by Brian Tyree
♦ ♦ ♦
“Don’t be afraid,” a Pakistani man said in Pashto. Speaking in the Middle Eastern language to a trembling woman in a black burka. They sat on a rug in a small, dark, Afghani mud hut. The woman’s coffee-colored eyes darting between the two men seated before her.
“We know your husband was killed in the bombing. We aren’t going to harm you. We just have some questions that we hope you will answer.” She nodded in compliance. “Your house was reported as a bombing, but upon inspection of the— remains, the men inside were shot at close range with these...” He showed her spent 4.6 x 30mm brass shells in a sealed plastic bag.
“These are from an American submachine gun. MP9 most likely. Because the men were shot at close range, the killer had to be someone they knew, or someone who was cleverly hiding.” The woman listened intently. “Witnesses saw you running from the house, moments before the bombing. The drone strike.” The Pakistani said. She started to cry. “Why are you crying, woman? We haven’t done anything.” She dabbed her tears with her gown. “Why did you flee? Could you hear the gunshots? What did you see that made you run?” She shook her head. Not knowing how to answer. The Pakistani leaned closer. Face to face. “Who else was in the house with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Then why did you run from the house?”
She was silent.
“If nobody else was in the house and you ran away from it, a reasonable person could conclude that you are the killer.”
Tears poured from her eyes. She sobbed. Shaking her head no.
“Then tell us. Tell us what you saw. What made you run away in terror?”
She looked directly at him. Their eyes connecting. She then looked to the other man with him.
“What did you see?” The Pakistani repeated.
“یو روح,” She replied in Pashto.
The Pakistani translator looked to the silent man beside him—Intelligence Officer Yuen Weng, dressed in special forces desert camos. The Pakistani translated the woman’s reply to Weng in Chinese, “She saw a spirit—a ghost.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal’s appearance returned to normal. He sat upright in bed as the ER doctor pressed a stethoscope to his chest. Listening. “Any chest pains?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Not since your meds kicked in.”
“And which hand was it? You said it felt sore earlier.”
Hal held up his right hand. The doctor examined it. “Make a fist.” Hal did. “Squeeze hard. Feel any pain?”
Hal nodded. “A little sore.”
“Did you over exert it? Do something you’re not aware of—like pulling the starter on a lawnmower or chainsaw?” Hal shook his head no. “Pull-ups, curls, or wrist hangs at the gym?” When the doctor said “hangs” a muted green image of his arm clinging to the handrail flashed in his mind. “What is it?” The doctor said, noticing that Hal tensed up.
“Nothing. I— uh changed a tire the other day. Just remembered. I must have twisted it wrong or sprained it.” Hal squinted. Focusing. Trying to retrieve the memory of the handrail or anything else.
“You okay?” The doctor asked. Seeing the vacant look in Hal’s eyes.
“Yeah. I’m alright.”
“Well, everything else is okay. Your heart levels are back to normal. You have the ticker of a twenty-five-year old. I’m concerned about you passing out though. We’re going to keep you overnight until I get the results back from your neurology tests…”
The doctor’s voice faded from Hal’s mind as he strained to recollect other memories of the handrail or the building he was hanging from. Nothing came back. The event was an empty vault in his mind. He wasn’t even sure if it was memory or imagination. The doctor’s voice faded back into his consciousness. Then Henry appeared at the door.
“Hank— What’a’you doing here?”
“Your friend will be fine,” the doctor said on his way out of the room. “We’re releasing him tomorrow.”
Henry gave Hal a heavy box smothered in crinkled wrapping paper. Hal scoffed at it. “I’m here one night— thank you though.” He leaned to set the gift on a nightstand and Hank’s voice stopped him.
“Hey— open that! You can’t have one, but it won’t stop me!”
Hal tore open a wrapped six-pack of Monk’s Wit. A craft beer brewed by monks at an abbey in northern New Mexico. Hank tugged a bottle out before the wrapping paper hit the floor. He cracked it open, took a seat and had a drink. “What they got you in here for?”
“I don’t know. They tell me I passed out.”
“Is this related to all that stuff you were telling me about?”
Hal looked around his room and out in the hall.
“I think so. This isn’t the best place to talk about it though.”
Henry looked around. Trying to see whatever Hal was looking at. “You think you’re being watched?”
“Sounds crazy, I know. But it’s even more than being watched.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Summer Palace, Beijing
Yuen Weng had never been to the Summer Palace of the Chinese President. His palms were sweaty, and the plush red velvet chair he sat on felt like a down sleeping bag. His heavily-starched formal officer’s uniform didn’t make him any more comfortable. He went over the notes of his presentation in his mind. Too preoccupied to take in the opulent décor of the ante room that featured shelves of Ming vases and ornate carvings in the walls.
Two disciplined guards in formal attire stared straight forward—guarding the double-door entrance to the Standing Committee Chamber. Weng dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as they pulled the doors wide open. An attendant stepped out and invited Weng inside.
The chamber was a formal, plush conference room. The walls and ceiling all hand-carved into twisting dragons and fierce warriors. The solid dark table had ten wide chairs around it with President Li Weilen’s in the center—directly below the seal of China. It featured five solid-gold stars emblazoned on a red background and hovering above the entrance to the Forbidden City. The officials seated around the president were members of the Politburo Standing Committee—the equivalent of the American President’s cabinet.
Weng’s escort seated him beside his superior officer, Wuhan Goan. Goan was rotund and clean cut. His official title: Minister of State Security. The attendant introduced Weng to the Standing Committee—starting with the President. Continuing around the table, providing names and titles of the other members.
The attendant then excused himself. All eyes were on the President, who nodded his approval for Weng to proceed. Weng stood, cleared his throat, and addressed the committee. “President Weilen, members of the committee… Upon a thorough investigation by the office of the Ministry of State Security, I am here to report that the fire in the Fuzhou Railway Communications Bureau Building was the result of a premeditated and sophisticated attack by a foreign state.”
Weng continued, speaking directly to the president. “As you know, the MSS has been observing the recent conflict in Afghanistan and has observed the activity of a stealth assassin or team of assassins, which our department has code-named the Phantom. I submit to you that the saboteur, the arsonist of the railway building and this Phantom-assassin are one and the same.”
Weng glanced high up the wall to a small window and gave a nod. The projectionist inside dimmed the conference room lights. A video projected onto a screen on the opposite wall of the chamber. It was a freeze-frame of surveillance footage. A bright orange ring encircled a dark object. “This is a close up of the building’s roof moments before the fire started. The circled area is an incendiary device that caused the fire. Its outer shell is magnesium—made to burn without a trace while igniting the inner core of thermite—the incendiary material. Our explosives experts have confirmed with a high degree of certainty that the thermite comes from an HJZ incendiary grenade produced by the Army of Taiwan. However, I believe this is only what the
saboteur wants us to think.”
Weng continued, briefly giving a nod to the projectionist to play the next clip. “Now as the projectionist slowly rewinds the video, watch the black box, the incendiary device.” The committee stared with intent as the box vanished.
“Where did it go?” One committee member whispered to another.
“Now, we’ll play the video forward in real time.” The box magically appeared again, erupting in a shower of sparks, eventually melting through the roof. Weng proceeded to show them an edited version of the mysterious handrail—jostling before and after the eruption. An animated outline of a figure was added to demonstrate how a person’s weight pulled the handrail down, causing it to break free. “The perpetrator seems to have survived this unexpected event and we presume he climbed down the building. However, no surveillance footage of this side of the building exists to confirm this.”
Weng paused. Addressing the President again. “We are unaware of the stealth technology the Phantom is employing. But we do know the delivery method by observing operations in Afghanistan.”
Video footage played from an infrared sensor on a Chinese spy satellite. “The missions happen at night. He is flown in by a supersonic stealth aircraft. We know this because of the heat signature. It’s very small, but consistent with heat signatures of American B-2 and B-21 stealth bombers. Here, you can see a lone parachute deploy. This is the figure of the jumper. Whatever optical camouflage device he’s wearing seems to trigger after landing. It also shields his body temperature from infrared view. We lost the parachuting man in Afghanistan after landing and his suit rendered him invisible. However, we were able to track the signature of the supersonic aircraft that delivered him, going backward through recorded satellite imagery. We were only able to track it for about an hour, but it was enough time to calculate its airspeed and possible trajectory. When we compare that airspeed information with the satellite data of the Fuzhou attack, we can extrapolate times that the aircraft took off from various American air bases around the world. This was the only possible match...”
A new video played from a satellite feed of the Aurora taking off. “The stealth aircraft code-named Aurora, taking off from Holloman Air Force Base. In the Southwestern desert of the United States, in the state of New Mexico.”
Weng turned toward the projectionist, motioning to turn the room lights on. “With the permission of the President, this committee and the office of the Ministry of State Security, I would like to lead a covert team to observe the base and investigate this matter further.”
Grumblings sounded among the committee. High-pitched feedback interrupted as a microphone slid across the desk. Dalian Teda, the Minister of Public Security, pulled it toward himself. Weng thought it was odd to have a microphone in such a small setting. His eyes followed the cable to a recorder on a stand in the in the corner of the room. “If I may, I’d like to ask you about some inconsistencies in your report.”
“Of course, sir.” Weng replied.
“The first being this notion of a phantom assassin. You described one possible theory, but there is also a prevailing theory that there is no such “Phantom” at work in the conflict in Afghanistan. It is a rumor started by the CIA as a psychological warfare tactic designed to terrify their enemy into submission. The CIA has found great success with these tactics in the past, including frightening communists in the Philippines with tales of a mythical blood-thirsty creature called Asuang. The second inconsistency—even if there is a Phantom or a stealth assassin as you say, how can you ascertain what country it represents? There are no distinguishing marks on the aircraft. It’s not very compelling evidence to allege an act of war by the United States. For this severe of an accusation, we need irrefutable evidence that the United States did indeed commit an act of war.”
“Yes, sir,” Weng said. “I understand sir—” He was interrupted by the same minister.
“—And removing that uncertainty from the equation, there is also no evidence that this Phantom was at the Railway Bureau building. How do you know the device wasn’t placed by an insider? Or placed by some other means? Perhaps launched from the roof of another building nearby? Did you check other buildings for any such evidence?”
“Not personally, sir.”
“How do you know it wasn’t dropped by a helicopter or weather balloon? Or some other means more plausible than an invisible man? Have you ruled out the possibility that an insider may have doctored the surveillance footage before you had a chance to view it? We know for a fact that the incendiary is from the Taiwan Army. This is a certainty. I believe we should also follow this certainty and investigate the possibility of a preemptive strike on our nation by Taiwan.”
“As you wish, sir,” Weng said.
The microphone slid two seats to the right, to the Propaganda Chief, Tianjin Ticai.
“My colleague here has been very generous. Not only do you lack the necessary evidence to support your theory, but what do you expect the President to say to the world as to the nature of the origin of this fire? If this is the only explanation that the MSS can provide, then it seems the entire investigation has been a waste of time, effort and resources. You would do well to consider the President’s time—which you may also be wasting. Not to mention the time of the esteemed members of the Standing Committee.” He addressed Weng’s superior officer, Goan. “You’re staking everything on an invisible man?! How do you account for allowing a subordinate to present something so unsubstantiated as this?”
Goan humbly replied, “I apologize to the chief, to all the committee members and to the President.” He gave a stern look to Weng. An obvious cue, and Weng stepped forward.
“If I have wasted the President’s time, and the time of this committee, I apologize. I regret being unable to present the evidence you require.”
Goan rose and nodded to the committee before leaving in humiliation. Weng followed. Bowing to the others with respect. He couldn’t imagine the presentation going any worse. Weng could see his demotion back to the Red Army before his eyes, and an imminent transfer to the Siberia of China, a post in Yakeshi along the Ituri River, where winter temperatures drop as low as sixty-two degrees below zero. Hitting him even harder was the thought of disappointing his wife.
The attendant led him to the door and a voice halted him. The voice of the Chinese President. “Excuse me, gentlemen…” Goan shot Weng a quick look of disapproval. Expecting the worst. They both politely turned to the president.
“Sir?” Goan asked.
“I respect the opinions of all Standing Committee members. It is with their sound counsel and aid that I am able to do what is best for the people of China. Professionally and logically, their opinions are correct. Personally, however, I am not required to hold the same beliefs. I believe there are no coincidences, and that when the impossible is removed from an equation, the lone solution is often the correct solution. The officer presents a very compelling case. Although at present, he lacks the necessary evidence. He and your department have the full support of his President and his country—to continue the investigation with the overseas operation he recommended to the committee. We expect to see you again very soon with the concrete evidence the committee demands, and evidence that I am sure you will find.”
Weng was overcome with elation, but hid his glee to shroud the appearance of gloating. Even the scowl on Goan’s face faded.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Weng replied.
“My gratitude, Mr. President. Thank you,” his superior noted. They both nodded to members of the Standing Committee and got the hell out of the chamber.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WAR GAMES
“Sheridan is moving,” Airman Baldo said to McCreary, who leaned over to watch the monitor. The video feed was from a disguised surveillance camera the “electricians” placed on the transformer box—overlooking Hal’s house and driveway. Hal’s metallic gray GMC Canyon Denali truck pulled out of the driveway.
“He
loaded some kind of gear in the back,” Baldo said. “I couldn’t see what it was. The camera was obscured.”
“Pull up MISTY and follow him.”
“Roger that.”
McCreary picked up a phone. “You may want to come down here, sir. Sheridan is on the move.” He paused, listening to the commands from Trest on the other end. “Roger. I’ll find out.” He hung up the phone, turning to Baldo. “Find out if Sheridan made a request for a personal day, and the reason he gave for it.”
“Yes, sir,” Baldo replied. Accessing the base’s payroll and scheduling website. He navigated to Hal’s department. “This shows it’s a personal day. PTO. No reason given.”
“Alright. Where’s MISTY?”
“Tracking. Should be up in a few seconds.”
Trest entered the hangar, stepping up into the box, making himself comfortable. Putting his coffee on the desk.
“MISTY is up. Following Sheridan’s truck.” Baldo zoomed in on the truck from the wide field-of-view of the spy satellite. The image was better quality than 4k—providing Baldo with the ability to continue zooming while retaining sharp focus. “It looks like he’s leaving the base.”
“Scramble our Force Recon boys.” Trest said to McCreary. “Tail Sheridan. Eyes on target only.”
“Roger that, sir.” McCreary relayed the orders through his headset. Trest and Baldo watched Hal’s truck pull into the driveway of another home on the base.
“Where is he?” Trest asked.
“Pulling up the map overlay, sir.” Baldo typed at the computer and street names and numbers appeared on the satellite image. A man exited the house, carrying a large duffel bag. He threw it in the back of Hal’s truck.
“Who the hell is that?” Trest asked.
“Zooming in, sir.” The image enlarged, but as it was a view from directly above, it showed only the top of the man’s head.