by Brian Tyree
♦ ♦ ♦
Jennifer watched the last glimmer of light from the Aurora’s engines until it vanished from her night vision binoculars. She set them back on the seat, knowing it would be several hours before the Aurora returned. She thought about making another Starbucks run, but didn’t want to risk being seen on base this late. Jennifer felt confident she could tough it out. She was actually alert and excited. Seeing the Aurora energized her. She dragged the Kindle and earbuds out, picking up where she left off.
♦ ♦ ♦
Weng’s eyes had grown red and swollen. Tired. He was in the bunkhouse kitchenette downstairs, pouring a cup of coffee. Wondering where on the planet the Aurora could be. Trying to calculate it in his mind. He looked at the clock on the coffee maker. 2:37 a.m. Well, if it hasn’t already landed and it’s traveling at Mach four that would put it in the middle of—
A yell from the loft interrupted his thought... “She’s turning!” Charlie said. Weng abandoned the coffee, leaping up the stair case in three strides.
Matt watched the laptop screen from bed, using the wall as back support. Charlie leaned forward in the metal chair facing the laptop. “She seems to be slowing,” he said.
A coded message appeared on the laptop screen beneath the satellite image— the Aurora’s airspeed. “She’s slowed to subsonic,” Charlie said. “Something’s about to happen.”
Weng moved closer to the laptop, pulling a chair up without taking his eyes off the screen. Matt leaned forward as far as his pain threshold would allow.
On screen, the Aurora passed a flat land mass that appeared dark gray in infrared, leaving a slightly brighter glowing dot in its wake.
“What is it?” Charlie asked. “Did it drop a bomb?”
“Zoom in on it,” Weng ordered.
Charlie did and they could see the black silhouette of the stealth drone against the lighter gray background. “It released the drone?” Charlie asked, astonished. They followed the drone as it banked around in a wide loop. It left the contrasting patch of land beneath it, blending in with a black land mass, disappearing.
“Where’d it go?” Matt asked.
A small rectangular object appeared. Lighter in color against the black background. “There— what is that?” Matt asked.
“A parachute canopy,” Weng said. “Record the feed.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie acknowledged.
The chute diminished in size as it drifted to the ground below.
“Zoom in.” Weng commanded. The field of view enlarged and stopped.
“That’s the maximum, sir.” The chute now appeared larger in frame, but the image was blurry. The thermal signature of a man glowed beneath the canopy. The drifting figure stopped instantly as he hit the ground. Landing clean. The chute canopy quickly shrank and vanished. Reeled into the man’s backpack in a flash. He slowly stepped forward.
“Stay on him.” Weng said.
The glowing man took a couple more steps and disappeared.
“What?!” Matt exclaimed. “Where’d he go?”
“It’s the Phantom,” Charlie said.
“Send the confirmation,” Weng ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is this?” Matt asked. Charlie typed in a command to show a wide angle view and map overlay.
“Al Mukalla, Yemen.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
YEMEN
“Why didn’t we just Tomahawk their asses?” Baldo asked McCreary as Douglas circled the drone above the city of Al Mukalla, on the Yemeni coast. Trest arrived behind the box, startling Baldo.
“Because the Al Qaeda cowards put their IED factory between a children’s hospital and a mosque, knowing we couldn’t risk the collateral damage of a cruise missile or Hellfire strike.”
“Sorry, sir,” Baldo said, apologizing for his mild profanity. “I didn’t see you.”
“In addition, we have friendlies in the area,” Trest said. “An embedded Marine SF unit.”
“Are they on our comms?” McCreary asked, concerned about the secrecy of Project Cloudcroft.
“Negative. Maintain radio silence. They’ll pop chemlights on exfil. Guide our man to them. If he gets in trouble, radio JSRC to patch us through.”
“Roger that.”
“How did the new pack work?” Trest asked. “Did he find the demo kit the Navy boys left for him.”
“Yes, sir.” McCreary said. “Worked fine and he picked up the kit. He’s on his way to the target now. The buildings are heavily guarded by snipers…” He pointed to the IR image from a Keyhole satellite—showing Trest Al Qaeda snipers dotted throughout the area along with gunmen on balconies.
Ghost One approached the dilapidated building sandwiched between a Middle Eastern mosque and a third world hospital. The decayed look of the three story building was just a façade that went one room deep. A pair of guards were visible through his infrared visor. They hid, tucked out of view on either side of the rickety door. The entire façade resembled a building from Beirut in the 80s—appearing to have weathered more than one bomb blast.
McCreary ordered Ghost One to move slowly around the broken door to not disturb it and draw the guards’ attention. He followed the pre-planned three-dimensional blueprint map—projected in his HMD in augmented reality. The polygon map showed the path to his flashing target.
Ghost One reached the fuse room, where Al Qaeda operatives constructed triggers and fuses for an array of improvised explosive devices (IED). All the bomb makers were long gone as dawn was only hours away. Ghost One removed the demo kit that had a timer even a monkey could trigger. McCreary walked him through it, a process they had rehearsed half a dozen times in the VR OmniTrainer back in Hangar 302. The timer was set for two minutes—it just had to be activated—which Ghost One did with ease. He made his way back outside in under a minute, starting up the street when he heard McCreary over the radio. “Chemlights in sight. Proceed to exfil.”
Baldo typed in the new target that appeared in Ghost One’s HMD. An area a few blocks away where the desert met the small city. Ghost One could see the chemlights far off in the distance through his IR visor along with the flashing target HMD for him to follow.
Two floors up in a building across the street, an Al Qaeda terrorist swept the buildings with American made night vision goggles, his AK-47 at his side. He caught the glowing chemlights and called on his cell phone. He barely spoke when the building across the street erupted in an explosion followed by a series of larger explosions—the demo detonating explosive devices inside. It went up like a fireworks factory. Rounds of ammo popped and jettisoned from the burning building. In the chaos, the Al Qaeda loyalist opened fire at the chemlight. A SEAL sniper shot back, taking him out. Al Qaeda operatives appeared from every nook and cranny along the street, firing back in the direction of the sniper.
“Get him outta there!” Trest said. Realizing Ghost One was in the cross fire.
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At the bunkhouse, Weng and the others watched the YG-30 satellite feed in a wide-angle view over Al Mukalla. They immediately saw the round glowing area of the explosion in infrared.
“Zoom in!” Weng ordered. Charlie had already typed the command and the field of view enlarged to cover several city blocks. They watched the firefight between gunmen in buildings and snipers from an enemy force down the street—taking cover behind buildings.
“Where is he?” Charlie asked.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Take cover!” McCreary yelled through his headset. Then repeated it. “Beacon to Ghost One. Take cover.”
Ghost One jogged toward the flashing light of his exfil target and found cover alongside a building on the left. Continuing his progress along the wall toward his target. Snipers and gunners leaned from window sills and balconies firing down the street at the SEALs. They returned fire. A bullet struck the stucco building near Ghost One, blasting shrapnel of rock fragments at his head and neck.
“We’ve got a problem,” Baldo said. Pul
ling up the feed with Ghost One’s vitals and suit status. “He’s been hit. And is losing power.”
McCreary studied his heart rate and pulse readouts onscreen. The numbers were normal. “Maybe it’s just the suit.”
“Rebreather malfunctioning... We’re about to lose stealth,” Baldo said as he saw the battery power bar move from yellow into the red. He swiveled in his chair to Trest, “Initiate self-destruct, sir?”
Trest thought about it. “Stand by. Initiate it, but don’t pull the trigger until I say.”
“Yes, sir.” Baldo typed in the self destruct command and the cursor flashed—waiting for him to hit enter.
Trest turned to McCreary. “Get JSRC on comms. Tell them to pull him out of there. On my authority. Priority Alpha. Use all available resources.”
“Yes, sir,” McCreary replied. Dialing his radio to the JSRC frequency and issuing the order.
♦ ♦ ♦
All eyes in the bunkhouse fixated on the laptop screens. The adrenaline rush made Matt forget about his injuries as he stood beside Weng—watching the screen like it was a new Yuen Woo-Ping action film.
“Why are they advancing?” Weng asked, observing the glowing IR forms of SEALs heading directly into the kill zone of the Al Qaeda gunmen.
“Here!” Charlie pointed to a faint glow beside the wall, further down the street. It was the shape of a man, barely visible in IR.
“Record YG across the spectrum,” Weng said. “All bands. Zoom in on it.”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie typed commands relayed to the YG satellite. The view zoomed even closer, recording video from all sensors: optical (night vision), heat, infrared and gamma.
The glow of Ghost One grew brighter due to the malfunctioning suit affecting its IR-spoofing ability. Two more SEALs arrived, providing cover for the others as they grabbed Ghost One and thrust him to the ground—out of the open line of fire. They took cover as their brothers from the end of the street laid down suppressing fire on the enemy.
♦ ♦ ♦
The resolution of the feed in the box was much greater than the Chinese satellites. Ghost One appeared to be in a bag of sorts. “Stand by on self destruct,” Trest said. “Let’s give ‘em a chance to make it back to the bird.”
“Shut down everything except his vitals,” McCreary ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Baldo said. The vitals appeared on screen—all in green ranges—indicating normal.
“Beacon to Ghost One, lie still. Exfil in progress.”
The vital signs told them that Ghost One was conscious and fine, still in sleepwalking mode. The same state he would be in after any mission for the long flight home. The SEALs hurried him out of the street to the cover of trees and other buildings. Three SEALs carried him while one provided forward cover and one covered their backs. They cut through the buildings, reaching a clearing where the stealth Blackhawk awaited. Two PJs threw the bay door open and pulled him aboard. They looked at the SEAL for an explanation. They never heard a KIA called out over the radio.
“He’s okay,” The SEAL said. “Get him out of the bag.”
“Roger that,” The PJ answered. They slid the helo door shut and the Blackhawk was airborne.
“SITREP?” The pilot asked his PJ crewman over the radio. A PJ unzipped the body bag, carefully examining the suit and the man inside. He removed the helmet, eyeing a deep gouge on the carbon fiber surface. He felt inside to see if any broke through. None did. A gaping tear in the suit ran from a shoulder down an arm—an extension of the damage to the helmet.
The PJ checked Ghost One’s breathing and pulse, radioing the pilot back. “His vitals are fine. He sustained surface-level helmet and suit damage. Appears to be shrapnel strikes.”
The pilot relayed the message to Hangar 302 as the Blackhawk flew over the heart of Al Mukalla.
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“Cancel self destruct,” Trest ordered. Baldo cleared the command on the computer screen and exited the program. “I’ll be in my office. Call me when the Aurora is wheels up.”
“Yes, sir,” McCreary replied.
♦ ♦ ♦
The IR monitor in the bunkhouse showed the helicopter taking off and heading north. “They’re headed south toward the Gulf of Aden,” Weng said. “Bypassing the Saudi base. Track them with YG.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie replied.
It was only a ten-minute flight for the Blackhawk as it approached the newest aircraft carrier in the US Navy fleet, twenty miles off the coast of Yemen. The carrier showed up vividly in night vision from the YG satellite, its runway lines apparent, but her deck mysteriously vacant of all aircraft.
“Request carrier info,” Weng said.
“Yes, sir,” Charlie replied. Sending a secure message back to China.
“Where is the Aurora?” Weng asked.
The Blackhawk landed on a helipad off the main carrier runway. The reply came back from China. Charlie read it, “The USS Gerald R Ford. Super-carrier. Lead class.”
“Zoom in on the carrier.”
“Yes, sir.’
Weng studied the carrier. Waiting for the Aurora or any supersonic transport to rise by elevator from a hangar deep inside. The elevators were already in the up position and there was no movement on the deck. He looked to the Blackhawk, seeing two men unloading a third on a stretcher. “Pararescue,” Weng said, judging by their uniforms and Mich helmets. The person they carried glowed in the same dull IR signature as before, moments prior to his concealment in a body bag.
“What are they doing?” Weng asked. It appeared as though the PJs were carrying him to the aft of the ship in the middle of the runway. They took him down the painted lines on the runway, toward the back of the ship when all three of them vanished, forty feet from the edge of the carrier. Charlie looked at Weng, mystified.
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The USS Gerald R Ford was a floating technological marvel and the most advanced ship in the Navy’s arsenal. The Aurora, along with the stealth AOD attached to her fuselage, was on the runway near the aft edge of the ship. The PJs carefully loaded the sleeping Ghost One into the drone and buttoned it up. A portable shell of a hangar was over the Aurora. The hangar roof painted with matching deck color and runway stripes to conceal it from spy planes and satellites above. From high above, it looked like an empty runway. The PJs stood off to the side as the ground crew attached the catapult shuttle to the Aurora. They cleared out and the EMALS catapult did its thing. Launching the Aurora like an electromagnetic railgun. Sending her down the runway where she leapt into flight.
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All Weng and the others could see was a black patch flashing across the runway, briefly obscuring the dotted runway lines before disappearing over the water. “Lock on to the heat signature,” Weng ordered.
Charlie did, and the same box appeared around the small heat signature, outlined in a red graphic. The MSS agents relaxed, knowing they were back on the Aurora as it began the long haul back to New Mexico.
“Send report that we are successfully tracking the stealth aircraft, Aurora,” Weng said. Charlie typed it into the computer and sent the encrypted message back to the MSS headquarters in Beijing.
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Two and a half hours later, Jennifer sat bleary eyed in her car outside of Hangar 302. She had decided to risk it—a fresh new Venti soy mocha was in the cup holder with the old one on the passenger floor. She was halfway into her audio book. All the fun was gone and it felt more like torture as she didn’t expect to be listening for six hours straight. It was fulfilling its purpose though—keeping her awake. She had grown accustomed to the routine patrols of F-22s taking off and landing every hour. There was also a touch and go exercise that kept her alert, letting her put down the audio book for ten minutes. The F-22s used landing lights, which made them easy to spot. She didn’t know what to look for when the Aurora came down. She wondered if she may have already missed it, and Hal was long gone—back in bed fast asleep. She felt envy at the thought, knowing he wo
uld be peacefully sleeping while she waited out here for nothing. She relished at the thought of the ribbing she would give him the next time she saw him.
Her focus drifted back to the book. She was getting lost in the narrative when she heard the familiar screech of hangar doors opening. She paused the audiobook and yanked the earbuds out. Lifting up the night vision binoculars. The black of night seemed to come alive as the Aurora exited the darkness to form a flying silhouette against the hangars on the other side of the runway. The Aurora landed smooth, precise and flawless. A seamless motion from sky to ground. It quickly taxied to Hangar 302. The pilot moving it from its most vulnerable state—on the runway. The doors rapidly shut behind it with an even louder screech. The Aurora was visible to her and the rest of the base for less than thirty seconds.
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Weng and the others in the bunkhouse witnessed the Aurora landing in person. In awe of the magnificent aircraft. They had been tracking it from the YG satellite feed for the last three hours on its journey from Yemen to New Mexico. Weng read the airspeed data from the spy satellite, “Top speed, 7,279 kilometers per hour.” He looked to the other MSS spies under the aliases of Charlie and Matt. “That’s Mach six! We thought Aurora was only capable of Mach four.”
“Now what?” Matt asked, sleepy-eyed.
“We wait,” Weng answered. “He has to leave the hangar at some point, and then— we follow him.”
“What if there’s more than one Phantom?” Charlie asked.
“It’s possible,” Weng said. “Probable, most likely.” Charlie headed downstairs. His turn for coffee duty.
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Jennifer had been waiting alert for fifteen minutes, binoculars zoomed on the side of the hangar where Hal previously entered. He sprang out the side door in a near-sprint. Picking up his run where he left off several hours ago. Hal started up the road, jogging straight toward her. She fumbled the binoculars and crouched down the seat as he whisked by. His running shoes hitting the pavement in a rhythmic trod. She let him get to the end of the block, started her car and followed.