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Oct 21, 2016

Hawks of War Grant Blackwood, James Rollins

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Title: Hawks of War
Author: Grant Blackwood, James Rollins
Year: 2016
Genre: Detective fiction, Foreign fiction, Foreign detectives, Thrillers

About the book "Hawks of War" Grant Blackwood, James Rollins

An Iraq and Afghanistan veteran, scout Tucker Wayne and his war dog named Kane were on a well-deserved rest when they were tracked down by Tucker's former colleague. She said that, having returned to her homeland, she worked on a top-secret military project. But after the project was abandoned, its participants began to die one after another. And now her life is in danger. The woman begged Tucker to help her. Having started reconnaissance, Wayne found out that this secret project is aimed at developing cutting-edge robotic weapons. Well, since it has been closed and all participants are being “cleansed”, it means that the weapon is about to be used. The world is facing bloody chaos. And only two are able to stop this - a retired army intelligence officer and his dog...

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Robin Hobb, Tad Williams, James Rollins

Introduction

Books from a rotating stand

When I was little, there were no bookstores in Bayonne, New Jersey.

This does not mean that there was nowhere to buy a book there. The book could be bought anywhere, if you are happy with paperback books, of course. If you wanted a hardcover, well, you'd have to take a bus to New York. The easiest way was to buy a book in one of the small shops. We called them candy stores back then, but chocolate bars, penny candies and other sweets were the last thing they sold there. Each pastry shop was a little different. Some sold groceries, some didn't, some had soda stands, some didn't, some sold fresh baked goods in the morning and sold sandwiches all day, some sold water guns, hoops, and pink rubber balls, which we They played street baseball... but newspapers, magazines, comics and paperbacks were sold everywhere.

In the neighborhood of Bayonne where I grew up, the closest candy store was at the corner of First Street and Kelly Parkway, across from the Kill van Kull. The “book section” was a rotating wire rack taller than I was, next to a shelf of comic books, the perfect location for me once I had outgrown the “funny pictures.” My budget was a dollar a week, so I regularly had to figure out how to make it enough for ten-cent comics (when they went up to twelve cents, it almost bankrupted me!), thirty-five-cent books, and a couple of candy bars. , and - occasionally - for a glass of malt drink or fruit water with ice cream, and sometimes also play skee-ball at Uncle Milty's in the next block... It was one of the most painful weekly decisions, but it sharpened my computing skills to perfection!

The shelf with comics and the stand with books were united not only by proximity. Both of them completely neglected the concept of genre. In those days, superheroes were not as ubiquitous as they are now. No, of course, we had Superman, Batman, and the Justice League, and then they were joined by Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four, but besides them, there were many other types of comics: about war, detectives, Westerns, romantic ones for girls, based on films and television series, strange hybrids like “Turk, Son of the Stone” (where Indians fight dinosaurs). We had Archie, Betty and Veronica, and Cosmo the Jolly Martian for laughs, and Casper the Good Ghost, and Huey the Duck for kids (I was too old for such comics), and Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge by Carl Barks. There were comics about auto racing and fashion models, with dresses to be cut out of paper, and, of course, Illustrated Classics, whose adapted texts first introduced me to all the great authors, from Robert Louis Stevenson to Herman Melville. And all these comics were mixed together!!!

It was the same with the paperback books that stood nearby on the rotating stand. There was only one stand, the number of pockets on it was limited, and therefore all the books stood on it in no more than one or two copies. I've been into science fiction ever since my mom's friend gave me Heinlein's Space Suit Ready to Travel for Christmas (it was my only book and hardback for almost ten years), so I was always looking for more Heinlein and something else from science fiction, but since all the books were mixed up, the only way to find them was to rummage through all the books in all the compartments, even if this meant getting down on your knees to look at the titles in the bottom row. Paperback books in those days were much thinner, so each pocket held four or five, and they were all different. Two-for-one science fiction editions from Ace Books sat side by side with a popular edition of The Brothers Karamazov, squeezed between a moralizing novel for girls and the latest issue of the Mike Hammer adventures from the pen of Mickey Spillane. Dorothy Parker and Dorothy Sayers were neighbors with Ralph Ellison and J.D. Salinger. Max Brand was rubbing shoulders with Barbara Cartland (Barbara would have been beside herself!). A.E. Van Vogt, P.G. Wodehouse and G.F. Lovecraft shared space with F.S. Fitzgerald. Detective stories, Westerns, Gothic romance, ghost stories, English classics, the latest in “serious fiction,” and, of course, science fiction, fantasy, and horror—they all sat together on a revolving rack in the little candy store on the corner of First and Kelly. -Parkway.

Looking back, almost half a century later, I understand that that rotating stand greatly influenced my further development as a writer. Every writer is first a reader, and we all write books that we ourselves would like to read. I started with a love for science fiction and still love science fiction, but... rummaging through all these thin books, I inevitably began to be interested in other genres too. I started reading horror when a book with Boris Karloff on the cover caught my attention. Robert E. Howard and L. Sprague de Camp got me hooked on fantasy, just in time to read J.R.R.'s The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien. Historical novels by Alexandre Dumas and Thomas Costaing also featured sword fights, so I soon began reading them too, and this sparked an interest in other eras and other authors. When Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, and Rudyard Kipling came across the rotating shelf, I grabbed them too, so I could read the original versions of my favorite stories and see how they differed from the Classics Illustrated comics. Some of the detective novels I found on the rack had covers so obscene that I would sneak them home and read them without my mother seeing, but I also tasted detective stories and haven’t stopped reading them since. Ian Fleming and James Bond introduced me to the world of thriller and spy novels, and Jack Schaefer's Shane introduced me to the world of the Western. Well, okay, I confess: I have never read romance novels or moral novels for girls. No, of course, I understood the difference between a space opera, a dashingly twisted detective story and a historical novel, but... I didn’t care. Then, as now, it seemed to me that there are good books and there are bad ones, and this is the only difference that is worth taking into account.

Over the past half century, my views have not changed much, but the world of book publishing and bookselling has changed a lot. I have no doubt that somewhere the old rotating racks are still preserved, where books of all genres are mixed, but nowadays most people buy books in chain stores, where His Majesty Genre rules. Science fiction and fantasy are there, detective stories are here, a romance novel is over there in the back, bestsellers are in the most prominent place. No confusion or confusion, please stay among your own kind. “Serious literature” is a special section now that the “literary novel” has become a separate genre. Books for children and youth generally stand alone.

I guess it's good for the book trade. Comfortable. This makes it easier to find a book in the genre you like. No one has to crawl on their knees hoping to dig up Jack Vance's The Big Planet for a copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People.

But I suspect this is not so good for readers, and certainly not good for writers. Books should make us more than we are, take us to places where we have never been, show us something we have never seen, expand our horizons and view of the world. And by limiting our reading to one single genre, we lose this. It limits us, makes us smaller.

However, the walls between genres are becoming more and more insurmountable. Over the course of my writing career, I have written science fiction, fantasy, horror, and hybrids that combine features of both, and at times with elements of a detective thriller and a realistic novel. But young writers who start writing these days are actively discouraged by publishers and editors from doing so. Aspiring fantasy authors are advised to take a pseudonym if they also want to write science fiction... well, if they want to try their hand at detective fiction, God help them!

It's all in the name of increasing sales, and it seems to be working.

But as for me, all this is bullshit and, as for me, to hell with it!

There may not have been bookstores in Bayonne when I was a child, but there were a ton of pizzerias there, and the signature pizza served in the local bars was some of the best pizza in the world. It's no surprise that pizza is one of my favorite foods. This does not mean that I am ready to eat it every day, giving up everything else.

I'm best known as a fantasy author these days, but Warriors is not a fantasy anthology... although there is plenty of fantasy in there. The second compiler of this collection, Gardner Dozois, published a science fiction magazine for a couple of decades, but Warriors is not a science fiction anthology either, although it also contains science fiction stories, no worse than those that can be found in magazines "Analog" or "Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine." There is a Western here, and several detective stories, a lot of excellent historical prose, a realistic story, and a couple of things whose genre I can’t even begin to define. All in all, Warriors is our very own spinning rack.

People have been telling stories about warriors since people began to tell stories. Ever since Homer sang the wrath of Achilles and the ancient Sumerians told us about Gilgamesh, warriors, soldiers and heroes have always captivated our imagination. They are part of any culture, any literary tradition, any genre. All Quiet on the Western Front, From Here to Eternity, and The Scarlet Badge of Valor have become part of our literary canon and are taught in schools around the world. Fantasy has given us such unforgettable warriors as Conan the Barbarian, Elric of Melnibonai, Aragorn son of Arathorn. Science fiction allows us to look into the future and meet the warriors of future wars in books such as Robert Heinlein's Star Rangers, Joe Haldeman's Infinity War, and the space operas of David Weber, Lois M. Bujold, and Walter J. Williams. The dual-wielding cowboy of the classic western is a warrior. The detective genre has created the archetype of the urban warrior, be it a cop, a gangster, or one of those private eyes who roam the seedy streets of Chandler and Hammett. Female warriors, little soldiers, heroes of football and cricket fields, Greek hoplite and Roman legionnaire, Viking, musketeer, crusader and common foot soldier, WWII G.I. and Vietnam veteran - they are all warriors, and many of them you will meet on these pages .

The authors of the stories and stories included in this collection are famous writers, creators of bestsellers and winners of many awards, published in many publishing houses and writing in different genres. We asked all of them one thing: to write a story about a warrior. Some chose the genre in which their most famous works were written. Others decided to try something new. In these pages you will meet warriors of all shapes, sizes and colors, warriors from all eras of human history, yesterday, today, tomorrow and warriors from worlds that never existed. Some of these stories are sad, some are funny, many are exciting.

But you won’t know which one is which until you read it. Gardner and I deliberately mixed them all up, keeping with the tradition of our old rotating rack. You will not find a science fiction section here, shelves reserved for historical novels, a rack with romance novels, and so on. We have completely abandoned any labels. These are just stories. Some of them are written by your (hopefully) favorite authors. Others are by writers you may never have heard of (yet). Let's hope that by the time you finish reading this collection, some of the authors will go from unknown to your favorites.

So turn the rack and turn the page. We have something to tell you...

Cecilia Holland

Cecilia Holland is one of the most popular and respected historical fiction authors in the world, ranked alongside such giants as Mary Renault and Larry McMurtry. During her thirty-year career, she wrote almost thirty historical novels, including The Death of Attila and Winter of Kings, which were translated into Russian, as well as The Firedrake, Rakóssy, Two Ravens, Ghost on the Steppe ", "The King's Road", "Pillar of the Sky", "The Lords of Vaumartin", "The Sea Beggars", "The Count", "The Belt of Gold" and many others. She also wrote the acclaimed science fiction novel Floating Worlds, which was nominated for a Locus Award in 1975, and has recently been working on a series of fantasy novels such as The Soul Thief, Witches' Kitchen, The Serpent Dreamer and Varranger, the latest volume in the Soul Reaver series. "The High City", a historical novel set in the Byzantine Empire, was published in 2009.

In the following brutal and bloody narrative, the author takes us back to the cruel and bloody times of the Vikings. We're about to embark on a Viking raid (hope you can row?) where you'll discover that the stakes are a little higher than they bargained for...

King of Norway

I

Conn, son of Corban, fought on the side of Svein Forkbeard, even when Swein was just an outcast who rebelled against his father, King Harald Bluetooth, and the prince promised Conn war with England when he, Svein, became king of Denmark. When Svein put on the crown, he allowed the English king to buy peace for himself in exchange for a ship loaded with silver. Conn was very offended by this.

England is more expensive! You swore an oath to me!

Svein angrily pulled his mustache. His eyes sparkled.

I haven't forgotten about it. The time will come. In the meantime, we need to deal with Hakon Jarl, who is sitting in Norway. I can't leave him behind.

That’s why you called the Jomsvikings instead of fighting him yourself,” said Conn. - Apparently, since you became king, you have become not only money-loving, but also effeminate!

He turned on his heel, without waiting for Svein to answer, and walked away along the boardwalk towards the main royal hall. His kinsman Ralph, who was always with him, left with him. Svein shouted after them, but they did not listen.

Conn said:

So how can I trust his words now?

Ralph asked:

Who would you rather fight for?

“I don’t know,” Conn answered. - But I'll find out soon.

That evening Svein gave a feast in his hall in Helsingor, and there were many of his warriors there, including Conn and Ralph, but there were also the leaders of the Jomsvikings, Sigvaldi Haraldsson and Bui

Big. Ralph sat at the lower end of the table, for he and Conn were now out of favor with the king.

Conn sat next to him. His curly black hair and beard stuck out like a horse's mane. Every now and then he glanced at the Jomsvikings who were sitting opposite. Ralph understood his curiosity: they had all heard about the great brotherhood of the Jomsvikings, about their stronghold in the east, about their courage, which they were ready to sell to anyone who agreed to pay dearly enough. They said that they had no leaders, as such, so perhaps Sigvaldi and the pot-bellied Bui were messengers rather than leaders. They did not wear luxurious robes like Svein's scarlet silk cloak, lined with fur, and their beards and hair were long and shaggy. Sigvaldi was a large man, with square shoulders and curly blond hair that merged into a beard.

Conn, who was sitting next to him, said:

I like the way they look. These are stern and proud people.

Ralph didn't say anything. He was not so quick to judge. Sigvaldi, sitting opposite, saw that Conn was looking at him, and raised his cup to greet him, and they drank together with Conn. The beer was strong, thick, like bear urine, and slaves with jugs walked along the tables, filling the goblets to the top as soon as they were at least half empty. Ralph took his empty goblet and turned it upside down.

When the meat was finished and it was time to drink in earnest, Svein stood up, raised his goblet, called upon Thor and Odin and poured a libation in their honor. The people began to shout and drink, but Svein was not finished yet.

We Danes also have the custom of making vows in their honor, which are considered doubly sacred. - He held out the cup to be filled again. “And now I swear on the names of the highest gods that sooner or later I will become the king of England!”

An excited roar swept through the palace. Ralph saw Svein turn and, above the forest of waving arms and joyful faces, glare menacingly at Conn.

Who else would dare to make such a vow?

The roar died down for a moment, and Sigvaldi jumped to his feet.

The screams began again. Hakon Jarl was called all the most shameful names: an apostate, a thief, and a liar. And the slaves kept walking along the tables and pouring beer into the cups. Intoxicated and purple, Sigvaldi raised his cup for everyone to see. When the noise in the hall died down, he cried out:

And therefore now I swear by the names of the highest gods that I will lead the Jomsvikings against Hakon, wherever he hides! And I will not give up until he is defeated!

The warriors roared and drained their cups. The hall was now full of people: in addition to those sitting at the tables, many of whom were Jomsvikings, Svein's servants were crowded into the hall.

A strong vow! - Svein declared. “Truly, Hakon has offended the gods by renouncing his honor!” Well, what about you, the rest? Will you follow your leader?

He glanced at Conn, who was sitting at the table below.

Which one of you will join the Jomsvikings?

In response to this, the Danes and Jomsvikings began vying with each other to shout out oaths and vows to deal with Hakon. And the slaves with the jugs were still doing their job.

Alarmed, Ralph held his breath, and all the people in the hall fell silent.

Conn raised his cup.

I swear that I will sail with you, Sigvaldi, and challenge Hakon to a duel, and I will not return until I become king of Norway.

He raised his goblet to greet Svein and drained it.

For a moment there was deathly silence. Everyone understood that this was either an insult or a challenge. But then everyone again burst into a roar, stamped their feet and again began to throw vows. Ralph, who did not drink again after the first cup, noticed that Svein, in his place of honor, did not take his sparkling eyes off Conn and that Svein’s lips were clenched angrily. Ralph thought that perhaps they had all gotten more than they wanted during those vows in Helsingor.

The next morning Conn woke up on his bench in the hall and went out into the yard to urinate. His head was buzzing and there was a disgusting taste in his mouth. He didn't remember well what happened the day before. Turning away from the hedge, Conn saw Sigvaldi, the leader of the Jomsvikings, coming towards him, smiling from ear to ear.

Well,” he boomed, “looks like we promised great things last night, huh?” But I'm glad you're with us, little one. Let's see if you turn out to be a Jomsviking!

He extended his hand to Conn, and Conn had no choice but to shake it. And Sigvaldi continued:

We meet in Limsfjord on the full moon and go on a hike to Norway. This will help lure Hakon out! This is where we'll find out if you're any good at fighting!

He walked away to the other end of the yard, where other Jomsvikings had come out to bask in the sun. Ralph stood at the door to the palace.

Conn approached him.

What did I swear yesterday?

The long, good-natured face of the relative remained impenetrable.

You said that you would sail with them, challenge Earl Hakon to a duel, and not return to Denmark until you became king of Norway.

Conn gasped in surprise and said:

Well, I’m a bad person when I’m drunk! However, this is truly a great thing, isn't it?

I would say yes,” Ralph replied.

Well,” said Conn, “then let’s take it on!”

II

And they sailed north and began to plunder Vik in Norway, where there was enough wealth. At times the entire fleet ravaged one village, at times they split into detachments and attacked the estates located along the fjord, driving out people and taking away their property. All the gold that they came across was put into a large chest, and Big Bui guarded it like a dragon. The rest they ate, drank, or sent to Jomsborg.

Several heavily laden ships had already left for Jomsborg, but there was not a word from Hakon Jarl.

They headed north, along the straits between the islands and the coast, plundering everything along the way. Every day the sun remained in the sky longer and longer, and at night it barely got dark, preventing sleep for more than an hour. On all sides, above the liquid greenery of the coastal meadows, the earth rose in folds of rocks covered with snow. They moved further out to sea to pass Cape Stad, covered with clouds and tormented by the winds, and sailed further, still to the north, but now heading east, attacking everyone they met in the fjords. Now they were several days' sail from the long strait leading to Trøndelag, and Hakon still offered no resistance.

III

Conn's muscles ached: he had rowed all day against the fierce north wind and now stood on the shore, stretching his tired arms and shoulders. The sun hung like a big orange bubble above the western horizon. The sky burned with a furious fire, rare stripes of clouds above the sea shone with a golden border. Dark waves ran over the pebbles, broke and crawled away with a roar. Behind the ships - there were sixty of them - crawling ashore like resting monsters, a shark flashed in the waves.

In the copper glow of the long sunset, the fires lit along the shore were almost invisible. A large ham rotated over each pit, strips of meat and fish hung from tripods and spits, dripping with fat that flared on the coals, and so a man with a bowl stood near each fire, dousing the burns with beer. Conn saw Sigvaldi Haraldsson on the shore and approached him.

The Jomsviking chief sat on a large log with his legs stretched out and watched his subordinates turn the spit. Next to him sat Bui the Great, at his feet stood a chest with Jomsviking treasures. When Conn approached them, they raised their heads and looked at him. They drank from the same cup, passing it to each other, and Sigvaldi loudly greeted Conn and handed the cup to him.

Conn took a sip. The beer tasted like mud.

Hakon will come for us soon.

Sigvaldi laughed hoarsely, slapping his hands on his knees.

I told you, kid, he won’t get into a fight with us of his own free will! We'll have to get all the way to Trendelag to smoke him out of his hole!

Bui laughed.

Well, by then he will be impoverished one way or another by our mercy!

And he kicked the chest that stood under his feet.

Yeah! - said Sigvaldi and patted Conn on the hand in a friendly manner. “We took a lot of booty and today we will have a feast again, like every evening.” This is the life of a Jomsviking, little one!

“I came here to overthrow Hakon Jarl,” Conn blurted out, “and not to slaughter a few men for their gold chains!”

James Rollins and Grant Blackwood

WAR HAWK

* * *

To all the four-legged warriors in the world... And to those who serve with them. Thank you for your dedication and service.

Acknowledgments

To the many people who joined Grant and me on this journey with Tucker and his devoted companion Kane. I am grateful to all of you for your help, criticism and encouragement.

First of all, I must thank the group of my critics who have been with me over these many, many years: Sally Ann Barnes, Chris Crow, Lee Garrett, Jane O'Riva, Denny Grayson, Leonard Little, Judy Pray, Caroline Williams, Christian Riley, Todd Todd , Chris Smith and Amy Rogers.

And as always, special thanks to Steve Pray for the wonderful maps...and to David Sylvian for always having my back!

To everyone at HarperCollins who helps me shine: Michael Morrison, Liat Stehlik, Danielle Bartlett, Caitlin Kennedy, Josh Marvell, Lynne Grady, Richard Aquan, Tom Egner, Sean Nicholls and Ana Maria Allessi.

Finally, of course, special thanks to my editor for her talent (and endless patience), Lissa Coisch, and her colleague Rebecca Lukash, as well as my agents Russ Galen and Danny Baror (including his extraordinary daughter Heather Baror). And, as always, I must emphasize that any errors of fact or detail in this book rest solely on my own shoulders. I hope there aren't too many of them.

Prologue

Spring 1940

Buckinghamshire, England

Very few representatives of the Abwehr - the military intelligence of the Third Reich - knew his real name or even his intentions here on British soil. The spy acted under the code name Geist - Geist, which means “ghost” in German, and failure was unthinkable for him.

He lay on his stomach in a dirty ditch, and frost-covered cattails pricked his face. Not paying attention to the midnight frost, to the icy gusts of wind, to the pain in his numb limbs, he focused entirely on the picture, which he observed through the eyepieces of the binoculars pressed to his eyes.

He and the team assigned to him lay along the shores of a small lake. A hundred yards away, on the opposite bank, majestic rural mansions rose in dark silhouettes, only here and there colored with rare stripes of silvery and yellowish light breaking through the thick blackout curtains. Yet he could make out spirals of barbed wire along the top of the garden fence of one particular estate.

Bletchley Park.

This establishment also had a code designation: Station X.

This seemingly unassuming farmhouse was hiding a British intelligence operation jointly launched by MI6 and the Government Code School. In a series of wooden shacks erected on these idyllic acres, the Allied forces gathered some of the greatest mathematicians and cryptographers from across the planet, including one man, Alan Turing, who was decades ahead of his colleagues. Station X's goal was to break the German military Enigma machine code using tools created by the geniuses gathered here. This group had already succeeded in producing an electromechanical decoder called the Bomb, and there were persistent rumors that a new project to build the Colossus, the first programmable electrical computer, was already in full swing.

But tonight the destruction of these devices was not part of their plans.

In this territory lay hidden a trophy that surpassed the wildest fantasies of its leadership - a revolutionary breakthrough that promised to transform the fate of the entire world.

And I will take it - or die trying.

Geist felt his heart beat faster.

To the left, his second-in-command, Lieutenant Hoffman, pulled the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck to protect himself from the freezing rain falling from the sky. " Gott verlassenen Land",” he fidgeted and swore under his breath.

- Quiet! - Without taking his binoculars from his eyes, Geist besieged the commander of his reconnaissance and sabotage group. “If anyone hears you speak German, we'll be stuck here until the end of the war.”

He understood that he could only keep the team entrusted to him under control with a strong hand. Its members were carefully selected by the Abwehr not only for their excellent martial arts skills, but also for their impeccable English. What the British lacked in military presence in rural areas was more than made up for by the vigilance of the civilian population.

- Truck! – Hoffman wheezed.

Geist glanced over his shoulder at the road cutting through the forest behind him. A flatbed truck with headlights shining dimly through blackout slits rolled along it.

- Not breathe! – Geist hissed.

Their presence must not attract the attention of a passing driver. The entire crew lay with their faces buried in the ground until the rumble of the truck's engine died away in the distance.

- Clean! Hoffman said.

Looking at his watch, Geist again began to survey the surroundings through binoculars.

Why are they fussing so much?

Everything depended on perfect timing. He and his crew landed from a submarine on an abandoned beach five days ago. After this, dividing into groups of two or three, they made their way through the countryside, holding at the ready documents identifying them as day laborers and farm laborers. Having reached their destination, the saboteurs gathered in a hunting hut nearby, where a cache of weapons was prepared for them, left by the infiltration agents who were paving the way for Geist’s team.

There's only one last detail left.

Then his attention was attracted by a flash of light in the vicinity of the Bletchley Park estate. Blinking, the light went out, flashed again, after which darkness reigned completely.

It was this signal that Geist was waiting for.

“It’s time to move out,” he raised himself on his elbow.

Hoffman's team took weapons - assault rifles and pistols with silencers - at the ready. The largest saboteur - a real bull in human form named Kraus - raised a heavy machine gun "MG-42", capable of firing one thousand two hundred bullets per minute.

Geist looked around at the faces smeared with black makeup. They trained for three months on a life-size model of Bletchley Park and were now able to move around the area blindfolded. The only unknown factor was the level of defense of the facility. The research town was guarded by both soldiers and plainclothes guards.

Finally, Geist went through the plan again:

– As soon as we find ourselves in the estate, everyone sets fire to the building assigned to him. Create as much panic and confusion as possible. In this chaos, Hoffman and I will try to take possession of the package. If shooting starts, shoot everything that moves. Clear?

Everyone nodded.

As soon as everyone was ready - including to die, if necessary - the group set off, skirting the contour of the lake through a forest shrouded in fog. Geist led them around the neighboring estates. Most of these old dwellings sat boarded up, awaiting the summer months. Servants and servants will soon begin to arrive to prepare country houses for the holiday season, but that is still a couple of weeks away.

This was one of many reasons for choosing a narrow window of opportunity prepared by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of German military intelligence. As well as another element for which time played a critical role.

“The entrance to the bunker should be right in front of us,” Geist whispered to Hoffman, who was walking behind him. - Prepare people.

Realizing that Adolf Hitler would soon launch an air war against the island nation, the British government began building underground bunkers for its most important institutions, including Bletchley Park. The bunker at Station X was only half completed, providing a short gap in the security perimeter around the estate.

It was this weakness that Geist intended to take advantage of tonight.

He led his team to the farmhouse next door to Bletchley Park, a red brick Tudor with yellow shutters. Creeping up to the stone fence around the estate, Geist motioned for the team to press against the wall.

- Where are we going? – Hoffman inquired in a whisper. – I thought we would make our way through some kind of bunker...

- This is true. “This last bit of intelligence was known only to Geist.

Bending down, he ran to the gate, which turned out to be unlocked. The recent flashing signal confirmed that everything was ready here.

Pushing open the gate, Geist slipped through the gap and led the group across the lawn to the estate's glass-enclosed conservatory. There he found another unlocked door, and along with everyone else, he quickly dived inside and crossed the kitchen. The snow-white furniture literally shone in the moonlight pouring through the windows.

Without wasting any time, Geist headed for the door behind the pantry. Having crossed the threshold, he turned on his flashlight. Its beam illuminated the stairs that led to a basement with a stone floor, whitewashed brick walls and a labyrinth of water pipes running through the ceilings. The basement extends under the entire house.

Following the commander, the group proceeded past stacks of boxes and furniture covered with dusty covers to the eastern wall of the basement. As ordered, Geist pulled back the carpet, revealing a hole recently dug in the floor. Another sample of the works of illegal immigrants from Canaris.

Geist shone a flashlight into the hole, and the water flowing there flashed below.

- What is this? asked Hoffman.

– Old sewer pipe. Connects all the estates around the lake.

“Including Bletchley Park,” Hoffman nodded understandingly.

“And his partially completed bunker,” Geist confirmed. “It will be a bit crowded, but we only need to cover a hundred meters to get to the construction site of this underground bomb shelter, and then we’ll get out.”

According to the latest intelligence, the new bunker foundation was largely unguarded, giving them immediate access to the heart of the estate.

“The Britons won’t even understand what stunned them,” Hoffman remarked with an unkind grin.

Geist moved first again, thrusting his feet into the hole and landing with a splash in ankle-deep icy slush. Sliding one hand along the wall, he moved forward along an old stone pipe with a diameter of only one and a half meters, causing him to hunch over, holding his breath from the stench.

After a few steps, he turned off the flashlight, aiming for a distant glimmer of moonlight. And he moved along the curved pipe more slowly, trying not to squelch his feet, so as not to alert the guards who happened to pass by the bunker construction site. Hoffman's subordinates followed suit.

Finally Geist reached a moonlit hole in the roof of part of the chimney. A freshly dug well providing access to the old sewer system was blocked off with temporary grating. The saboteur felt the barn-lock chain holding the bars in place.

“Unexpected, but not a problem.”

Noticing What he looks at it, Hoffman handed him the bolt cutter. Geist, with the greatest care, bit the lock and unraveled the chain. After exchanging glances with the deputy, he made sure that everyone was ready, and then threw back the bars and pulled himself up.

He found himself squatting on the damp concrete foundation of the future bunker. It was surrounded by skeletal structures of walls, pipelines and cable ducts. Scaffolding and stairs led upstairs to the open area of the estate. Darting to the side, he dived under the scaffolding, disappearing from sight. The remaining eight saboteurs joined him one after another.

Geist took a moment to get his bearings. He must be about forty meters from his target - cottage number 8, one of several buildings covered with green boards. Each of them had their own purpose, but his team's target was the research department headed by mathematician and cryptanalyst Alan Turing.

Geist motioned for everyone to gather together.

“Remember, no shooting unless you are intercepted.” Throw firebombs at cottages four and six. Let the fire work for us. With any luck, this distraction will create enough confusion to conceal our retreat.

Hoffman pointed to two of the team.

“Schwab, lead your group to cottage number four.” Faber, your cottage number six. Kraus, follow us. Be ready to use the machine gun if problems arise.

Nodding in agreement, the saboteurs ran up the stairs and disappeared into the open pit of the bunker. Geist and Hoffman followed close behind, with Kraus bringing up the rear.

Crouching low, Geist moved north until he reached cottage number 8, where he clung to the wooden paneling. The door should be around the corner. He waited a minute, making sure no one sounded the alarm. And he mentally counted until finally shouts were heard from the west and east: “Fire, fire, fire!”

At this signal, Geist rounded the corner, ran up the plank steps of the porch to the door of cottage No. 8 and turned the knob. The night around was illuminated by the flickering flashes of a flaring flame.

As the screams grew louder, he squeezed through the doorway into a small room. The center was occupied by two trestle tables filled with stacks of punched cards. The whitewashed walls were covered with propaganda posters, a reminder of the ever-present eyes and ears of the Nazis.

With pistols drawn, he and Hoffman rushed forward, bursting through the opposite door into the next room. There, sitting at a long table, two women were sorting punch cards. The right one, already raising her head, turned around in her chair, stretching out her hand to the red alarm button on the wall. Hoffman shot her twice in the side. The muffled shots sounded no louder than a sharp cough.

Geist killed the second woman with one shot in the throat. She fell back with a look of amazement frozen on her face. They must have been members of the Royal Navy Women's Auxiliary who helped with the work here.

Rushing to the first woman, Geist rummaged through her pockets and found a bronze key the length of a finger. He found the second key - this time a steel one - on another corpse. And with these trophies in his hands, he hurried back to the main room.

An alarm siren blared outside.

So far our trick seems to be...

This thought was interrupted by the rattling roar of a machine gun, which was immediately echoed by new shots.

“We’ve been discovered,” Hoffman warned, cursing.

Unwilling to give up, Geist headed towards a waist-high safe against one of the walls. As he expected, it was locked with two keyhole locks, top and bottom, and a combination lock in the center.

“We have to hurry,” Hoffman wheezed next to him. - Judging by the sound, there is a lot of running around outside.

– Kraus, clear the way for us back to the bunker. – Geist pointed to the door.

Nodding, the giant raised his heavy weapon and disappeared behind the door. Geist barely had time to insert both keys when Kraus' MG-42 opened fire on the street, roaring deafeningly in the night.

Geist concentrated on the immediate task, turning one key, then another, and hearing the mellifluous “click-click” in response. He moved his hand to the combination lock. Now comes the real test of how long the Abwehr's arms are.

He turned the dial: nine... twenty-nine... four.

He took a deep breath, exhaled and pressed the lever.

The safe door swung open.

Praise the Lord!

A quick inspection of the insides revealed only one item - a brown accordion folder held together with red rubber bands. Geist read the title written on the cover.

Project ARES

He knew that Ares was the name of the Greek god of war, which was quite appropriate given the contents of the folder. But this name only hinted at the true nature of the work contained within. The abbreviation ARES meant something incomparably more devastating, powerful enough to change the course of world history. Geist grabbed the folder with trembling hands, knowing what terrifying miracles were hidden in it, and stuck it in his bosom.

Approaching the door of the cottage, his deputy Hoffman opened it slightly and poked through the crack:

A dozen people, bristling with weapons, emerged from behind the bushes and barn.

- Nobody move! - ordered the same voice, belonging to a tall American with a Thompson submachine gun in his hands.

Realizing that his team was in a hopeless situation, Geist raised his hands. Hoffman and the last two members of his team followed suit, dropping their weapons and raising their hands.

It was all over.

As the Americans searched Hoffman and the others, a lone man emerged from the dark barn doors and approached Geist, aiming a .45-caliber pistol at his chest.

“Tie him up,” he ordered one of his subordinates.

While Geist's wrists were being deftly tied with a rope, his captor spoke in a drawling southern accent:

– Colonel Ernie Duncan, 101st Airborne. Do you speak English?

– Who do I have the pleasure of talking with?

American soldiers drove the saboteurs into the back of a truck, and Colonel Duncan escorted Geist to the barn. Going inside, he closed the doors and with a sweeping gesture embraced the heaps of hay and piles of manure.

– Sorry for such a miserable situation, Fritz.

Turning to him, Geist broke into a smile:

“I’m damn glad to see you too, Duncan.”

- And I love you, my friend... How did it go? Found what you were looking for?

- It’s in my bosom. Whatever this thing was worth, the Germans fought like hell for it. Bletchley is burning. But in about a week it will recover and start working.

- Glad to hear that. “Duncan used a razor blade to free him from the bonds on his wrists. – How do you plan to play out the situation further?

“I have a small Mauser hidden in my groin holster.” – Standing up, Geist rubbed his wrists, unwound the scarf from his neck and folded it into a thick square. Then he reached into the front of his trousers and pulled out a pistol. -Where is the back door? “He looked over his shoulder.

“Behind those old horse stalls,” Duncan pointed out. - There’s no one behind the barn, so it’s yours the escape will go unnoticed. But you have to present everything convincingly enough, you know. Hit me with all your heart. Remember, we Americans are a tough people.

- Duncan, I don’t like this idea...

- Military necessity, buddy. When we get back to the States, you can buy me a case of Scotch.

Geist shook the colonel's hand.

Throwing down his .45 caliber pistol, Duncan grinned.

- Oh, look, you disarmed me.

– We Germans are a cunning people in this regard.

Then Duncan tore the jacket on his chest so that the buttons literally splashed onto the straw-strewn floor.

- And here comes the fight.

- Okay, Duncan, that's enough. Turn your head. I'll hit your ear. When you wake up, you'll have a lump the size of a baseball and a crazy headache, but you asked for it.

- Right. Take care of yourself there. – The Colonel squeezed Geist’s forearm. – It’s a long way to DC.

As soon as Duncan turned away, a hint of guilt flashed across Geist's face. But he understood that it still needed to be done.

Geist pressed the folded scarf against the barrel of the Mauser and pressed it to Duncan's ear. The colonel tensed up a little.

- Hey, what are you...

Geist pulled the trigger. With the sound of a sharp slap, the bullet pierced his friend's skull, throwing Duncan's head back and his body falling face down to the ground.

“I’m terribly sorry, my friend,” Geist looked down. - As you recently said, military necessity. If that makes you feel better, you've just transformed the world.

Putting the gun in his pocket, he headed to the back door of the barn and disappeared into the foggy night, finally becoming... a real ghost.

James Rollins, Grant Blackwood

Hawks of War

To all the four-legged warriors in the world... And to those who serve with them. Thank you for your dedication and service.

Acknowledgments

To the many people who joined Grant and me on this journey with Tucker and his devoted companion Kane. I am grateful to all of you for your help, criticism and encouragement.

And as always, special thanks to Steve Pray for the wonderful maps...and to David Sylvian for always having my back!

And finally, of course, special thanks to my editor for her talent (and endless patience) - Lissa Coisch - and her colleague Rebecca Lukash, as well as my agents Russ Galen and Danny Baror (including his extraordinary daughter Heather Baror). And, as always, I must emphasize that any errors of fact or detail in this book rest solely on my own shoulders. I hope there aren't too many of them.

Spring 1940

Buckinghamshire, England

Bletchley Park.

This establishment also had a code designation: Station X.

But tonight the destruction of these devices was not part of their plans.

In this territory lay hidden a trophy that surpassed the wildest fantasies of its leadership - a revolutionary breakthrough that promised to transform the fate of the entire world.

And I will take it - or die trying.

Geist felt his heart beat faster.

Quiet! - Without taking his binoculars from his eyes, Geist besieged the commander of his reconnaissance and sabotage group. “If anyone hears you speak German, we'll be stuck here until the end of the war.”

Truck! - Hoffman wheezed.

Geist glanced over his shoulder at the road cutting through the forest behind him. A flatbed truck with headlights shining dimly through blackout slits rolled along it.

Not breathe! - Geist hissed.

Their presence must not attract the attention of a passing driver. The entire crew lay with their faces buried in the ground until the rumble of the truck's engine died away in the distance.

Purely! - said Hoffman.

Looking at his watch, Geist again began to survey the surroundings through binoculars.

Why are they fussing so much?

There's only one last detail left.

Then his attention was attracted by a flash of light in the vicinity of the Bletchley Park estate. Blinking, the light went out, flashed again, after which darkness reigned completely.

It was this signal that Geist was waiting for.

It’s time to move out,” he raised himself on his elbow.

Finally, Geist went through the plan again:

As soon as we find ourselves in the estate, everyone sets fire to the building assigned to him. Create as much panic and confusion as possible. In this chaos, Hoffman and I will try to take possession of the package. If shooting starts, shoot everything that moves. Clear?

Everyone nodded.

The entrance to the bunker should be right in front of us,” Geist whispered to Hoffman, who was walking behind him. - Prepare people.

It was this weakness that Geist intended to take advantage of tonight.

Where are we going? - Hoffman inquired in a whisper. - I thought we would make our way through some kind of bunker...

This is true. - This last bit of intelligence was known only to Geist.

Bending down, he ran to the gate, which turned out to be unlocked. The recent flashing signal confirmed that everything was ready here.

The science fiction novel Warhawks by James Rollins is a breeze to read and is part of the Tucker Wayne series. The faithful dog Kane helps the main character investigate crimes, without whom the story would not be so exciting, because this dog is not quite ordinary. It is very interesting to observe the relationship between a person and a dog, which has become the best friend and helper. The plot of the book, as always, is on point, the author will make readers worry.

A life full of dangers and worries is very tiring. Intelligence officer and veteran of the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, Tucker Wayne decided to just relax. But the plans were not destined to come true. Tucker was found by his former colleague and begged for help. The woman talked about her work in a group of people on some very secret project. Unexpectedly, this military project was closed, but after that all those who were related to it began to die one after another. The woman is afraid that the same fate will soon befall her. What to do, Tucker begins his investigation. He manages to find out that this project was opened to create powerful modern robotic weapons. And since all participants in the project are exterminated so as not to reveal important information, this weapon will soon be launched. And the whole world will turn into chaos. Of course, Tucker, together with his faithful friend, will do everything to save the world from a bloody future.

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