GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel

by Brian Tyree

  “High-tech, too,” Hal said, nodding to a blinking, military-grade motion detector in the corner of the ceiling.

  “Thanks for reminding me, pal. Go on down and have a seat.” Henry went back to the mudroom and opened a panel on the wall to his security system. Activating the motion sensors in the garage and outside the house.

  Hal and Jenny wandered down the steps to the sunken living room featuring a fireplace on one side and a large flat screen on the other. Couches, chairs and a three-legged cowboy stool separated them. The architecture was a combination of rustic hardwood and stone. A combination of a log cabin and ranch house. One would expect the view out the living room windows to be the western plains at the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

  Hal sat on one couch and Jenny took a chair across from him. He raised his beer to her. “Sorry about the hot ride.”

  “It wasn’t too bad. Reminded me of riding in the back of my dad’s truck as a kid.”

  “I’m gonna’ pretend that’s a comment about my truck,” he said. She chuckled. “That tarp and the space blanket should be enough to hide your heat signature from drones or satellites.”

  “Riiiight,” She said skeptically. “I think you were torturing me! Cheers!” She held up her beer and took a drink.

  Henry joined them, bounding down the steps to the sunken living. He sat in a ranch-style Lazy Boy next to Jenny. It was custom-made with a Captain Kirk-like hidden panel in the arm rest. He lifted it up and removed a remote control, turning on the large flat screen TV. The green light on a thumb drive flickered to life, plugged into the side of the smart TV.

  Henry played the video footage that showed an aerial view of desert in infrared. “This is IR footage from a stealth RPA over Yemen.” Hal rose, went to the screen and read the graphic text on both sides of the image.

  “In English, please?” Jenny asked.

  “Right. Sorry about that. This is classified footage from a stealth drone flying over Yemen. The image looks like it’s negative, but it’s a thermal image, so the warmer areas glow and the cooler areas appear gray or black. You see the glowing forms on the roof tops? If you look closely, you can see they’re armed. Snipers. Most likely Al Qaeda in Yemen. AQAP we call them—Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula. Watch this— this is the interesting part…

  Henry sped up the footage to a lone man with a submachine gun approaching the alley way leading to the main street with the snipers. The man instantly disappears.

  “What?” Hal said. “Play that again, please.”

  Henry did, enlarging the figure in silhouette. “This is maximum zoom.” From this angle the man’s helmet, shoulders, arms and machine gun were visible. His face didn’t seem to have any features, just a flat surface, faintly glowing. It all vanished. “If you look closely, it still has a faint silhouette. It’s hard to see, but it’s there.”

  “I see it,” Hal said. Henry and Jenny both got up from their seats for a closer look. Watching beside Hal. “It’s some kind of suit.”

  “A stealth suit,” Henry replied. “Self-cooled so it doesn’t radiate heat. Nearly invisible to IR. Keep watching the silhouette.” He fast-forwarded and the form rapidly made the length of the street in stutter steps, crossing to a large building. “Here.” Henry played normal speed. The faint shadow entered the building. Guards glowed in IR just behind the wall. “They’re un-phased,” Henry said. “The shadow walked right past them.”

  “Like he wasn’t even there.” Jenny said.

  “Now, watch this.” Henry fast-forwarded again. “This is where all Hell breaks loose.” The video showed the shadow leaving in fast motion, striding across the street. Henry zoomed the image out and a massive blast whited out the video completely.

  This triggered a white flash in Hal’s eyes. Images of the chaotic firefight in the street appeared. Hal was overcome with dizziness, easing down on the couch behind him.

  “You okay?” Jenny asked. Hal nodded.

  “I was there. That’s me. It has to be. The image I just saw in my mind was from his perspective, looking back at the explosion.”

  Henry continued to play the video. “And this verifies it’s a stealth suit with some kind of optical camouflage. The suit is damaged and the figure slightly glows again.”

  “What’s optical camouflage?” Jenny asked.

  “Up until now, it has only been in Science Fiction and video games,” Henry said. “It’s like a cloaking device. There are a handful of theories of how one might be constructed. The most plausible theory is a high-tech fabric with microscopic video sensors and monitors woven in. Nanotechnology. There would have to be thousands of them, but with that many, the resolution would be life-like.”

  “How does it work?” She asked.

  “The nano-cameras capture live digital video and send it to nano-monitors on the opposite side of the suit. The cameras and monitors are all side by side, woven into the fabric, creating a see-through illusion. For it to work from every angle and on weaponry, it would require complex algorithms and substantial computing power.” Henry sensed he may have gone over her head. “Imagine I’m holding a TV connected to a camera on my back, pointing at the wall behind me. You would be seeing the wall right through my chest. That’s the concept— and with thousands of cameras and monitors, the quality would be better than HDTV, making it close to what the eye sees, rendering the person in the suit invisible.”

  Hal watched the infrared battle from a chair. Shaking the dizziness away. A volley of bright bullets zipped back and forth down the street between glowing Special Forces on one end and luminous figures hanging out of windows on the other.

  Henry continued the play by play… “Here, a military force, I’m guessing American Special Forces operators provide cover fire while they retrieve— you, the figure. It looks like they placed you inside something to shield you from unfriendly eyes above.”

  “What do you mean?” Jenny asked.

  “From satellites or other high-flying aircraft. Russian. Chinese. Israeli. Anyone’s. Maybe even US satellites.” Hal looked up at Henry. Henry nodded, continuing, “This is so top secret, leaders of our own government may not know about it.”

  Jenny eyed the drone feed on the flat screen. “Where are they taking him?”

  “Watch,” Henry said. The glowing Special Forces team raced through the alley to the clearing where their transport awaited. “Notice the odd design of the helicopter?”

  Jenny nods. “I’ve never seen one of those.”

  “Not many people have,” Henry said. “It’s a stealth Blackhawk.” They watch it take off and arc away from the rooftop fighters, flying over the city. The drone image follows for a few blocks and then cuts out. “That’s all there is,” Henry said.

  “Now, what?” Hal asked.

  “Well,” Henry replied, “we know the why of them manipulating you. We just have to figure out the who and the how?”

  “It would be a lot easier if we had one of those suits,” Hal said.

  Henry nodded in agreement. “Then go get one.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE RENTERS

  “We know the United States is responsible for the explosion at the Railway Bureau Building,” Chinese Foreign Minister Wu Yongkang said in rough English. Wu was in his fifties with silver hair and square wire-frame glasses. He addressed the US Ambassador Kristen Reilly, as he lead her into a private meeting chamber at the Conference Building of the UN headquarters—adjacent to the General Assembly Building in New York City. Reilly was a stern Congresswoman from New York. President Clarke passed her over as his pick for Vice President and awarded her the UN Ambassadorship as a consolation prize.

  Reilly hid her alarm at Yongkang’s remark, completely unaware of the incident. The brashness of the accusation along with its grave implications caught her off guard and sent frigid chills up her spine. Both ambassadors had just finished listening to the Israeli Ambassador speak to the General Assembly on pressing for more sanctions against Iran, when Yongkan
g broke protocol and occupied a vacant seat next to her, assigned to the ambassador of Uruguay. Yongkang formally invited Reilly and her delegation to the private meeting room stating that the matter was extremely urgent. The two ambassadors agreed to meet in the small room while the delegate parties of both countries waited in the lobby area.

  Reilly maintained her composure, looking sharp and confident in her trim and formal business skirt. “Please refresh my memory, Ambassador. What is the railway building? I’m not aware of an explosion there.”

  Yongkang believed she was bluffing and wanted to expose it, but knew this delicate of a matter required the most diplomatic response. “The explosion on the roof of the Railway Bureau Building in Fuzhou nearly four months ago. A terrorist attack that delayed trains across the entire region. We know with certainty that the United States is responsible for this attack. To verify this knowledge, we can tell you the origin of the attack: Holloman Air Force Base in New Mexico.”

  Reilly couldn’t hold her poker face any longer. She tried concealing an expression of astonishment, but Yongkang saw through it.

  “I see you do not have the highest level of clearance and have not been appraised of this matter,” Yongkang said. “I will carry out my instructions regardless.” He reached into an attaché case and his big hands removed an official business card. Yongkang gripped it with plump pale fingers, handing it over to her. “Give this to your superior officer. Someone with the proper clearance, and tell them the following message comes directly from the President of the People’s Republic of China… We have obtained evidence of the involvement of the United States in the explosion of the Fuzhou building. This is an act of war. The PLA is not interested in war, but we do require the following reparations: acknowledgement of the attack, a public apology addressed to China at the General Assembly of the United Nations, and financial reparations to the Fuzhou building structure, components within and compensation for those who suffered from the attack—totaling $200M USD.”

  The demands befuddled Ambassador Reilly. She wasn’t sure how to respond. Reilly glanced down at the business card printed in Chinese and English, and was about to speak when Yongkang continued. “One more item… Non-negotiable. President Weilen requires the technology of— I don’t know how to say this in English— the kàn bùjiàn de zhìfú. The suit. The stealth uniform.”

  The suit? Ambassador Reilly thought to herself, having no fathomable idea what he was talking about. “Thank you, Minister Yongkang. I have to admit this is most troubling. As I am not familiar with these matters, I will convey your message to the Secretary of the State Department. I can assure you, the Secretary will be in contact with you immediately.”

  Yongkang nodded. “I imagine you are aware of the President of China’s scheduled address to the UN next month?”

  “Yes, I am looking forward to President Weilen’s speech.”

  “If the terms are not met by the date of his speech,” Yongkang warned, “President Weilen will have no other option, but to name the United States as a terrorist aggressor and make a formal declaration of war during his address at the UN. A PLA position which already has the backing of the eight nations composing the SCO.”

  This information was even more startling to Ambassador Reilly. The SCO (Shanghai Cooperation Organization) or Shanghai Pact, was an economic union of neighboring Asian countries. China was now using the pact as a de facto NATO union, pulling nearly all of Asia to the side of the Chinese in the event of a military conflict with the United States. The ramifications of the pact were devastating as it was a harbinger to a global conflict. Reilly shook the Chinese Foreign Minister’s hand, unable to hide her nervousness which revealed itself in her cold, clammy palms. She assured him the matter would be peacefully resolved and that the Secretary of State would be in contact with him that afternoon. Her words came out smooth and sincere, a stark contrast to the panic and horror of her hidden thoughts—the very real prospect of nuclear war with China and the potential spark of a third world war.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “I’m being called to DC,” Trest said to McCreary in a cool and rigid tone, as McCreary stood before his desk. “Something has pissed POTUS off. I have a feeling it’s about Cloudcroft.” Trest handed McCreary a smartphone in a rugged shell. DoD secured. The kind you can’t buy in stores. “Get Baldo and Douglas to help you with RemoteConfig. Wrap it all up. VR simulator, training gear, MedLab, everything. Put it in the box and await my instructions. Do it tonight. I’ll text you on this tomorrow after my meeting if Remote is a go. Follow our contingency plans. Destroy this after you receive my text.”

  “Roger that, sir. Heading over there now.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Trest eyed his elegant brushed-titanium watch. It reminded him of his wife, her gift for his promotion to Major. 6:50 a.m. He adjusted his notebook and pen on the desk of the presidential conference room. Noticing high ranking officers around him, along with the Vice President and Secretary of State. The others were milling about, finding their seats and catching up with colleagues. The room was round with polished dark mahogany wood panels. Trest had never seen it this early in the morning with the low sunlight cutting in through the blinds. A flush door in the mahogany paneling suddenly opened and President Clarke stepped in. Agitated. His eyes scanning the room, skipping over dignitaries like they were wallflowers at a high school dance. Landing on the object of his obsession— Major William Trest.

  “What the Hell is going on at Holloman?!”

  Cold silence fell over the room. The President noticed the pall he created and re-calibrated himself, addressing the others. “I apologize. Please, take your seats.” He sat at the head of the conference table and poured himself a glass of water. Then looked up in a stony glare with Trest in his crosshairs. Waiting for his answer.

  “Sir?”

  “Cloudcroft!” The President said. “Or whatever the Hell you’re calling it now. It’s got us on the verge of war with China and half of Asia!”

  Trest furrowed his eyebrows in a perplexed expression.

  “The Railway building explosion.” The President said. His eyes flicking to the UN Ambassador seated beside the Secretary of State. “The Chinese delegation ambushed Ambassador Reilly at the UN yesterday.” His glare cooled, turning to Reilly. “Fill him in!”

  Ambassador Reilly cleared her throat, addressed the group and recounting everything the Chinese Ambassador told her. She came prepared with a presentation projected on the wall above. Images of Fuzhou maps, satellite photos of the roof of the Railway Bureau Building before and after the explosion.

  Trest took it all in, exchanging glances with the same DIA agent present at Holloman during the Cloudcroft briefings.

  The Ambassador wrapped up the report nearly twenty minutes later. Providing ample time for Trest and the DIA to fabricate CYA answers, which they both expertly did. Trest admitted to the use of Aurora over the Railway Bureau Building, citing authority from the DoD, which had approved recon and surveillance missions over China by high-altitude stealth aircraft like the Aurora. Trest adamantly denied any knowledge of a stealth suit. “A complete and utter face-saving concoction by the Chinese,” he said. “They refuse to admit we could have a mole on the inside of their preeminent cyberwar facility, which by the way, we still do. The agent’s cover remains intact.”

  Trest’s eyes caught the reaction of the DIA official. Relieved and reassured by Trest’s answer. His ass was off the hook. When pressed on the explosion and incendiary device, Trest claimed he believed it was human error. The same DIA agent spoke up. It was his turn to provide cover for Trest, claiming this part of the mission wasn’t under Major Trest’s purview, and he accepted responsibility. Agreeing it was human error, and that the asset should have placed the incendiary on an insulated circuit board on the roof. The incendiary had enough combustible material to burn through one insulated wall, but not two. The combustion should have burned out before reaching the roof. Improper placement of the incendiary caus
ed it to burn through the roof. The DIA official said, “The upside is we took out all the computers and mainframes on the top two floors, where we believe they are all stored for better air conditioning and ventilation purposes.”

  The President dismissed the group. Trest and the DIA official left the room with restrained relief. Trest knew they would look into all of his answers using available means, including satellite footage and other surveillance footage. Trest departed the White House and spotted his driver and black Cadillac Escalade in the driveway, waiting to shuttle him back to the airport. A burner phone like the one he gave McCreary vibrated with a text that read, “Nice cover. Fast on your feet. I’ll scrub SAT IMCON. You take care of the suit.”

  Trest texted the DIA official an affirmative reply and then found McCreary in his contacts, texting: “RemoteConfig is a GO.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The Aurora, and everything else in Hangar 302 was lit in a soft green glow from the overhead fluorescence. The banks of light overhead were typically turned off to provide better viewing of the monitors in the box. McCreary, Baldo and Douglas bustled back and forth between OmniTrainer and the box. Lifting anything and everything they could carry, packing it into the tan metal crate. Sweat stains soaked the pits of Baldo and Douglas’s white T’s. They had shed their Air Force over-shirts, getting down to business.

  McCreary was behind the box, detaching power and communication cables. He got a call on his service cell phone, speaking a few words to the caller and hanging up. McCreary yelled to Douglas, “Hey, RPA, can you pilot a big rig?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s out back. Bring it around to the door and I’ll let you in.”

  Baldo closed the wide doors on the box, latching and locking it shut with military grade padlocks. The hangar door opened and Douglas backed the flatbed tractor trailer up to the box. McCreary hopped up on the flatbed and grabbed the heavy winch hook behind the cab. He pulled the slack out, fighting the heavy cable, tugging it down the length of the flatbed before hopping off and giving Douglas the signal to raise it. The flatbed angled up and McCreary looped the cable through the hitching posts on the box. Baldo stood behind the cab, controlling the wench. On McCreary’s signal he pulled the lever and towed the heavy rectangular shipping container up on the truck.