vehicle’s interior through the window. In the glow of the dashboard, he spotted only the driver. He waited until the Suburban rounded the next bend, its taillights fading into the trees.
Frank let out a long breath. “Did we trigger something by cutting the fence? I’ve read about these new tamper-resistant fiber-optic wires that the military is building into their fences.”
“If that were true here, there would’ve been more than the one patrol closing in on us. No, the explanation is something much simpler. We assumed the patrols ran like clockwork, but the smarter play from a security standpoint is to vary the schedule every now and again. To catch any trespassers off guard.”
“Like they almost did us.”
“All the better to keep us on our toes.”
“If you say so.”
Tucker returned to working on the fence, snipping faster, opening a two-foot-square hole through the barrier. Once done, he signaled Kane to take point, sending the shepherd through first. Kane dashed across the border and vanished into the woods on the far side of the perimeter road.
Frank followed next, then Tucker, who hung back to replace the section of cut fence and resecure it with camouflage duct tape. As Tucker joined Frank at the forest’s edge, Frank searched around.
“Where’s Kane?”
Tucker pointed a few yards down the road. “Right there.”
Kane lay flat in the grass; his mottled coat and similarly camouflaged tactical vest had rendered him a loglike lump on the ground.
Frank shook his head. “Kane’s done this a few times, huh?”
“More than a few times.”
“Makes me feel like a wet-behind-the-ears newbie.” Frank stared into the dark forest. “How far to the compound, do you think
?”
“A quarter mile. But we’re not going that way.”
“What do you mean?”
Tucker checked his watch, dropped his pack, and began preparing.
“Why walk when we can drive?”
11:58 P.M.
“I got lights in the distance,” Frank said. “Heading this way.”
Right on time.
Tucker was down on one knee next to Kane, double-checking all of the shepherd’s gear, making sure the earpiece was situated correctly, then aligning the vest’s collar-mounted night-vision camera. Kane already sensed it was time to go to work, staring at Tucker with eager brown eyes.
But first there was one final bit of preparation.
Tucker brought his face close to Kane’s. “Who’s my buddy?”
A warm tongue lapped his nose.
“That’s right. You are.” Tucker pointed into the depths of the woods and gave a string of orders. “COVERT SCOUT. STOP AT STRUCTURE. STAY IN COVER. GO.”
Kane twisted to the side and sailed away, his paws gliding silently over the pine needles as he vanished through the trees.
Frank sidled next to Tucker. “He understood all that?”
“And more.”
Tucker had sent Kane in advance, ordering the shepherd to follow through the woods to the Odisha camp, to be Tucker’s eyes and ears on the ground. In the meantime, he had his own duty.
He crossed back to the edge of the road as the headlights of the next patrol rounded the far curve and trundled toward them. Its spotlight swept along the fencerow, oblivious to the two men hidden in the woods nearby.
Tucker waited for it to pass, then rolled low and swung a thick branch against the rear quarter panel of the SUV. The dull bang reverberated up his arm as he fell behind the Suburban’s bumper and crouched out of sight. The brake lights flared as the vehicle ground to a halt.
Spying under the vehicle, Tucker watched the driver’s door pop open. A pair of booted feet dropped into the dirt, accompanied by a soft curse. The driver must have believed he struck something. There were deer throughout these woods.
As the man circled toward the rear, Tucker lifted his new weapon. A day earlier he had purchased the unique handgun. It was a Piexon JPX Jet Protector, engineered to fire wads of concentrated pepper spray. Tucker had been at the receiving end of this weapon in the past. The impact had felled him to his knees and left him incapacitated for twenty minutes.
War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel Page 13