by Brian Tyree
The men standing over the ghost heard a flush of fluids circulating through the suit. The suit began to glow a dull orange, heating quickly. Becoming a red hot magma. The men stepped back in fear. The suit melted in a burst of smoke and flames. A chemical combination released white-hot plasma through the suit. Engulfing the helmet, mask and entire form of the man. It burned rapidly, and when the smoke cleared only a charred patch of leaves and grass remained on the rain forest floor. The rebels stabbed at the scorch-mark grave with the barrels of their AKs, wondering where the man, his suit and remains went.
McCreary pulled up the image of an African American CCT SF operative on the computer. His call sign—Ghost Three. McCreary typed KIA over a field marked STATUS. “Ghost Three, KIA,” McCreary said.
“Now, we’re down to two?” Baldo asked. “What about China? Are we postponing it?”
“Negative,” Trest answered, “Fuzhou goes forward.”
“Who should we call up?” McCreary asked.
Trest responded without hesitation. “Ghost One.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHARKIE
Hal rubbed his eyes and peered down at his G-shock wristwatch. 1 a.m. He sat in the dark—his face illuminated by the laptop on his small computer desk at the foot of his bed. He scrolled through an article on BBC’s website about a bombing in Kabul, Afghanistan. The pictures looked straight out of his flashes and dreams. Hal clicked on an image and it filled the screen. It was a wide-angle view of the demolished hut and other mud huts around it. The article called it a drone strike, but didn’t specify the exact location in Kabul. It appeared to be a village on the outskirts of town.
Hal searched Kabul on Google Maps and clicked satellite view. Scanning the outer areas of Kabul, but finding nothing familiar. He glanced at the bottle of meds on his desk that Dr. Elm prescribed. He popped the cap and swallowed a couple.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal’s phone rang the next morning. He groggily woke to answer it, realizing it was ringing along with his alarm clock. The dull annoying tone had been blasting for the last half hour. “I’m on my way. Yeah. Overslept.” He was more relieved that he woke up nightmare-and-headache free, than worried about being late for work.
The day passed without any flashes or daydreams. Hal could hardly believe it as he looked up at the clock. Five o’clock and not a single symptom. The meds must be working. A hard slap on the shoulder from Yarbo jolted the thought away.
“You back in class tonight, buddy?”
Hal nodded. “I’ll be there.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Yarbo led the Muay Thai class of a dozen men and women of varying skill levels. The class used two thick wrestling mats, butted up next to each other as their floor. Yarbo demonstrated advanced combinations of attacks and defenses. “This defense works well against an empty hand or a knife lunge.” Yarbo nodded to a volunteer, who threw a punch half-speed at Yarbo’s jaw. “When you block, it’s more of an angled deflection. Don’t try to push the attacker’s arm away from you because you don’t know how strong they’re going to be. A deflection neutralizes their strength without much effort on your part. Try to match the angle of deflection with their angle of attack. The right angle of deflection allows you to maintain your core balance while knocking the attacking strike off course. Once you deflect it, execute a counter strike!” He deflected the attacker’s slow-motion punch and then jabbed him with a counter strike, stopping inches short of the man’s face. “Now, try it with your partner.”
The class paired up, but Hal was odd man out. “I got you, Sheridan,” Yarbo said. “Ready?” Hal nodded. Yarbo threw a three-quarter strength punch. Hal deflected it, returning fire with a counter strike that stopped short before contact. “Good,” Yarbo complimented. “Now you.”
Hal threw a punch, which Yarbo easily deflected and counter struck. Stopping short. “Now, opposite arm!” Yarbo yelled to the whole class, and they switched attack and defense arms. Hal and Yarbo practiced the techniques, each taking a turn.
“Good,” Yarbo said to the class. “Now, full speed!” He kept an eye on the class, making sure they were safely performing the techniques. “Nice work.” He lowered the elbow of one participant, making his form correct then turned back to Hal. “Ready?” Hal nodded. Yarbo threw a full speed punch, and Hal deflected it, countering with a full speed right, stopping an inch short of his chin. “That was close.”
They returned to their first stances and Hal threw an attacking blow. Yarbo deflected and countered. Hal blocked the counter strike instinctively, and naturally launched a counter of his own. Yarbo blocked it and before they knew it—they were sparring.
Both men used various advanced strike and blocking techniques. Each holding his own. The class froze. Stopping their exercise to watch the intense sparring match. The class formed a circle around Hal and Yarbo as their spar had advanced to include kicks and judo throws.
Yarbo attacked in a flurry and Hal impressively countered. Surprising Yarbo. Hal threw a counter right too fast for Yarbo to block, but instead of a full punch, Hal smacked him with an open hand. Not hard, but hard enough to let him know he got one by. Yarbo smiled and nodded. It was on.
Yarbo stepped back and pulled a sharkie (rubber knife) from his belt. He lunged at Hal, and Hal blocked it using the technique they just practiced. Yarbo pulled his arm back, sharkie in hand in a counter-swipe move, slashing at Hal’s midsection. Hal deflected it and employed a perfect grab-and-snap technique on Yarbo’s wrist. Not injuring it, but popping the rubber knife free and transferring it into Hal’s hand. Oohs and aahs sounded from the crowd, along with a patter of golf-claps.
Yarbo wasn’t pleased, shown up by a student in front of his class. He ratcheted up the spar intensity, lunging forward to taunt Hal into striking with the knife. Hal took a jab and Yarbo jumped back. Yarbo threw a kick that Hal sidestepped. Yarbo lunged with a fist toward Hal’s midsection. Hal stabbed with the knife toward Yarbo’s exposed ribs. The strikes happening in unison. Only Hal didn’t realize he was taking the bait. Yarbo grabbed Hal’s upper arm—avoiding the sharkie blade and using Hal’s own momentum to pulls his arm and shoulder forward in a judo-throw. Hal somersaulted over and hit the mat on his back and head in a hard THUD.
The class was silent. Hal slowly sat up, dazed. “You alright?” Yarbo asked, offering him a hand up. Hal nodded, accepted his hand and rose a little wobbly. A series of white flashes appeared in his mind. Hitting the mat shook something loose. The vision of his mind’s eye was a gun display case. Trophy weapons. Nine-millimeter sidearms with gold hand grips. He also saw a cave with shimmering water reflections on the roof and walls. Another vision appeared of him slashing the throat of a man in a hot tub. Hal closed his eyes. Forcing the images from his mind. He grabbed his towel from the mat. Wiping the sweat from his face. Hal picked up his gym bag and staggered to the door. Ignoring concerned classmates offering help as he headed out.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal arrived at home, dropped his gym bag on the living room floor and fired up his laptop. Soaked in his sweaty martial arts gi. He sat in the dark, eyes closed, waiting for the computer to start. Trying to remember more details from the flashes. Searching his memory. He saw the cave again. Then the hallway. He saw men speaking Spanish. Mexico? He thought. Was I in Mexico? Whose house is this? The computer start-up theme chimed and his eyes flicked open. He typed in a search of “Mexico murder gun collector.” He scanned through the search result paragraphs. Nothing caught his eye until about a half a page down. “Mexican Drug Lord Murdered” was highlighted in the link metadata along with a blurb about a rare gun collector and owner of exotic animals. A flash of the black panther appeared in Hal’s mind. He remembered looking eye-to-eye with the exotic muscular cat. He clicked on the website link. It showed images of a blackened and smoking pit where the villa used to be. The article read, “Notorious drug cartel kingpin El Lobo (Alfredo Alfredo Vincente Garcia) is dead. Killed in the bombing of his opulent hillside villa in the Kin
o Bay Estates region of Mexico, overlooking the Gulf of California.”
Hal searched the area in satellite view of Google Maps. Zooming to the hillside villa. More flashes pounded his mind. He saw himself entering the back gate and going into the house. Then racing across the hillside shrouded in thick fog like he was running from something.
♦ ♦ ♦
In the box at Hangar 302, Baldo sat alone. Watching surveillance camera feeds from inside Hal’s home. Another screen displayed a hacked view of Hal’s computer. Baldo was seeing everything Hal searched. The young airman frantically picked up the phone. “It’s Baldo at 302. Sheridan is looking at the Mexico site.”
“What do you mean?” An angry Trest answered.
“He found an article on El Lobo’s murder and searched the area.” He’s zooming in on a map view of the estate. He knows.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Should we bring him in?”
“Yes! Wait though. Until he’s asleep. Bring him in the usual way.”
“Roger, sir.”
Hal obsessively searched the villa surroundings in Google Maps, and pulled up every article he could find on El Lobo. Copying and pasting notes, images and dates into a document he created. He glanced down at his watch, realizing he had been going at it for several hours. He hadn’t experienced any other flashes since seeing the panther and the yard. Seeing the villa and surroundings emboldened him. He was even more committed. He knew he was there, but his analytical mind couldn’t accept it without a viable explanation. Was it an RPA mission I flew at Creech? He pondered. Scanning his mind back in time over all the RPA missions he flew.
Nearly all were under Air Force command, but a few were flown under the guidance of the CIA. Of those, the only missions in our hemisphere were recon missions in Columbia, Venezuela and Central America. He remembered a couple strikes on cartel targets in Columbia. He thought about possible strikes on Mexican cartels, straining his memory, but couldn’t recall any. He thought about other recon missions he may have been on earlier in his Air Force career, but none came to mind.
Hal flipped through his phone. Searching for a contact. Hoping it was still there. He found it. “Emerson RPA Pilot.” Hal thought about calling him then looked at his wristwatch. It was well after midnight. Too late to call. Hal was at peace with the thought of Mexico being part of a past mission he couldn’t remember. The notion would tide him over for the night anyway, and allow him to get sleep without obsessing on it. He popped a couple more pills from the bottle Dr. Elm gave him, which seemed to be working. Hal showered and hit the rack. The pills took effect and he was out a few minutes later.
♦ ♦ ♦
It was after one am in Hangar 302. McCreary and Trest had arrived, joining Baldo. They watched Hal sleep peacefully over a night vision camera hidden in the corner of his ceiling. “Bring him in.” Trest ordered.
“Initiate the sequence.” McCreary ordered Baldo. Baldo typed at the computer and a high-pitched sequence of beeps played over the speakers. Soft. Like a subtle case of tinnitus— ringing-of-the-ears, but in a high-pitched synthetic tone. Not loud enough to wake a person up.
“Implant operational,” Baldo said. “He’s hearing it fine.”
Hal rose from his bed at the sequence of high-pitched notes. Eyes closed. He stood in front of his bed and faced forward. Like standing at attention. Awaiting orders.
“Sleepwalking engaged.” Baldo noted. “You have the comm.”
McCreary took over, adjusting his headset. Speaking in monotone. “Beacon to Ghost One. Calmly get dressed, get in your vehicle and drive to the base. Drive to Hangar 302.”
Hal was in a subconscious state. Unaware of everything he was hearing through a bone phone surgically implanted into his skull near his inner ear. He obeyed McCreary’s commands with methodical precision and without question. Even though his eyes were half open, his mind was in a slumbering daze.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal parked outside the hangar, in a trance. Calmly walking past the guards, who were on order to not stop him or ask any questions. McCreary waited to meet him inside the hanger. Hal crossed the threshold, and McCreary spoke to him in the same calm monotone voice. “Follow me. You’re doing fine.”
Hal followed McCreary to the small room off the side of the hangar. He opened the door to Dr. Elm and a couple associates in lab coats. The room was more cluttered now—looking like a small operating room with a modern EKG monitor and a breathing apparatus stationed by the reclining dental chair.
“Somnambulism is fine—” Elm said, interrupted by a “Shhh” from McCreary, who whispered, “He can only hear my voice.”
Elm nodded and McCreary led Hal to the padded dental chair. “Lie down.” Hal turned, angled his back to the chair, swiveled his hips, and eased into the chair. Like a programmed android. “Sleep.”
Hal closed his eyes. McCreary nodded to one of Dr. Elm’s associates. A man in a lab coat. He gave Hal an injection that rendered him unconscious. A long-haired woman in a lab coat began attaching EKG electrodes to his chest. She wheeled the machine over, monitoring his heart rate. Dr. Elm and the other associate tugged a more ominous white machine on wheels near the dental chair. They attached electrodes from the machine to Hal’s temples, scalp and chest.
“You may not want to stay for this” Elm said to McCreary. Also nodding to Trest, who stood just inside the door. Neither budged.
“What does it do?” Trest asked.
“It scrambles the electromagnetic signals in a specific area of his brain, the part that handles short term memory,” Elm said. “We’re deleting his recent memory flashes.” Elm nodded to the associate and stepped away from Hal. Hal’s head jolted and shook from electric shock. Elm raised a hand, bringing the shocks to a halt. He looked to the woman at the EKG.
“Nominal heart rate. BP. Everything’s fine.”
Elm motioned for another shock and Hal received another ZAP, causing him to convulse while remaining unconscious.
“How much does it erase?” McCreary asked.
“We’re focusing the electrical current on the area of the subconscious brain where dreams form. In previous cases, it typically scrambles or deletes this neural activity within the last week or two.”
“What about his other memories? Like day to day. Things he needs to remember for work?” Trest asked.
“Those memories aren’t affected.” Elm said. “They’re stored in the conscious part of his brain. Everything he sees and remembers on your missions is stored in the subconscious area of the brain. I’d pull him from action for a while though.”
“How long?” Trest asked.
“Depends on the individual. Hard to tell. Until they stop seeing the flashbacks. Could be weeks. Could be months.”
Elm ordered two more rounds of shock therapy. Hal was under deep sedation, meaning they would have to take him back home. Something they had planned as a contingency, months before, but never executed. Until now. McCreary called Douglas up to monitor the neighborhood from above with the MQ-10S. When the coast was clear, they carried Hal to his door, used his own key to open it, and laid him back in bed. Baldo had night watch duty and kept an eye on him from the surveillance monitors in Hangar 302.
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal’s annoying alarm clock worked this time. Waking him up on the dot. He had an excruciating headache and no memory of anything, aside from being on the computer until late and going back to bed. He knew he had been searching something on the internet, but couldn’t remember what. He started the computer up and performed a history search from the previous day. Baldo had erased everything related to Mexico and the drug lord, and replaced the history with PTSD websites. Hal clicked on it and opened the site. It didn’t feel right. He read about military-related stress disorders, but his throbbing headache made focusing on the words too painful. Hal got up, rummaged around his bathroom cabinets and found a bottle of Tylenol. He popped a couple and drank straight from the bathroom faucet, washing them do
wn. Hal returned to the computer and searched Google Maps for Psychiatrists in Alamogordo—the nearest town with MRI and CT scan machines.
♦ ♦ ♦
Baldo shook the sleep out of his eyes and rattled away at the computer. It was as if he was behind the Google Maps firewall. He pulled up psychiatrist offices in Alamogordo and one-by-one marked the offices closed or out of business. There were only a handful of psychiatrists in the town of thirty-thousand people, and Baldo limited Hal’s options. He could see Hal’s cursor clicking on an open office and hovering over the phone number.
Baldo picked up a phone in the box. “He’s getting a second opinion. Sheridan. In Alamogordo.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal’s skull appeared in an electronic image on a computer screen. An older neurologist, Dr. Morris, examined it with reading glasses. “Your lab ran a 3T MRI and a CT scan of your skull and brain. I see nothing abnormal. The visions you described sound more psychological than neurological to me. When is the last time you saw them?”
Hal had to think about it. Unable to recall recent ones. “A week ago. Maybe longer.”
“And nightmares? When was your last one?”
“A week ago. Or two.”
“You don’t have a neurologic condition that I can determine. All our tests came out normal, so you’re beyond my area of expertise, Mr. Sheridan. I recommend seeing a psychologist. They are better equipped to delve into your psyche and figure out what’s going on. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“I’m just relieved everything checked out. No tumors or anything.”
“Definitely not. You’ve got the brain of a healthy forty-year-old man.”
“What about the headaches? Could you see what’s causing them?”
“Not from these scans. Could be anything. Seasonal migraines. Dehydration. Have you had migraines before?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Headaches from hangovers. I’ve had plenty of those.”
“These could also be alcohol related, or from another trigger—too much coffee, not enough sleep… Drink more water, especially before you sleep and see if that helps.”