Read Online War Hawk: A Tucker Wayne Novel by James Rollins, Grant Blackwood - Free Book Online
Authors: James Rollins, Grant Blackwood
Tags: United States, thriller, Suspense, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Mystery, Military, War & Military, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Conspiracies, Contemporary Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Spies & Politics
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into the phone’s Google Earth app. It appeared Edith Lozier lived off a highway in an industrial section of Gurley. Her home was within a fenced-off area containing a dozen Quonset-like buildings.
A storage facility.
The woman was most likely the business’s live-in manager or owner.
Tucker smiled.
Gotcha .
11:48 P . M .
Shortly before midnight, Tucker slowed his SUV as it passed a sign that read G ARNET S ELF -S TORAGE . The town of Gurley lay about twelve miles south of Huntsville, home to some eight hundred people, small enough for everyone to know everybody’s business. Tucker had passed several other storage places on his thirty-minute drive here; one was practically around the corner from Sandy’s home.
So why choose this place?
He glanced to the neighboring two-story building that matched the address of Edith Lozier. The windows were dark at this late hour. Who was this woman to Sandy? Clearly she was enough of a friend to accept a check written to her rather than to the business. He wondered what else Edith might know, but to go knocking on a stranger’s door in the middle of the night might not warrant the warmest of welcomes.
Instead, Tucker patted Kane’s flank as the shepherd rested his muzzle on the sill of the passenger window. “Let’s first see what Sandy hid out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Kane thumped his tail in agreement.
Tucker edged his vehicle up to the rolling gate of the facility and reached out to the pole-mounted keypad. He punched in the four-digit code found on Sandy’s padlock key, and the gate clattered open. Tucker let out a long breath of relief and slowly idled his truck through the nest of Quonset huts, following signs to Unit 256.
“Home sweet home,” Tucker mumbled as he braked before the numbered unit.
He and Kane hopped out. While taking a moment to stretch a few kinks loose, Tucker surreptitiously searched around. He spotted a security camera, sharing the same pole as a sodium light. Keeping his face out of direct view, he crossed to the unit’s rolling door and tested the padlock. Sandy’s key slid in smoothly, and a moment later, the padlock dropped into his palm. With the way open, he lifted the rolling door and aimed his flashlight inside.
For a moment, he simply stared at what lay before him, dumbfounded by the unit’s contents.
“What the hell?”
Finally, Tucker stepped into the space and flicked on the overhead light. To keep his search private, he lowered the rolling door. As a precaution, he left Kane outside with a standing order.
G UARD .
Tucker was taking no chances of being ambushed again.
With his hands on his hips, Tucker slowly took in his surroundings, making a slow turn. A single card table and chair occupied the center of the room. Arranged before them in a semicircle was a set of six easel-mounted whiteboards, each scrawled with color-coded notes and flowcharts. To the left of the table, a pair of corkboards hung on the wall, pinned with hundreds of scribbled index cards. To the right of the chair, a dozen or more accordion folders sat on the concrete floor.
The intent here was plain.
Looks like Sandy had built herself a nerve center in here .
But to what end?
Tucker noted the conspicuous absence of a laptop. All of these notes and charts could have been easily created on a computer, especially given Sandy’s previous job as an analyst. Instead, she had chosen to do all of this old school.
Just like her records at home .
But why?
Tucker snapped several pictures with his phone, then sank into the folding chair and stared at the boards. Sandy Conlon was a high-level mathematician and programmer. The formulas, codes, and keywords were beyond his grasp. Still, he noted a few bold or underlined words: Turing, Odisha, Scan Rate, Expanded Spectrum, Clojure, Unstructured Data Collation . . .
He shook his head.
Unless Sandy was conducting her own top-secret project, all this was most likely related to her work at Redstone.
A storage facility.
The woman was most likely the business’s live-in manager or owner.
Tucker smiled.
Gotcha .
11:48 P . M .
Shortly before midnight, Tucker slowed his SUV as it passed a sign that read G ARNET S ELF -S TORAGE . The town of Gurley lay about twelve miles south of Huntsville, home to some eight hundred people, small enough for everyone to know everybody’s business. Tucker had passed several other storage places on his thirty-minute drive here; one was practically around the corner from Sandy’s home.
So why choose this place?
He glanced to the neighboring two-story building that matched the address of Edith Lozier. The windows were dark at this late hour. Who was this woman to Sandy? Clearly she was enough of a friend to accept a check written to her rather than to the business. He wondered what else Edith might know, but to go knocking on a stranger’s door in the middle of the night might not warrant the warmest of welcomes.
Instead, Tucker patted Kane’s flank as the shepherd rested his muzzle on the sill of the passenger window. “Let’s first see what Sandy hid out here in the middle of nowhere.”
Kane thumped his tail in agreement.
Tucker edged his vehicle up to the rolling gate of the facility and reached out to the pole-mounted keypad. He punched in the four-digit code found on Sandy’s padlock key, and the gate clattered open. Tucker let out a long breath of relief and slowly idled his truck through the nest of Quonset huts, following signs to Unit 256.
“Home sweet home,” Tucker mumbled as he braked before the numbered unit.
He and Kane hopped out. While taking a moment to stretch a few kinks loose, Tucker surreptitiously searched around. He spotted a security camera, sharing the same pole as a sodium light. Keeping his face out of direct view, he crossed to the unit’s rolling door and tested the padlock. Sandy’s key slid in smoothly, and a moment later, the padlock dropped into his palm. With the way open, he lifted the rolling door and aimed his flashlight inside.
For a moment, he simply stared at what lay before him, dumbfounded by the unit’s contents.
“What the hell?”
Finally, Tucker stepped into the space and flicked on the overhead light. To keep his search private, he lowered the rolling door. As a precaution, he left Kane outside with a standing order.
G UARD .
Tucker was taking no chances of being ambushed again.
With his hands on his hips, Tucker slowly took in his surroundings, making a slow turn. A single card table and chair occupied the center of the room. Arranged before them in a semicircle was a set of six easel-mounted whiteboards, each scrawled with color-coded notes and flowcharts. To the left of the table, a pair of corkboards hung on the wall, pinned with hundreds of scribbled index cards. To the right of the chair, a dozen or more accordion folders sat on the concrete floor.
The intent here was plain.
Looks like Sandy had built herself a nerve center in here .
But to what end?
Tucker noted the conspicuous absence of a laptop. All of these notes and charts could have been easily created on a computer, especially given Sandy’s previous job as an analyst. Instead, she had chosen to do all of this old school.
Just like her records at home .
But why?
Tucker snapped several pictures with his phone, then sank into the folding chair and stared at the boards. Sandy Conlon was a high-level mathematician and programmer. The formulas, codes, and keywords were beyond his grasp. Still, he noted a few bold or underlined words: Turing, Odisha, Scan Rate, Expanded Spectrum, Clojure, Unstructured Data Collation . . .
He shook his head.
Unless Sandy was conducting her own top-secret project, all this was most likely related to her work at Redstone.
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