GHOST TRAIL

by Brian Tyree

  Baldo watched a feed from the MISTY spy satellite. “It’s heavily guarded,” he said.

  “As expected. And there’s fog on the DZ. Look for an alternate,” McCreary said. They scanned the monitors with the drone and satellite feed. “There—” McCreary pointed to a bare patch a hundred yards from the side of the estate. “He can land hillside here. It’s not a steep incline. No fog and he can access the back entrance. This is your new DZ.”

  “Roger that,” Douglas said. “Circling to set up for drop.” The bomb bay doors opened, revealing an armed warrior in matte black combat fatigues. Ghost One. “Dropping now.” He dropped like a bomb. His parachute released. Ballooning open in the wind. Programmed to open at two thousand feet.

  The familiar voice sounded over Ghost One’s bone phone. “Beacon to Ghost One, locate DZ.”

  A flat screen before Baldo showed the view from Ghost One’s helmet cam. It panned as Ghost One turned his head toward a digital target marked as his drop zone.

  His ultra-light chute limited mobility. There were no toggles or brakes. Ghost One leaned his weight in the direction of the target to steer, then landed hard in a tumbling roll. Baldo cringed.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” Trest’s voice shouted over speakers in the box. Confirming to the others that he was paying close attention from his remote location.

  Douglas looked panicked. McCreary put his mind at ease, speaking to Trest over his headset. “It’s okay, sir. We’ve trained for this.”

  Ghost One rose to his feet. Standing motionless. Looking straight ahead like a mannequin.

  “Retrieving chute,” Baldo said. Typing a command that instantly reeled the parachute into Ghost One’s backpack. The slender backpack was midnight black, built into his suit with a hardened armor shell, coated in composite. The spectral jump suit was covered in a light, flexible armor that was a hybrid of body armor and matte black fabric. It had a rough texture that resembled pebbled skin, with the rounded peaks sheared off. The valleys of the sheared pebbles contained a flexible metallic material. This same material covered Ghost One head to toe. His helmet seemed dipped in it, and his face shield was made of a similar transparent substance. Ghost One’s suit top rose to a neck sleeve with no skin exposed. The alien substance even coated his MP10 submachine gun, suppressor and magazines.

  “Initiating master check list,” McCreary said to Baldo.

  “Roger.”

  “Pressure control?”

  “Check.” Baldo replied, looking at sensor readings on another computer screen.

  “Heart rate?”

  “Check. Nominal.”

  “Rebreather?”

  “Check.”

  “HMD visor?”

  “Check.”

  “AR Targeting?”

  “Check.”

  “Weapons? Engage carbine.” Ghost One pulled the lever on his MP10.

  “Locked and loaded.” Baldo replied.

  “SCIROC?” McCreary continued.

  “Operational.”

  “ACS?”

  “NREM sleep. Stage three. Nominal.”

  “Activate.”

  Baldo typed in a command. Rendering Ghost One invisible. A revolutionary nanotechnology created the optical camouflage effect. Conceived by Boeing’s Future Combat Systems, it was ultimately developed by DARPA and Bae Systems under the SOCOM banner. Armor plating around the backpack protected the computer brains of the stealth systems. Including the GPS-aided optical camouflage—only one of the suit’s stealth components. The stealth capability had its limitations, thus allowing for ops only in suitable conditions.

  “Beacon to Ghost One, proceed to target.”

  A flashing dot labeled “El Lobo” appeared on Ghost One’s visor HMD. He jogged down the hill toward the tall perimeter wall around the villa.

  “Paco’s packin’ a Stoner!” Douglas said. Seeing the Hispanic guard at the back gate over Ghost One’s helmet cam. An American-made Stoner 63, light submachine gun, slung over his shoulder.

  “Thank Operation Fast & Furious,” Baldo said.

  Douglas shook his head in disgust. “Please tell him to smoke that bitch,” he said to McCreary.

  “Flash secondary target,” McCreary said, and Baldo typed the command that appeared in Ghost One’s HMD over the guard. “Beacon to Ghost One, eliminate secondary target.”

  Ghost One eyed his target from a distance through the scope on his MP10. Firing a single quiet bullet through his suppressor. Dispatching the guard.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Douglas exclaimed.

  “Keep it down,” McCreary ordered. Knowing Trest was hearing and seeing everything.

  “Yes, sir.” Douglas obeyed.

  McCreary gave the next order to Ghost One. “Penetrate the perimeter.”

  Ghost One scanned the large gate that was the height of the wall. He placed a hand on it to scale it, and it moved—pushing open. Ghost One eased it open and slowly breached the backyard. Suddenly startled by footsteps to his left. He raised his carbine and saw a giant cat in a cage looking right at him. A black panther.

  “How can it see him?” Baldo asked.

  “Make a note of it,” McCreary replied.

  The panther paced back and forth, keeping an eye on him as Ghost One entered the back door of the villa.

  “Proceed to the back bedroom,” McCreary ordered.

  A 3D image of the villa blueprints appeared on a screen. Ghost One saw the same thing in augmented reality through his visor. A 3D map toward where they believed El Lobo would be at this time of night. Fast asleep.

  Ghost One passed a dark kitchen. The dining room light was on. A guard ate dinner, watching a Mexican TV show on a small flat-screen. A Colt 45 was on the table next to his plate of bistec, rice and beans. Ghost One kept moving. Down the hall. He passed waist-high trophy cases. High end ones like from a museum or jewelry store.

  “What the—” Douglas and the others saw the trophy cases and what they contained—a collection of rare, antique pistols. Placards featured the name of the pistol and the previous owner. “Pancho Villa” labeled one antique revolver. There were several 9mm’s with solid-gold hand grips. Some hand grips were molded with the initials of the owner, others featured Catholic saints, and one had a pair of scorpions on the handle. There was even a solid gold AK-47. Ghost One looked up. Hearing a couple voices at the end of the hall. Guards talking. McCreary and the others saw them too. All thinking the same thing… How to kill both without the other making a noise?

  The solution came to McCreary. He immediately relayed it to Ghost One. “Head shots. Both targets. NOW!”

  Ghost One raised his weapon. At this range it was an easy shot. He hit the first one in the temple. Just as the second looked to were the muzzle flash came from, he took one between the eyes. Their falling bodies making more noise than the gunshots.

  “Conceal the bodies,” McCreary ordered. Knowing he couldn’t leave them right in the hallway. “Drag them to the next room.”

  Ghost One grabbed the first man and dragged him to the door of a room across the hall. He opened it. Standing face to face with shelves of currency in plastic bags. Floor to ceiling.

  “Holy shit” came over the bone phone. “Next room!”

  Ghost One dragged the body to an adjacent bathroom and left him inside. He did the same with the other guard, putting their rifles on top of them. He proceeded to the target bedroom and opened the door. It was an opulent bedroom straight out of a Manhattan millionaire’s bachelor pad. Elevated bed with a massive canopy. A polar bear rug in front of a lit fireplace. A mini bar off to the side. Massive flat-screen TV over the fireplace. Guns were in the corners and on nightstands, along with drugs in plain view. Cocaine on a mirror by the night stand and an opened kilo-bag on the dresser. The bed was empty. No sign of El Lobo.

  “Where is he?” Baldo asked.

  “Thermal scan,” McCreary said to Baldo.

  Ghost One looked from one side of the room to the other
and his helmet cam displayed a thermal view to the guys in the box. A faint glow appeared further away on the other side of the wall. “He’s in the closet?” Baldo asked.

  “Ghost One, proceed to closet.”

  Ghost One opened the door to the walk-in closet. Entering, weapon raised. He saw a crack of light between suits on hangars. A hidden door. He pressed it, opening up an expansive cave-like room. A large grotto with a swimming pool. The thermal view showed the heat source, much larger, on the far side of the room.

  The helmet cam feed turned to night vision in the box. “There. He’s in a hot tub in the back,” McCreary said.

  “What is this place?” Douglas asked.

  “It’s a real man-cave. With stalagmites and everything.” Baldo said.

  “Tites.” McCreary corrected him. “Stalagmites rise up. Stalactites hang down.”

  Ghost One carefully maneuvered around the large stalactites. Using them for cover. Inching his way toward the man in the hot tub with his back to Ghost One.

  “Proceed. Get visual confirmation of target.”

  “Why can’t he just shoot him from here?” Douglas asked.

  “We can’t see his face,” McCreary responded. “We don’t know it’s El Lobo. We need kill confirm from his helmet cam.”

  Ghost One slowly approached the lone man in the hot tub. He pulled a flap on his thigh that concealed a sleek, black Ka-bar BK7 tactical fixed-blade knife. He removed the knife, slowly stalking toward the drug lord. Just as he lunged in for the kill, a woman burst up from underwater between the legs of El Lobo. Ghost One slashed El Lobo’s throat. His limp head fell backward, recorded by the helmet cam.

  “And we have confirmation,” Baldo said. Disgusted, Douglas looked away from the screen. McCreary watched the woman in the hot tub. The soaking wet prostitute screamed. Shrieking her lungs out. Ghost One returned the bloody knife to its sheath. Closing the suit flap over his thigh.

  “ABORT. GO TO EXFIL. NOW!” McCreary commanded.

  Ghost One heard the sounds of guards trampling down the hallway to the bedroom. He looked for another exit. There was only a small changing room beyond the hot tub. The lone exit was the way he entered. He quickly moved toward it and stopped at the sound of men entering the bedroom and fumbling through the closet. Suddenly, four guards poured through the hidden closet entrance. Blocking Ghost One’s exit.

  “Donde es El Lobo?” One barked. He ordered another guard to get the girl.

  She screamed that El Lobo was dead.

  “He’s still here,” the guard said about El Lobo’s killer. Ordering his men to search the entire room. The guard barked a lock-down order over his radio for the villa. Nobody was to enter or leave.

  Two additional guards arrived at the entrance.

  It’s only a matter of time before they find him, McCreary thought. “Back against the wall,” he ordered Ghost One. “Get out of the way!”

  “Z-MAN!” blared over the headsets in the box. “Make him climb!” Trest said over the radio.

  “What’s Z-Man?” Douglas asked.

  “He’s in a cave. It’ll work!” Baldo said.

  “Beacon to Ghost One, climb the wall to the exit.”

  Ghost One turned, faced the wall and started to climb. With ease—like a lizard.

  “Wha—?” Douglas asked.

  “Z-man is the DARPA project that made Geckskin,” Baldo said. “It’s on his gloves and boots—”

  “—He’s not cleared for that!” McCreary interrupted.

  “He’s watching it now!” Baldo replied. Adding a respectful “sir” at the end.

  Ghost One climbed high up the arched cave wall, his gloves keeping him snug against the wall with the high-grip material. A guard shouted to the leader, saying El Lobo was dead and there was no sign of the killer. One tried blaming it on the girl. She was hysterical. When asked who killed El Lobo, she kept repeating “fantasma,” and “cuchillo flotante.” Ghost and floating knife.

  Ghost One climbed down the man-made cave wall, head first, agile, like the namesake of the technology enabling him. He quietly stepped from the wall, two feet from the guards searching the cave. Ghost One hugged the wall and slipped behind them, backing up to the entrance. He opened fire in rapid bursts. Killing those closest to him and fanning bursts of 4.6x30mm copper plated steel throughout the room. The men by the hot tub took cover behind fake boulders.

  “Pop smoke and exfil!” Ghost One heard over the bone phone.

  He removed an M83 smoke grenade from inside his vest, popped the cotter-pin clip and threw it. Smoke billowed throughout the cave. He raced out the bedroom and down the hall from where he entered, gun raised. Shooting guards that entered the hallway. He passed the kitchen and went out the back door. Guards at the gate saw the door move and fired at thin air. Ghost One was halfway across the yard and invisible to them. He ran straight for the wall and scaled it in two running steps. Planting his hands at the top and propelling himself over.

  “Go to the DZ!” McCreary ordered. A flashing target appeared in his HMD and he sprinted laterally across a steep hill. He reached the other side and saw the stealth helo—a modified HH-64 Blackhawk, blade spinning and door open—waiting for him.

  “Deactivate” McCreary Ordered. Ghost One’s stealth suit powered down on the run, and he appeared to those inside the helo. He climbed in, helped by two PJs, and robotically sat down as they strapped him in his seat. Another man in PJ fatigues and Mich helmet sat opposite Ghost One. He grabbed him by the shoulders and spoke to him face to face. Speaking to those in the box watching through his helmet cam.

  “Hell of a mission, ladies!”

  “Major?!!” Baldo exclaimed, recognizing Trest in the Mich helmet on screen.

  “Did you pussies think I would miss this op?” Trest laughed jovially. Then leaned back and gave the pilot the signal to take off.

  “Hit it with everything you’ve got.” McCreary ordered Douglas. “Save the incendiaries for last.”

  “Roger that. Target acquired and firing.”

  Two Hellfire missiles streaked from the stealth drone, blasting toward the villa. Followed by the more powerful Paveway laser-guided bomb. The hillside lit up in a series of explosions. The final bomb was an incendiary cluster bomb. It hit the remains of the villa and exploded. Sending projectiles in all directions in a quarter mile radius. The projectiles detonated with incendiary munitions hot enough to melt steel. Destroying any evidence of the American-made ordinance that just wiped out the villa.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ELM

  A woman appeared before Hal with hazy and blurred features. His mind unable to push through the fog to see more than her caramel-colored skin and dark hair, softly flowing over her shoulder. She wore a bright white gown. The glow from it consumed any detail. Did I die? Hal thought. Am I in Heaven?

  “Relax,” she whispered, pressing a pistol injector to his shoulder. Hal felt a sting in his arm, and her image vanished from his mind.

  Hal opened his eyes, searching the room. Gathering his bearings—realizing he was home in the comfort of his own bed. He remembered the pain from the injector and angled his shoulder into view. Spotting a small red dot.

  Curiosity drove him to the bathroom mirror. The dot looked like a freckle. Must have been a dream, he thought. Until something under his chin grabbed his attention—a rope-burn winding around the base of his neck. Different from the chin-strap mark he saw before. This was deep with a red and purple bruise. He rubbed it. Hoping it too would vanish from his mind. Instead, the pain in his neck triggered a memory of bouncing streetlights, and the flash of an assailant’s arms swinging a rope around his neck. Another memory interrupted—a calm view of the street, after the storm. His helpless attacker lying crumpled on the ground. Hal shook the memories and cobwebs from his mind. Enough is enough, he thought.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The waiting room of Dr. Stuart Elm was small, bland and sterile. Hal shifted, uncomfortable, in a hard metal chair. He picked up Bette
r Homes and Gardens magazine from the coffee table, felt a thin film of dust on it and set it back down. The place even smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned, or visited, in a month. Hal looked up to a wide poster of a lush, serene jungle. It pulled him into its trance. The clinic door opened, snapping him out. A silver-haired man in a lab coat leaned in. “Harold Sheridan?”

  “Hal,” he corrected. Rising to shake the older man’s thin and bony hand.

  “Dr. Elm. Stuart. Call me Stu or Stuart.” The man said in a grandfatherly tone. He had a thin wispy mustache that matched the color of his hair and neatly-groomed eyebrows. He wore a bow-tie, giving him a peaceful and approachable demeanor.

  Dr. Elm opened the door wide, welcoming Hal into the main clinic hallway.

  Once inside the office, Hal felt uneasy. Not from the doctor, or the exam he was there to receive—it was common among airmen, but the room itself seemed odd. Looking more like an attorney’s office than the physician’s exam room he expected. The doctor shining a pen-light into his pupils didn’t help.

  “First, I’m going to conduct some physical tests. All normal, and part of a basic mental health assessment.” He turned the pen-light off and held it vertical to Hal’s eye level. “Focus on the tip of my pen, please.” Dr. Elm moved the pen-light from side-to-side, watching Hal’s pupils. He held it still in the center. “Now move your head back and forth and focus on the pen.” Hal did as instructed. “How is your balance, Hal?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine as in good or do you have any issues? Ever feel dizzy or off-balance?”

  “Balance is perfect. I do feel dizzy at times. More recently. Usually, when I wake up. It can take a good hour or two for it to go away. Other days, I wake up and I’m fine.” Dr. Elm’s eyebrow raised slightly as he took notes on a pad.

  “Have a seat. I’d like to check your reflexes.” Hal did, and the doctor lightly tapped his knee cap with a rubber hammer. Then tapped the other side. Hal’s reflexes were normal. “Sit back, Hal. Relax. I’ll be back.”