GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel

by Brian Tyree

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Charlie and Weng were enjoying the fresh coffee he brewed when they spotted a man leave the hangar and dart past a car.

  “He runs like he’s in formation,” Matt said, watching from the bed, leaning against the wall.

  Weng nodded. It was an odd running motion. They each focused on the night vision monitor. Weng glanced to the IR monitor and saw the warm glow from the car engine nearby. The car pulled out of the driveway, turning in the direction of the runner. “He’s being followed,” Weng said. “Zoom in and keep both in frame.” Charlie typed in the remote commands for the YG satellite. “And open another window on the hangar. I want to see who else leaves tonight.”

  Charlie rattled away, typing more complex commands. The image from the YG was both wide angle and high resolution, meaning any area could be enlarged for a close-up view while still maintaining high resolution. The program also allowed for multiple “cameras” or perspectives to be enlarged at once. Each opening as its own window in the software program. There could be dozens of active windows at any given time—and there indeed were, as other agencies in China utilized the same feed—unbeknownst to Charlie. Their only limitation was the field the satellite was looking at, which Weng and Charlie commanded for this mission.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer followed Hal the same way back. They arrived on his street and she parked a few doors down from his house, watching him enter the front door. He didn’t turn on any lights until she saw a back window illuminate. His bedroom, she assumed. Within a minute it was out. The whole house was dark and quiet. Just like the neighborhood. She started her car and took off. Wondering how fruitful the whole experience was. She hoped Hal would glean something useful from her observations.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Weng ordered a map overlay to identify the address of the home. He knew obtaining the man’s identity would soon follow, once they had his address. MSS hackers in Fuzhou had reverse directories and other cyber tools that could identify nearly any non-clandestine military personnel in the U.S.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It was a late night for the MSS agents in the bunkhouse. One that turned to day as they were treated to a glorious golden-orange New Mexico sunrise. Charlie had opened separate windows from the spy satellite to track the vehicle following the runner—along with the three individuals who left the hangar minutes after Hal. By the time they completed their research over the next week, they would have the names and home addresses of Hal, Jennifer, McCreary, Douglas and Baldo. Weng’s final communiqué to MSS headquarters that night read, “Phantom transport, location and identity verified. Location—Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico, United States.” He added an assessment in the notes, “I am confident with high certainty that the United States and this phantom project are responsible for the Railway Bureau bombing in Fuzhou.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TS//TK-SAR

  Henry Banks drank alone late at The Terminal bar. He wasn’t really alone as he enjoyed the company of Maggie the barkeep. She had stepped in the back and Henry looked around the bar. He thought he was the only patron until he saw an airman in the corner leaning over a table, drinking away the ills of the day. Henry had a feeling he’d be the one to drive the airman home. He didn’t mind the notion and would gladly do it if a cab wasn’t available. Maggie sprang through the double saloon doors behind the bar. Bursting out of the back room. “Hank, you mind givin’ me a hand. I ain’t supposed to be bending over and I gotta’ bring a keg out of the cooler.”

  “Be happy to!” Henry said, on his feet in a snap and rounding the bar. “Lead the way, m’lady.” She opened the heavy refrigerator door to the walk-in cooler full of stacked kegs, refrigerated bacon and hamburger patties. “Step inside.”

  Henry stepped in and Maggie closed the door, remaining outside. He heard her cackle like a witch through the thick insulated door.

  “What the—?” Henry thought he was being pranked when Hal emerged from the shadows.

  “Uncle Hank!” He gave Henry a hug. Henry looked Hal over. At least Hal dressed for the occasion, wearing a heavy jacket. Henry spotted Jennifer behind him. “This is Dr. Jennifer Morgan—”

  She interrupted, extending a hand. “—Call me Jenny.” Hal shot her an odd look.

  “Yeah, call her Jenny,” Hal said. “I’ve been calling her Jennifer the whole time!”

  “What can I say?” Henry replied. “The ladies love me! And why the hell are you two here in a freezing cooler? Let’s go get a drink!” Hal stopped him.

  “We’re in here, because we’ve confirmed it— everything I told you before. They are following me. They must know I go to this bar so they’ve probably bugged it too and have it under video surveillance. Jennifer—Jenny is the one I told you about, misled about her involvement in Cloudcroft. We need your help.

  “What is it you do?” Henry asked Jenny.

  “I’m part of a government research program studying the effects of sleepwalking on the subconscious mind—or so I thought. The program is an offshoot of the CIA mind control program Project MKUltra from the sixties.”

  Henry’s expression turned to serious concern as Hal and Jenny filled him in on the events of the last couple nights... Jenny watching him during the night and Hal flying out on a drone attached to the Aurora.

  “The flashes, visions and dreams are real,” Hal said. “I have been killing people. Carrying out assassinations and black ops under their mind control. “

  “So, what can I do?” Henry asked. “How can I help?”

  “I don’t have clearance to the footage from the Aurora or this drone,” Hal said. “I’ve never even seen the drone—consciously. The way Jennifer described it, it sounds like a new stealth drone. I showed her cleared images of unmanned vehicles we use in combat like the Sentinel, the RQ-170, and the Navy’s X-47, you know, both flying wing design. She said it looked more like the MQ-9, but with black paint and flat angled panels like the 117. Can you get access to this footage? Then we’ll know for sure what they have me doing.”

  Henry exhaled deep. Pondering. Thinking who might have the footage or where he can find it. “I’ll look around... Check experimental aircraft files and whatever else I can.”

  “Thank you,” Hal said.

  “This is your department, though. Maybe they’ve allocated the footage to someone higher up the chain. Higher clearance than yours.” The thought never occurred to Hal. “Whoever is analyzing it may not know it’s you. The footage could be redacted of anything identifying you.”

  Hal nodded in agreement. “Without proper clearance, I’d be arrested for espionage for just viewing it.”

  “Right,” Henry said, “but if you’re in the footage, you’re part of it. Consider yourself cleared. That’s a battle you won’t lose in court. If you track down the footage, let me know and I’ll see what I can do on my end. Now, let’s get outta’ this cooler and get a beer!”

  “Oh, one more thing,” Hal said. “Guoanbu is still here. The MSS agents. Somewhere in Alamogordo. Do you know anyone on base who can find them?”

  Henry’s reply was skeptical. “I know a retired FBI on base. I can ask him. Finding spies is a tall order.”

  Hal nodded, accepting they may never find MSS. “I’ll go out the back and meet you inside at the bar. Jenny can’t be seen in public with us.”

  “Few people can,” Henry joked. Slapping Hal on the back while erupting in an infectious laugh that amused Jenny. Henry went to shake her hand good bye, but she turned it into a warm hug.

  “Thank you for your help, Hank. It was really good to meet you.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine, Jenny. Thank you.”

  Jenny left through the employee exit. Once out of earshot, Hal said to Henry, “Jenny!? What was that all about?”

  “They can’t get enough of me!”

  “Yeah, I know. And you can’t wait until tomorrow—

  Henry finished his sentence. Something Hal has heard many times before. “
—Because I get better looking every day!”

  “I think it’s because you remind them of their grandpa,” Hal said. “Or Santa Claus!”

  “Hey, I bet I have her sitting on my lap before you do!”

  They both laughed. “You might be right. Thanks again, pal.” He gave Uncle Hank a hug and left out the back. Henry sauntered through the double doors back into the saloon, seeing his empty mug on the counter. “Fill me up, darlin’! And pour one for Hal.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hal stepped groggily into the office the next day to find Yarbo and another airman staring up at a flat screen TV in the corner. It played a report on an IED factory blown up in Yemen. “US Special Forces infiltrated the bomb making factory, blew it up and then engaged in a firefight on the street outside,” the reporter said. “While there were Yemeni casualties believed to be members of AQAP, there were no American casualties.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Navy SEALs kickin’ some terrorist ass!” The airman beside Yarbo said.

  Hal watched with them, observing a smoking pile of rubble that used to be the IED factory. It was familiar to him. An image flashed in his mind of a body bag zipped up over his face. Then another image lying on his back in a Blackhawk, looking up at PJs.

  Hal stepped away from the TV, heading toward the counter against the wall in front of his desk. It held the inboxes and outboxes for half a dozen analysts—where they each received new assignments and delivered finished ones. Usually in the form of military-grade external hard drives. The analyst’s name was on each in and out box. Classification markings labeled each drive, telling the analysts what imagery the file contained. The coded label was nearly impossible for non-military personnel to decipher. The drives were typically marked in red, which was the classification of “Secret,” below the “Top Secret” classifications. The external drive in Hal’s inbox bore a red label printed with S//TK-EF//IMCON, which told him it was drone footage of Afghanistan, using the initials EF as a holdover of Enduring Freedom. He glanced at the drives in the inboxes of the other airmen, surprised to find one with an orange label. It read, TS//TK-SAR/CRU-FP//IMCON. Hal knew this was a special drive. Orange was the designated color for Top Secret information. The code letters translated to Top Secret//Talent Keyhole (satellites and other air imagery) Special Access Required (a high level of clearance, much higher than Hal’s), CRU-FP (highly secretive coordination of the military and CIA), and IMCON—controlled imagery. Hal read the name on the inbox. It was the name and title of the officer in command of the department, “1st Lt. W. McCreary.”

  Hal glanced back to McCreary’s office. No light under the door. He wasn’t in yet. Hal couldn’t remember seeing footage in McCreary’s inbox before. He wondered if there was and he just wasn’t paying attention. Hal wouldn’t have any reason to check other analyst’s inboxes. It also wasn’t out of character for McCreary to be out of his office. As a First Lieutenant, he had other duties than overseeing image analysis.

  Hal’s first thought was to replace the label on McCreary’s drive with his own, but killed that thought when he remembered that action alone was a felony. He glanced up at Yarbo and the other airman. Still watching the news. Hal had to act quickly, whatever he was going to do.

  Hal picked up his drive and placed it in McCreary’s inbox. He grabbed McCreary’s drive and tucked it under his arm, out of view of Yarbo and the others in the office, and whisked out the office down the hallway. The excuse of admin switching drives by mistake would be a better one than anything else Hal could conjure up. Provided he returned with it before McCreary arrived.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Henry Banks sat in a dimly lit room, peering through bifocal lenses at a paper with optic algorithms and other data. All part of his current work as a consultant on a sensor for the next generation of spy satellites. This particular sensor implemented advanced t-ray technology. Terahertz rays used a harmless form of radiation to see through solid material, but unlike x-rays, t-rays could focus like a spotlight to create an even sharper image. Henry wrote the book on gun cameras and satellite optics. Few on the base would believe that Henry was a pioneer in spy satellite and reconnaissance imagery. He fell into it at an early age when a shrapnel hit he took in the Korean War moved him from the pilot’s seat to Bombardier and Aerial Recon Photographer. His career in aerial imagery took off from there. He was on the team that identified the Soviet missiles in Cuba from the U2 photos in 1962, and he spent the rest of his life working on optics for high altitude reconnaissance aircraft and spy satellites.

  Henry looked up from his work at a shadowy figure in the doorway then smiled as if it were a favorite nephew. “Hal! Good to see you.”

  “Found something,” Hal said, “gotta make it quick. Copy this.” Hal handed him the drive. Henry glanced at the label and plugged the drive into his computer, starting the download. The status bar crept along, downloading several gigabytes of data. Hal looked at the clock. Then back at the door. Mainly to make sure nobody was watching, but also as a paranoid fear that McCreary would arrive and catch Hal in the act of copying a drive.

  The copy finished, and Henry handed the drive back. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” Hal shoved the drive into a pocket in his cargo pants and made a brisk march toward his office. He saw an airman he knew on the way and avoided eye contact. Plodding forward like he was on a work-related mission. Hal rounded the corner to the imagery department. His eyes darting to McCreary’s inbox. It was empty. His own drive gone. Fuck! Hal’s eyes leapt to McCreary’s office. The light was on under the door. FuckFuckFuck! Hal strode to the door, retrieved McCreary’s drive from his pocket, out of view of the airmen in the office and knocked.

  “Come in,” McCreary said.

  Hal could tell McCreary had just arrived. He was still settling in and his computer hummed the start-up jingle. Hal’s drive was in front of it, not plugged in. Hal stretched out the drive he was holding. “I think this is yours. Orange markings. Admin?!” McCreary looked at the drive label on his desk.

  “Oh. Didn’t even notice. Good catch, Sheridan.” They exchanged drives. Just when Hal thought he was in the clear and was about to leave, McCreary said, “Did you look at it?”

  “No, sir. Of course not. I don’t have that clearance.”

  McCreary made a subtle nod. Believing him. “Dismissed.” He said in a pleasant tone.

  Hal returned to his desk, quietly exhaling a deep lungful of air. His heart still kicking a base drum in his chest. Hal took a deep breath, calmed himself, plugged in his imagery drive and went to work.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Sheridan’s on the move,” Baldo anxiously said into a phone as he sat alone in the box.

  “You don’t have to tell me every time he gets in his truck,” McCreary’s agitated voice sounded on the other line. “Just when he drives somewhere unusual.”

  “Is Henry Bank’s house unusual, sir?” There was silence on the other end, making Baldo feel even more alone in the box. The hangar lights were off and his face was creepily lit from the glare of monitors before him. The glow from the half-dozen flat screens in the box created an aura around the box. Dust particles floated in the haze, which cast the entire hangar in a dull and eerie pall.

  McCreary’s voice finally broke the silence over Baldo’s phone… “Henry Bank’s house qualifies as unusual. Keep an eye on it. Follow Sheridan’s truck if he leaves. We’re blind inside the house.”

  “Why?” Baldo asked. Knowing they’ve been aware of Banks for a while. Plenty of time for Cloudcroft spooks to set up surveillance. McCreary hung up on the other end.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Henry watched Hal’s truck pull into his garage through a crack in the door leading into his home. Henry pressed the garage door button, closing it as Hal killed the engine. The door lowered to a rest and Henry turned the garage light on. Entering at the same time Hal stepped down from his truck.

  “Han—” Hal said but stopped h
imself, seeing Henry motioning quiet with a finger to his lips. Henry held an odd instrument, scanning Hal’s truck with it as he walked around. It beeped frantically as Henry waved the Bug Sweeper over the bumper. Henry pointed to the bumper and mouthed, “A BUG.” Henry let it be.

  Hal eased the back door of his cab open, lifting a thick tarp off the seat. Under it was a space blanket, and under that—Jenny. He motioned for her to be quiet, then helped her down from the cab.

  Henry held the door open to his home. It was a steel door, unusually thick and solid. Hal and Jenny entered and Henry closed it behind them. It made a whoosh sound like a vacuum seal. The trio stood in the mudroom of Henry’s ranch-style house. The room fit the part as mud-caked cowboy boots were in the corner next to a boot jack. The mudroom also served as Henry’s laundry with a modern washer and dryer next to an old refrigerator. Hal knew Henry only kept two things in that fridge: cold beer and thick steaks.

  “How was the drive back there?” Henry asked Jenny. “Little warm?” She nodded, hesitating in answering as he just told them not to talk. “It’s okay, this door’ll block anything that bug can hear.”

  “It was toasty,” Jenny said. “Hal cranked the AC, but I was still sweating.”

  “I like a gal who admits she sweats!” Henry retorted. “If you said you were perspiring, I wouldn’t’a given you one of these.” Henry handed Jenny and Hal a couple cold beers he set on the washer when they first arrived.

  Henry opened the mudroom door to a sprawling sunken living room in 60s ranch décor. The coffee tables featured bronze sculptures of cowboys and bucking broncos. Lamps on end tables were dark metal and wood with lampshades made of covered wagon canvas.

  “Wow,” Jenny said. “Your home is beautiful! I love it!”

  “Thank you. I call it modern rustic. I have to give my late wife the credit. Not a thing has changed since she fixed it up this way over thirty years ago.”