War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel

by James Rollins

  Kellerman’s chief counsel leaned and whispered in his ear, but the CEO gave an annoyed wave of his hand. “What witness, Senator? What activities?”

  Mason shifted forward, looking over the rims of his eyeglasses. “Mr. Kellerman, before the committee calls this witness, is there any statement you’d like to make? This is your last opportunity.”

  The chief counsel began to lean toward Kellerman, only to be held off. Kellerman’s next words were meant for his lawyer, but his microphone picked them up. “They’re bluffing. There’s no witness. This is all a show.”

  Tucker smiled.

  It was a safe gamble—and came very close to being the truth.

  Mason signaled a uniformed guard stationed at a set of double doors to the left of the senators’ raised dais. The doors were opened, and the witness entered.

  Frank stepped into the chamber, smartly outfitted in his army dress uniform. He limped on a leg with a shoe splint strapped to his foot. After Tucker and company had vacated Skaxis Mining and rode wildly down to Kamena Gora, they had discovered that Frank’s efforts at stalling and taking out the one tank had saved a majority of the hamlet’s villagers. His only injury was a twisted ankle—and not from the fighting or barrage, but from slipping on a patch of ice the next day as the Sigma team, which Ruth had sent into Serbia, evacuated Tucker’s group from the region.

  “Master Sergeant Frank Ballenger,” Mason introduced, then waved the man to a seat. “Thank you for your help and cooperation.”

  With a pinched brow, Kellerman studied Frank, plainly wondering who this newcomer was. While Kellerman likely knew Tucker was working with Jane and had support from Nora, Frank was apparently still an unknown commodity to the CEO.

  Tucker savored the flicker of worry in Kellerman’s eyes.

  Here is one bastard who does not like surprises.

  And Kellerman was about to get a huge one—because Frank was not the witness.

  Frank withdrew a familiar CUCS unit from inside his jacket. He hunched over it and manipulated its controls. A moment later, a low humming buzz reached the hushed chamber. A small drone flew slowly through the still open doors, circled around the senators’ dais, and came to a hover in the middle of the chamber.

  “Say hello to Rex,” Mason said.

  Suddenly every cell phone in the room began ringing, even those in silent mode. Tucker’s satellite phone was no exception. He removed it and saw someone—or something—had commandeered it. Upon the screen, video footage showed tanks firing upon a mountainside hamlet. Across the room, the dark monitors flickered to life, showing other images: a child’s body on the street, the guttered and smoking ruins of a home, the sweep of a Warhawk through the air.

  Kellerman was on his feet.

  To one side, the robotic television camera charged with power, lifting its dark lens, while green lights flashed.

  Good boy, Rex.

  “He’s getting better at this,” Tucker whispered.

  Nora grinned. “And he’s only getting started.”

  In the aftermath of events at the border, Rex had been recovered from a field by Frank and the Sigma team. The drone had broken a propeller or two after finally losing power and tumbling like a fallen leaf out of the sky. And lucky it had. With no juice, Rex had never received the code that Nora had broadcasted out from the C3 hub. He was never lobotomized, never mind-wiped like the other drones.

  Once the industrious little drone had powered back up, Frank and Nora had discovered it had been busier than anyone suspected, performing operations once again that had been part of its subroutine in the past. Rex was built and designed as a data miner. While flying in Serbia, he had done just that, tapping into the transmissions feed sent out by the command station and sucking data out of the C3 hub.

  On a screen to the left of the chamber, the face of a ghost appeared, flickering, then speaking. Rafael Lyon leaned closer to the video camera for this chat. “We’ve just received word that six leaders of the Serbian parliament were successfully assassinated in Belgrade. The news outlets are going nuts.”

  Across the chamber, another monitor glowed to life, showing Kellerman standing in his office, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He faced the camera and frowned. “But didn’t we target eight politicians? Wasn’t that the plan?”

  Lyon answered from across the chamber, “With the timetable moved up, we lost the opportunity on two.”

  The exchange went back and forth as the two plotted the timetable and destruction of a handful of Serbian hamlets.

  Senator Mason lifted a hand. “That’s enough. Thank you, Master Sergeant Ballenger.”

  The screens went dark, leaving the room in stunned silence, but the television camera lights remained green, broadcasting what had just been revealed far and wide.

  “We have much more,” Mason said.

  And they did. Two nights ago, Frank and Nora had sent Rex on a little hunting expedition across the Chesapeake Bay to Horizon’s headquarters on Smith Island. Rex had performed like a charm, drawing out more incriminating evidence.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” Mason asked as the television camera pointed at Kellerman.

  From the man’s expression, Tucker imagined the CEO of Horizon Media wanted to ask for a new set of adult diapers.

  But before Kellerman could respond, the monitors bloomed to life again, showing the face of another ghost. Sandy smiled from all the monitors—and likely on television screens around the nation. It was the last fleeting glimpse of her from the footage on her thumb drive.

  Bravo, Sandy . . . bravo.

  Nora clutched Tucker’s hand, choking with emotion. “We . . . we never told Rex to show that.”

  Tucker looked over to the woman, to the tears welling and rolling across her cheeks.

  Rex was learning.

  Tucker pulled Nora close. “Alan Turing would have been proud,” he whispered. “Of both of you.”

  5:14 P.M. EST

  Smith Island, Maryland

  Pruitt Kellerman stood before the expanse of glass overlooking the bay. A haze hung over the water, casting the distant skyline of Washington into a ghostly mirage. As the sun set, he could almost feel the city fading from his reach.

  Elsewhere, both here and across the bay, lawyers were in full emergency mode, dealing with the repercussions, the allegations, and the charges that were still being filed. He’d had his passport stripped from him, and the entire island was under watch in case he tried to escape.

  But there’s no escaping this.

  Not just the island, but any of it.

  He was savvy enough to know he had lost. All that was left was the fallout.

  His office door opened behind him. He was momentarily surprised, as he had locked it. Only one person had a passkey that would allow them access.

  He turned to face his daughter.

  Laura took two steps into the office, tried a third, but came to a stop, as if the air in here were too polluted for her to wade through. He circled past his desk and closed the distance.

  “Laura . . .”

  She turned half away, plainly ashamed to look at him. He was wrong. She swung back around and slapped him full across the face. He didn’t try to block her.

  She stumbled back a step. “How could you?” she seethed. “So many children . . .”

  He didn’t try to deny anything. She was his daughter. She knew the truth as readily as he did.

  She turned away, this time for real. “I’ll never speak to you again.”

  She stormed off, slamming the door after her.

  Pruitt stood there for a long time, feeling the sting of her palm on his cheek. He wasn’t angry, hurt, or disappointed. In fact, he was relieved.

  Good girl.

  If nothing else, he had raised her right.

  Let that be my legacy.

  But he knew this was one prayer that would not be answered. To either side of the door, silent monitors showed his face. Words scrolled along the bottom of a screen, dec
laring in bold letters: THE BUTCHER OF KAMENA GORA.

  And this was feed from one of Horizon’s own stations.

  It was definitely over.

  He headed across his office to a wall safe and unlocked it by placing his palm on a reader. Bolts slid free, and he opened the thick door. He pulled out a worn folder and ran a thumb over the faded stencil inscribed into it.

  THE ARES PROJECT

  The file was empty now, the papers inside shredded and burned three weeks ago as he covered his tracks. He shook the empty folder.

  Here is all that’s left of my grandfather’s legacy.

  He threw the file aside. But the safe held one last memento from Bryson Kellerman, the agent known as the Geist.

  “The Ghost . . .” Pruitt whispered, a sad smile forming.

  Like Pruitt, his grandfather was a master of shadow and smoke, of illusion and fabrication, but he had also been a cunning spy, one with secret ambitions and lofty goals—and someone willing to bloody his hand to accomplish them.

  Pruitt reached into the safe and removed the small German Mauser, a pistol dating from World War II. He ran his hands over the butt of the gun, imagining his grandfather’s palm upon it. He knew the story of this pistol, of the final time it had been fired inside a lonely barn in the British countryside.

  Pruitt crossed to the window. He always kept the weapon oiled and maintained, as a quiet testament to his grandfather—though now he wondered. Maybe he had performed this ritual for a more practical reason, knowing he might need it one day.

  As a final bit of legacy.

  To prove that justice could never truly be thwarted.

  Pruitt stepped to the window, lifted the gun to his temple, and pulled the trigger.

  39

  November 28, 4:57 P.M. CST

  Appalachian Mountains, Alabama

  Beatrice Conlon gave Tucker a huge bear hug, practically squeezing the air from his lungs as they stood on the woman’s porch. He had just dropped Sandy’s mother back at her place after the funeral in Poplar Grove.

  “Thank you for what you did,” she said, letting him go but still gripping both shoulders. “For my girl . . . for everyone.”

  He nodded, feeling his cheeks warm, uncomfortable with the attention. “The service was beautiful,” he mumbled.

  He had returned to these mountains to attend Sandy’s long-delayed funeral, though in the end, it was more like a party, which Sandy would have appreciated.

  Nora called from inside. “Where are the lemons, Bea?”

  Sandy’s mother leaned back and hollered, “In a paper sack by the fridge, hon!” She then patted Tucker’s shoulder. “Why don’t you all get on out of here? Nora’s spending the night. Gonna teach her how to make raccoon stew.”

  Tucker must have winced.

  She cackled. “Just pullin’ your leg, city boy. We’re having pizza and beer with some gals that are coming over tonight.”

  “All right then, you have fun.”

  Bea still gripped his arm. Tucker felt the tremble in her fingers. The woman put on a happy face, but the pain was still there. He was glad Nora was staying here.

  Bea stared over at his SUV. Jane waited in the front seat, with Kane half in her lap. Nathan was still back in Washington, being baby-sat by friends. Jane had opted not to bring her little boy to this funeral in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains.

  “You got a good gal there,” Bea said. “You remember that. Don’t take it for granted.”

  “Don’t worry. She won’t let me.”

  Bea smiled, a touch more genuinely now. “Then you should listen to her.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Bea hugged him a final time. “You take care of yourself . . . and that big, strappin’ dog of yours.”

  “I will.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and sent him on his way. As he high-stepped through the weeds to the truck, he heard the screen door clap shut behind him and Bea’s voice call to Nora. “Not the powdered sugar, for crying out loud! Didn’t your momma ever show you how to make proper lemonade?”

  Tucker grinned and climbed behind the wheel.

  “How’s Bea holding up?”

  “I think it’s Nora who’s in trouble.”

  “What do you—?”

  “Never mind. It’s not important.” He reversed the SUV off the Conlon property and headed back to Huntsville.

  Kane hopped into the backseat and stuck his head out the open passenger window, soaking in the last of the afternoon. His tail patted the leather.

  “That’s one happy dog,” Jane said.

  He reached over and took her hand. “Make that two dogs.”

  They continued along the back roads in silence, meandering their way slowly toward their motel in Huntsville. They had no schedule, only a dinner with Frank set for this evening. Frank had headed straight back after the funeral, needing to finalize some details over at Redstone. He and Nora were continuing to work with Rex, but the pair had taken steps to encrypt the drone’s code, a fail-safe against anyone trying to circumvent their authority over the drone.

  Nora had taken one extra precaution. She had released Sandy’s lobotomy file to the world at large, as an open-source code. If anyone tried to repeat what the late Pruitt Kellerman had attempted, the world would have the means to stop it.

  At least for now.

  Tucker knew that genie was out of the bottle. For better or worse, the battlefield was changing from one of flesh and blood to one of codes and robots. He wondered how long it would be until he and Kane were obsolete.

  Maybe that’ll be a good thing.

  Still, he stared over at Jane, unsure about everything.

  When Tucker pulled up to their motel, he found someone seated outside his door. Her legs were crossed, and she kicked a booted foot up and down.

  “What is it about women just turning up on my doorstep?” Tucker asked.

  Jane patted him on the knee. “Worked pretty damn well for me.”

  Tucker parked the car, and they all unloaded.

  Ruth Harper stood up and met them. “There you all are. I expected you back an hour ago.”

  “Took the long way home.” Tucker unlocked the door and waved Kane and Jane inside. He blocked the way with his body. “What is it, Ruth?”

  “I just came to give you an update. Laura Kellerman is proving a woman of her word. As new CEO, she’s been divesting Horizon’s assets and promised to help rebuild both Port of Spain and the villages along the Serbian border. She’s also reaching out to the families involved in Project 623 and Odisha, offering restitution.”

  “Money’s not going to bring back the dead.”

  “Of course not, but she’s doing her best. All evidence, even from Rex, seems to suggest she is blameless in all of this. Don’t paint her with the same brush as her father.”

  Tucker leaned against the doorjamb, suddenly exhausted. “What about the other players who are to blame? In Serbia? In Trinidad?”

  “Marco Davidovic is already in prison, being held on war-crime charges. Everyone’s still hunting for President D’Abreo of Trinidad. He vanished shortly after the news broke—he’s either on the run or dead already. It’s still chaos down there.”

  “Which keeps the world turning,” Tucker said.

  “And why Sigma could use your help.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “Ruth . . .”

  “I know, honey. Just putting it out there.” She passed him a shiny black card. “Here’s the real reason I came all the way down here.”

  He flipped the card back and forth. It was blank, but if he tilted it just right, he could make out a holographic silver ∑, the symbol for Sigma.

  “What is it?”

  “The key to the kingdom.”

  Tucker suspected what he held. Back in DC, he had briefly been allowed access to Sigma’s command center, located in a warren of old bunkers beneath the Smithsonian Castle on the National Mall. This must be one of the command center’s encrypted
access cards.

  “As a thank-you,” Ruth explained and began to turn away—then stopped and shrugged. “Or maybe consider it a standing invitation.”

  Tucker weighed whether or not to throw the card back at her feet, but instead he sighed and shoved it into his pocket.

  What the hell . . .

  Ruth smiled, turned on a heel, and left, but not before mumbling a single word. “Progress.”

  Tucker shook his head and closed the door. He found Jane play-wrestling with Kane on one of the beds. The shepherd bounded about like a puppy, pretending to snap at her hands. Jane laughed and giggled like the girl he remembered from long ago, when he was a different man, one less scarred.

  Again he felt that gulf between now and then, yawning wide, stirring his gut with vertigo.

  Across the room, Jane finally collapsed on her side atop the bed, staring over at him, smiling a silent invitation, reminding him this was now, not then.

  He took one step, then another, closing that gap.

  Could it be that simple?

  Jane’s smile grew as he approached. “Hey, handsome.”

  Tucker matched her grin—knowing this time she wasn’t talking about Kane.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE TO READERS: TRUTH OR FICTION

  This novel addressed the blurring line between truth and stories fabricated by the media, so I thought I had better come clean here in these last pages and try to separate fact from fiction . . . at least for this story.

  Military War Dogs and Their Handlers

  Tucker and Kane first appeared in the Sigma Force novel Bloodline, but I knew they had a story much richer still to tell. In real life, I first encountered this unique heroic pairing of soldier and war dog while on a USO tour to Iraq and Kuwait. Seeing these pairs’ capabilities and recognizing their unique bonds, I wanted to try to capture and honor those relationships.

  To accomplish that, I spoke to veterinarians in the U.S. Veterinary Corps, interviewed handlers, met with dogs, and saw how these duos grew together to become a single fighting unit. Some may read this account of Tucker and Kane and wonder how much is truly possible. Can a dog and his handler truly do so much? I vetted the first book in this series with handlers, who told me that not only are such actions plausible, if anything these dogs could do so much more. I tried to capture that in this book, showing how those military war dogs could not only understand diverse commands but were capable of following a string of orders.