GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel

by Brian Tyree

  This was the fourth night of his routine—drinking coffee-laced soda and going to bed at the same time as usual, following the same regimen. Staying awake long enough to find out what happens when they summon him to the hangar. The first night, he thought he could meditate his way through the long hours of pretending to sleep. After meditating for what felt like an hour, he snuck a peak at his alarm clock and only fifteen minutes had passed. Time to come up with another plan. Hal toughed it out that night. The previous two nights and tonight, he listened to an earbud plugged into a small transistor radio hidden in his pillow. Believing he was being watched from every room in the house, he had thrown his bedding and a pair of shoes in the laundry. While the shoes were knocking around in the dryer, he taped the tiny radio to a pillow and wrapped it with the case. Then, at night with his head on the pillow and arms snuggled around it for comfort, he closed his eyes and stealthily turned the radio on. Carefully putting the earbud in. His radio program of choice—Chris Plante political talk radio.

  Hal’s thoughts drowned out the rambling voices as he wondered how many nights he would have to do this. Are they on to me? Have I been pulled from their project, or has it been shut down entirely?

  Hal’s hyperactive caffeine-drugged mind turned to the entourage of top brass at the base. McCreary wasn’t a surprise because of his knowledge of the drone video, but Trest and the wing commander? Are they all in on it? Judging by the shit-hitting-fan demeanor of the Vice President, Hal presumed he or the President may not have even known about the black op. He pondered the entire project for another hour. How long had it been going on? Who all was involved? Is it only Holloman or are other bases and facilities around the world involved? It occurred to Hal that if he let his mind wander down this path the first few nights, he wouldn’t need the radio-in-pillow sleep breaker.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The glowing green numbers of his digital alarm clock flicked to 1:00 a.m. Hal was fast asleep. He gave himself a midnight cut-off. If they hadn’t summoned him by then, it probably wasn’t happening. And then he heard a pattering of bright, tinny, electronic tones that slowly pulled his mind from deep sleep. The electronic tones morphed into that of his cell phone ringtone. He opened a lazy eye and glanced up at his nightstand, angling the screen toward him. The caller’s name—Uncle Hank. He quickly answered, fearing Henry was in some kind of trouble.

  “Sorry to call you so late, buddy,” Henry said. “You should come over here. Now.”

  “Why? Wha—” Henry’s line cut off. Hal realized it was intentional. Henry didn’t want to say too much.

  Hal threw on some clothes, trying not to eye the ceiling corners and other places cameras might be. Expecting that they were watching him now and are probably wondering where he was going in the middle of the night.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Henry’s garage was open, revealing his truck, but nobody else inside. Hal’s truck pulled in as if he was the one who opened the door via remote. Hal reached under the seat for his sidearm, an AF issued M9A1 Beretta. He snapped the smooth slide back, readying a bullet in the chamber. Hal approached the door to the mudroom in an urban combat profile, prepared to clear it of threats. He snapped the door open, stepped in and surveyed the small room. Hal gripped the door handle to the house and threw it open, his nine raised in the Low Ready position, forty-five degrees up from the floor, finding that he had it trained between the feet of Henry and Jenny.

  “What’a you doing?” Henry asked in an accusatory tone. Making Hal seem like he’d gone crazy.

  Hal exhaled with relief, holstering his sidearm. “You sounded intense on the phone. I didn’t know what to expect.” Hal opened the door to the mudroom and set his 9mm on the washing machine.

  Henry’s eyebrows furled. Mystified how Hal drew that conclusion. “Well, come on in. We have something to show you.”

  Hal followed them down the handful of steps to the sunken living room. He noticed a 1980s VHS machine on the floor with cables running up to the flat screen TV. “What’d I miss? Did you find your old porn stash?” Uncle Hank laughed. Jenny… not so much.

  “Naw,” Henry said, “I’ve already converted that to digital.”

  “I’m sure you have, Mister High-Tech.”

  Jenny turned to the couch behind her, lifting a cardboard banker’s box from it. “I went to the office last night...” She opened the box to Hal. “…and found this…” Inside were half a dozen VHS tapes with handwritten labels. “Dr. Elm’s sleepwalking research.”

  Hal eyed it, intrigued. “What have you seen so far?”

  “Nothing,” Henry replied. “I called you when Jenny arrived. Took me a while to find my old VCR and cables in storage. Are the tapes numbered?”

  Jenny read the prescription-like scrawl on the labels. “No, but they’re labeled by date. Here’s the first one.”

  Henry popped it into the VCR and the warbling, distorted video started, showing the blurry arm of Dr. Elm as he activated the video camera and stepped back to a blackboard. He had a Starsky haircut and butterfly-collar shirt from the late 70s. “This is tape one of the Somnambulism Series, and I am Dr. Stuart Elm. I have advanced the research carried out by Project MKUltra, discovering that somnambulists, or sleepwalkers, are the best candidates for mind control. The reasons are two-fold: One, the subconscious mind is very powerful—about a million times more powerful than the conscious mind and it controls ninety-five percent of our behavior. The second reason derives from the first, sleepwalkers are able to remain in a subconscious state longer and they are able to perform active tasks while in this state. Our challenge was to extend the sleepwalking state for several hours with no harmful side effects, and to turn off the part of the brain dealing with voluntary action... The fight or flight component of the mind. We have achieved tremendous success on both accounts. We are now able to program the subject’s mind for several hours in a sleepwalking state to do anything we command. Anything we say. Here is test subject 016G. We have already administered 100 mL injections of smn.7 and 60 mL of trazodone…”

  Dr. Elm approached the camera, filling the frame as he turned the recorder off. A wave of electronic noise flashed, and Dr. Elm and an associate appeared in a different location in an in-camera edit. They both wore lab coats, standing beside a man in his early twenties in a thick gray sweatsuit and white hardhat with a lamp attached. The round lamp was from the 70s, looking more like a VW headlight than a helmet lamp. Electrodes stuck to the subject’s temples and heart, with wires running under his sweater to a bulky EKG monitor on wheels. The subject wavered like he was half awake, his eyes opened a slit.

  Dr. Elm held the EKG cart with one hand and a microphone in the other. His grad school assistant in bell-bottoms took notes on a clipboard. Elm spoke into the mic—his voice booming over speakers on the bottom shelf of the EKG cart. The sound echoed through the hollow classroom, devoid of desks and chairs. It appeared to be night, with only a dim bank of lights on at the far end of the room. “You are a spelunker,” Dr. Elm said to the subject. “You are exploring a cave. Reach to the front of your hardhat and turn your lamp on.”

  The subject followed orders, turning the lamp on. It shone directly into the camera, filling the screen with blooming light. Momentarily whiting-out the optical tube sensor inside. “Look at me,” Elm said, and the subject turned the bright beam on him.

  “You’re in a large cavern and you have spotted a small, narrow lava tube to your right, near ground level. Crawl into the tube.”

  The subject turned to his right, stooped down on hands and knees and crawled into an imaginary lava tube. His hands and knees slowly shuffling across the cold, faded linoleum floor.

  “The rock is hard and course on your hands and knees. Like volcanic pumice.” The subject subconsciously paused, rubbing his palms as if the pumice scraped them. He continued crawling on hands and knees. “The tube narrows. Crouch down lower and keep crawling.” The subject did as Dr. Elm commanded.

  The associate took notes as
Elm eased the EKG cart forward, keeping up with the subject snaking around in a cave of his imagination.

  Hal and the others watched the screen in disbelief.

  The crawling man headed toward a wall. “The lava tube winds,” Elm said. “It turns to the right. Crawl to the right.” The subject planted his right hand, pivoting around it as instructed, avoiding the wall. “You can’t see where the tube ends. You’re in deep and the tunnel narrows even more. Your helmet scrapes on the rock ceiling above. You have to crawl on your elbows, and there’s no space to turn around. Your only option is to keep moving forward.” The EKG machine beeped faster—anxiety accelerating the subject’s heart rate.

  Hal watched with fascination. Leaning back from the TV screen unwittingly. Vicariously feeling the subject’s claustrophobia.

  “The tube turns again to the right. Crawl right.”

  The subject squirmed to the right, avoiding the door, heading to wide open space in the classroom.

  “You reach forward and touch a solid wall.” The subject stretched an arm forward and it stopped in thin air. Like a mime feeling an imaginary wall. “You hit a dead end. You try to feel above and around you, but the space is too tight. Your arms hit the curved rock ceiling above. Turning around is impossible. You can only crawl backward the way you came.”

  The subject tried to feel the wall above and to the sides. His own mind creating the tight space around him, blocking his arms from reaching higher than the cramped tube ceiling. The beeps of his heart rate sped up on the EKG monitor—the readout showing sharp spikes in his heartbeat. He put his palms flat on the linoleum floor and pushed himself backward. Trying to pull himself at the same time with his knees and toes. Backing up at a snail’s pace.

  The assistant jotted notes from the EKG on his clipboard.

  Henry watched the subject inching backward in disbelief. “What the hell?!” He looked over to Hal and Jenny, shaking his head.

  The video continued. “You feel the ground around you tremble.”

  The subject froze in panic. His eyes opened wide even though his mind was asleep in another world. The reaction surprised even Dr. Elm. He crept closer to the man on the ground, waving a hand before his eyes. It went completely unseen by the subject.

  “The trembling increases,” Elm said, his voice rising in intensity, conveying the terror of the shuddering cave. “You feel the sheer power of the earthquake as the whole mountain around you shakes. Sand and small rocks break from above, falling down on you. Clouding your view through the helmet lamp. Visibility is zero as dry pumice dust fills the lava tube. You breathe it in and it burns your lungs, clogging them.” The subject coughed. Not an ordinary cough, but a deep cough as if the microscopic pumice fragments were tearing his lung sacs. He covered his mouth with his palms to breathe through them. “Larger rocks fall on your helmet and the light goes out. You’re in utter darkness.” The EKG beeping went haywire, sounding a more frightening electronic alarm—the man’s heart rate rising to a lethal level.

  The subject swatted frenetically at his forehead and the imaginary helmet lamp. Trying to get it to turn on, while coughing and wheezing from the hallucinatory dust.

  “An aftershock hits!” Elm exclaimed. “Jolting the entire mountain. A hundred tons of rock collapse on your legs—crushing them from the waist down.” The subject screamed in agony. Writhing as if tons of rock really were pulverizing his legs.

  Hal recognized the shrill and terrifying wail—it was the same guttural shriek victims of IED blasts yelled.

  “Nobody can hear you,” Elm said in a calm voice. “Nobody will ever hear you.” The subject freaked out. Full on panic attack. Screaming. Writhing back and forth. His legs frozen from the immense weight of imaginary rocks. The EKG beeps screeched in fury and suddenly sounded a dull, morose, solid tone.

  “He’s flat-lining!” The associate said. “Get him out! Talk him out!”

  Elm fumbled his words. Not knowing what to say. “You’re okay now. Calm down. The earthquake passed.” It wasn’t helping. The man lay motionless. The associate dropped the clipboard, dashed over and started CPR. Dr. Elm turned to the camera operator making a throat-slashing motion. “Cut it! Turn it off.” The screen fizzled to snow and then went black.

  Hal took in a lungful of air and exhaled audibly. The three stood in motionless silence, staring at a electronic noise on the screen. Hal looked at Jenny, noticing tears rolling down her cheek. She felt his eyes on her. “I had no idea,” she said, sitting down. “I never knew. They never told me any of this. I feel so stupid.” She looked up at Hal. “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, you didn’t know,” Hal said, comforting her. “It’s not your fault.” He sat down next to her and put a soothing hand on the small of her back. Henry grabbed a box of tissues from the table, housed in a leather-craft cover. He handed it to Hal, who held it while she pulled a couple tissues out, patting her eyes.

  “What’a’ya say we take a little break?” Henry asked. Hal nodded.

  “No, I’m okay,” Jenny said. “Let’s keep going.”

  “How about something to drink?” Henry said.

  “Just water for me,” Hal replied.

  “Water?” Henry asked Jenny. She nodded.

  “We don’t have to watch these now,” Hal said. “Really. We can watch another time.”

  “I’m good,” she said. “Let’s keep going.”

  Henry arrived with a couple ice waters and a beer for himself. He sat down on the couch opposite Jenny. Hal ejected the tape and dug the next one from the box. He popped it in the VCR and hit play on the old, black VHS machine. Taking a seat in one of the recliners.

  Doctor Elm appeared at a blackboard. “What we learned from the first test subject taught us to narrow our commands, and it made us aware of our own ability to add real stress to the subject. We have since added a chemical stress reducer to our formula…” He scrawled out the formula on the chalkboard. Jenny eased back on the couch. Comforted to know this tape was more of a classroom lecture than another experiment of torture.

  They watched three more tapes. Enough to reach a comprehensive understanding of the sleepwalking mind control used to manipulate Hal, then discussed potential ways he may be able to reject the mind control. Henry updated Hal and Jenny about his research into the suit. Telling them he put feelers out with friends working for defense contractors like BAE Systems, Skunk Works and DARPA. He was waiting to hear back from them. To Henry, this meant he would never hear anything from them, but he chose not to share that pessimism with Hal and Jenny.

  Hal drove home before the sun came up, reflecting on the videos during the drive. Experiencing simultaneous feelings of relief and terror. Relief he had seen the videos before the puppet masters summoned him again. Terror from the power the manipulators still held over him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Three more sleepless nights passed. Sleepless by design for Hal, who continued his diet of soda-spiked coffee, wondering if they were ever going to call him up again to carry out their dirty work.

  Hal hadn’t been in bed for more than twenty minutes—hadn’t even connected his radio earbud when he heard the series of computer notes deep inside his skull. They were so crisp and clear, they sounded better than a concert-quality audio system. He thought they must have implanted a bone phone device directly to an auditory nerve or the skull. Upon hearing the tone designed to wake him, he repeated a mantra in his mind—move quickly and robotic—the instructions Jenny gave him describing how he walked and jogged. Hal rose from bed, went to the closet and dressed himself in the same sweatsuit Jenny described. He rapidly strode through the house. He locked the front door behind him and headed down the walkway, turning the corner on a dime, toward Stealth Canyon.

  Hal reached the sidewalk and froze as a familiar voice boomed inside his skull. “Beacon to Ghost One…” The resonance and sound quality was so sharp and clear, it sounded like someone was right behind him saying it. He resisted the urge to look back. The voice continued..
. “There is a gray truck ahead. Get in the passenger seat and await further orders.”

  Hal stiffly power-walked up the sidewalk, spotting the gray truck. He cut across the street on a line, maintaining the same efficient rhythm straight toward the truck. He opened the passenger door, paying no mind to the driver. Making eye contact could blow his cover. He climbed in and stared straight ahead. Frozen, like an android. Waiting and watching.

  Douglas drove the gray Air Force pickup truck across the base toward the gate on First Street. He had never been this close to one of the ghosts, and had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road. Hal could feel the driver watching him. Sensing his morbid curiosity. Or maybe it was his own, wondering who exactly was driving him. Do I know the airman? Have I seen him on base before?

  Douglas passed through the main gate without stopping. The guards were on orders to let them pass, and they paid little mind to the man in the passenger seat looking straight ahead. The truck turned onto the main highway where they drove a few miles before exiting. Taking a dirt road to the Barrett Ranch and the new home of Project Cloudcroft.

  Hal immediately recognized the ranch. He accompanied Henry to a barbecue there earlier in the summer. He remembered the hospitality of the rancher and his wife, who were both old friends of Henry.

  The truck pulled to a stop and Douglas radioed their arrival. Moments later, Hal heard the same voice deep in his skull… “Beacon to Ghost One, proceed inside the barn.” He exited the vehicle and marched in a brisk stride through barn doors that were opened a narrow gap, just wide enough for a man to robotically walk through. Hal froze the moment he stepped inside, seeing the RPA crate opened with light spilling out, illuminating the barn. McCreary and Baldo stood by the crate, waiting for him. Hal wondered if his stopping looked unnatural.

  Baldo held up a modified Oculus VR headgear like a crown. Hal presumed by the way he was holding it that Ghost One would typically march over and stand beneath it for a fitting. Hal paced over as mechanically as possible, and Baldo pulled the VR headgear over his forehead and eyes. Tightening it down for a snug fit. The view inside was pitch black. For the moment. Hal felt relieved to relax his eyes and look around, abandoning his strict eye discipline.