GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel

by Brian Tyree

  McCreary strapped the backpack onto Hal and Baldo fitted the helmet and visor on. WHOOSH! The helmet locked in an air-tight seal to a carbon-fiber ring around the collar of the suit.

  McCreary and Baldo pulled stealth gloves over Hal’s hands, sealing o-rings on the wrists to the sleeves, like an astronaut’s suit. One by one, McCreary handed the remaining gear to Baldo—the weaponry. He ensured the 9mm magazine was full and snapped it into the Glock 19, securing it into Hal’s holster. Baldo stuck the magnetic-backed MP10 submachine gun to a metal plate on the chest armor built to tote the rifle. The SCIROC material also coated the MP10, making it blend in with the suit fabric. Baldo wrapped a belt made of the same fabric around Hal. Its pockets contained concealed flash-bangs, grenades and chemlights.

  McCreary stuffed several magazines into the belt, packed with specialized 9mm and 4.6 x 30mm cartridges using low-flash gunpowder—limiting muzzle flare that could give a ghost away in combat.

  “Stand up,” McCreary commanded and the ominous stealth-warrior rose. “Lift your left arm.” Hal obeyed, raising his arm to shoulder level. Baldo pulled a Velcro flap of stealth fabric back from Hal’s forearm, pressing buttons on a flexible membrane touchpad. The suit puffed out slightly.

  “Suit pressurized,” Baldo said. “Rebreather engaged.”

  Hal noticed his breathing changed. It took more effort to inhale air, drawing it from his sealed face plate connected to a hose within his suit, running down to the rebreather on his back.

  “Follow me,” McCreary said, exiting the small room into the hangar. Hal followed. McCreary keyed his headset, issuing a command to his men, “Lower AOD doors.”

  “Roger that,” Douglas said in a crackle over the radio, remotely operating the MQ-10S drone from the box back at the barn. “Doors lowering.”

  A bright chill prickled up Hal’s spine as he saw the stealth drone attached to the belly of the Aurora. He had never seen such a magnificent flying machine. The meds suddenly took effect, making him drowsy and weak-kneed. Unexpected flashes fired through his mind. His steps stuttered and he shuffled across the concrete. He was certain he blew his cover. The meds made him apathetic about it. He wanted to drop right there and fall asleep.

  “His sleep meds are kicking in,” McCreary said to Baldo. “Let’s go.” They grabbed Hal by the arms, guiding him to the MJ-1E lift truck parked under the nose of the Aurora. It had a flat plate on the end of the long hydraulic arm for lifting missiles. McCreary and Baldo helped the ghost onto the plate. McCreary spoke a soft command, “Lie down.”

  Hal’s world was a spinning blur. He felt out of control and at the same time could hear everything. He lay on his back on top of the hard metal plate. McCreary looped a belt around his chest and nodded to Baldo, who was at the controls. He hoisted Hal slow and easy, guiding him to the open AOD bomb bay doors. Hal’s legs dangling over the end of the plate. McCreary gave Baldo hand signals as the hydraulic lift extended, then he made a quick sharp fist. Baldo stopped the lift truck and scurried around the arm to help McCreary.

  Hal’s face was inches from the fuselage of the AOD. McCreary and Baldo lifted his legs, tucking them into hardpoint releases custom-built into the AOD’s frame. A floodgate of anxiety and panic broke through Hal’s mind. The claustrophobic panic attack snapped his mind awake from the sedative meds.

  McCreary released the seat belt around Hal and pulled two wide bands under him, attached to the bomb bay interior. McCreary secured the hammock-like bands on the opposite side and ratcheted them down tight, while Baldo helped raise Hal up into the bomb bay. The bands supported Hal’s full weight.

  “Raise port door,” McCreary commanded over the radio.

  Hal’s spinning head added to his anxiety as he was being stuffed into an area with less space than a coffin. He fought the urge to scream. Pleading in his mind for them to keep the doors open.

  A static reply came over the radio from Douglas, “Roger that, raising doors.”

  The bomb bay doors rose. They were lined with thick molded foam that when brought together became a comfortable bed for the ghost inside. The doors closed and a mechanical latch sounded, locking them. Entombing Hal, sealing him in darkness.

  The sheer blackness disturbed Hal. He wondered why they couldn’t have installed a light. He tried to move his arms, but they only went up a few inches before hitting the metal ceiling. His legs were also barricaded in with only a couple inches of wiggle room to the ceiling. Hal couldn’t even roll to his side if he wanted to. It reminded him of an MRI he received a decade before from a concussion. Back then, it was in a casket-like MRI machine. The technician forgot about Hal while he took his lunch break, leaving him in the cramped tube for over an hour. Or that’s what he said. Hal thought the civilian tech was anti-war and wanted to give a vet a taste of Enhanced Interrogation Techniques like the kind the CIA employed—stuffing terrorists into a six-foot long wooden box not much wider than their head. Hal blamed the MRI incident for his claustrophobia, having never experienced it before.

  Hal felt a single bead of sweat roll from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. It was like Chinese water torture. He gave his head a shake, dislodging the sweat, where it rolled into his eye with a sting. Hal’s anxiety increased. He could imagine his heart rate and blood pressure surging. How long is this flight? He thought. Wondering how he could ever make a several hour trip like this to the Middle East, or wherever the Aurora was going. Hal prayed for the sedative to kick in. And then he felt the rumble of the Aurora’s jets firing up. The rattling woke him even more, and made him more anxious. Oh fuuuuuck! He thought.

  Hal wasn’t a deeply religious man. He was an altar boy as a kid and went to church every week up until he joined the Air Force, and slowly became a C&E Catholic—only attending Mass on Christmas and Easter. He didn’t have much of a prayer life, but prayed before his PJ missions and in life-threatening situations. This situation qualified. He closed his eyes and prayed. Then commanded his own mind to calm himself. Repeating the command over and over like a mantra. He felt the Aurora move, taxiing from the hangar. His eyes snapped open. Another bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and the high-tech suit miraculously whirred to life. Sending cool air through the veins of the suit. He felt it spread like icy water, from his chest to his waist and up to his shoulders, then to his legs, arms and hands, and up into his helmet. Alleluia!

  Hal felt the Aurora turn in an arc and straighten on the runway. He knew where they were on the airfield from the turns. The engines ramped up, sending a rumble of shallow waves through the AOD and into Hal’s bones. The Aurora surged forward, speeding up. Moving faster and faster. The nose lifted off the runway and the Aurora ascended in a steep climb. For this, Hal was also grateful as it moved chilled air to the back of his suit and increased his blood flow. It all had a calming effect. As the Aurora leveled out, the full force of the sedation kicked in and Hal fell peacefully asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  MASQUERADE

  Hal dreamt he was falling. Back-flopping through a peaceful blue sky and round puffy clouds. He was tranquil and aware, falling at half speed with no wind resistance, and no ground below for miles. He enjoyed the view of the white clouds and dark blue sky above. Even more, he relished the feeling of being unbound and free. No longer a victim of claustrophobia. A whisper eased into his mind from the distance and grew closer. Reaching up from the depths of his subconscious to the here-and-now. It was a warning. “Roll over! Beacon to Ghost One, roll over! Assume drop posture.”

  Hal’s eyes snapped open from the drug-induced dream. His mind groggy, but growing sharper by the second. He was plummeting backward in a near fetal position—hurtling toward the ground in free-fall. Deadly form for a jumper. If he popped his chute from here it would envelop his body and tangle the chute wires beyond recovery.

  Looking up at the black night sky, falling at thirty-two feet per second, Hal rolled over. Spreading his arms and legs wide in wind-breaking form
. He noticed a digital altimeter projected onto his HMD visor. It spun down rapidly, dropping a hundred feet every three seconds.

  At four thousand feet, the countryside details below were sharp and clear in night vision green. A wide river cut through the grassy fields, snaking into the distance toward a sprawling cob-web of lights. The center of the city illuminated in a dense glow. Hal recognized the same terrain from his simulation training. It was identical, but real, he thought.

  The river and main highways headed in the same direction, converging at the core of a city that glowed like a sparkling jewel. Hal wasn’t sure of the city, but knew European roads converged to a hub more than American ones. Vineyards draped the hills surrounding him like a net thrown over the land. The vineyards, greenery and road design honed the location down in his mind. He believed he was in France, Italy or Germany.

  His attention snapped back to the altimeter, quickly winding below two thousand feet. He reached for the ripcord D-ring, but his chest was bare fabric. He started to panic, knowing he had to pull before reaching 500 feet for any chance of survival. He strained his neck, looking down at his chest. No D-ring or ripcord. He looked for an emergency cord and could find none. Hal’s eyes panicked as the altimeter flew past 1,000 feet. He hoped and prayed the ripcord was altitude activated, watching the digital counter go past seven hundred feet.

  At 600 feet, he heard a CLICK and a WHOOSH as the stealth chute caught the wind and streamed straight upward from his backpack. Ballooning open. He felt the tug on his body, and his legs whipped downward into a landing position. Hal exhaled with relief.

  Hal looked above, barely able to make out his dark canopy and cables that blended with the sky. Without night vision goggles, the canopy would be invisible against the sky. A flashing light appeared in his HMD.

  “Aim for the drop zone,” Beacon’s voice commanded.

  Hal leaned toward the target, as he trained in the simulation. The method of controlling the toggle-less chute. He found himself directly over the drop zone. His chute automatically expanded, creating a form of air brake to slow him just before landing. He landed clean and easy, taking only three steps from the downward momentum. Safely on the ground, Hal was about to unbuckle his harness—a muscle memory from all his PJ jumps, when he heard a whirring in his backpack as the parachute reeled back inside.

  A new flashing target appeared on his HMD, seeming to hover over a river in the distance.

  “Initiating master check list,” McCreary said to Baldo. They ran through the entire checklist and everything was normal and operational—until McCreary called out ACS—the level of sleep-state consciousness.

  “NREM stage 1, sir,” Baldo said with concern.

  McCreary pondered it for a moment. A voice barked over the speakers in the box—Trest chiming in remotely. “What’s the hold up?”

  “Ghost One ACS below normal, sir,” McCreary replied. There was a pause. McCreary added. “It’s below the ideal sleep stage.”

  “He’s sleeping though, right? And following commands?”

  “Yes, sir,” McCreary answered. “NREM stage one is sleeping, and he is following commands. Ghost One is currently standing still awaiting my orders.”

  “He’s in the theater now and following commands,” Trest said, “Mission ready.”

  “Yes, sir,” McCreary replied and switched comms to Ghost One’s bone phone implant. “Proceed to target. Get on the boat.”

  Hal followed the flashing target icon, trudging through thick grass and weeds toward the river. He clawed through a tree and shrub lined bank, spotting a lone wooden runabout fast cruiser. Idling on the bank with a CIA asset at the helm, staring straight forward. As if expecting a passenger and trained to not ask questions. From the look of the sleek boat with polished wooden deck, Hal narrowed down the guess of his location to Italy or France. He climbed in the back under a canopy and laid down, per commands over the bone phone. The boat surged forward from the bank, the motor revving to full speed. It took off across the smooth, flat moving water.

  The boat followed the snaking river. Country became suburbs and suburbs city. The trees on the banks gradually became low barricades and then tall, ancient brick walls. It didn’t take Hal long to realize he was on the Seine River, skipping across the water’s surface, slicing through the wind, straight into the heart of Paris.

  With more boat traffic and civilian activity on the banks, McCreary couldn’t risk the operative being seen. He gave the order to activate. Hal instantly felt a warm tingling rush, radiating from his chest and emanating throughout his body. He glanced down to see his arm disappear against the seat he was laying on. He held a hand to his face and it was transparent. He moved it closer to his visor until he could make out a slight ghost outline of his hand and fingers.

  A new target light flashed on his HMD. Knowing he was virtually invisible, Hal sat up and took in the City of Light from the Seine. The fast craft quickly approached a fork in the Seine and the tree-shrouded tip of the Ile Saint-Louis. Northbound boat traffic took the fork on the right. Or it was supposed to. The runabout did the opposite, speeding up and flowing against the grain on the left fork of the Seine. There wasn’t much opposing traffic at this time of night, mostly sight-seeing boats that honked and flashed their lights as the runabout sped by.

  The flashing target in Hal’s HMD drew closer. The runabout pulled to the west bank and slowed, close enough for Hal to jump out. Upon his landing on the bank, the runabout arced back around and headed south down the Seine. Hal was on his own.

  He crossed the cobble stone bank of the Seine toward the flashing light and found himself at a dead end. Staring directly into the ancient city wall, constructed of thick, heavy bricks, fifteen feet tall. He heard the familiar voice through his skull. “Go to the stairs. On your left.”

  Hal spotted the brick stairs fifty feet away, mystified that sightseers along the bank had no idea he was there. He carefully slalomed Parisians and quietly crept up the ancient steps.

  Hal reached the top of the steps to the sidewalk of Quai de Montebello. The flashing light told him to go further inland. Something else told him to turn and look back. He followed that voice—spinning back toward the Seine, and a majestic view of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, bathed in golden light. Hal paused and uttered a silent prayer of gratitude. For freedom from the flying coffin and for his chute opening, sparing him from being a permanent part of the French countryside.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “What’s he doing?” Baldo asked from inside the box. “Sight-seeing?!”

  Douglas sneezed, sitting next to Baldo. He muffled it with his elbow. Never imaging he would be on assignment in a hay-lined barn.

  “Proceed to target,” McCreary sternly ordered. They watched a glowing dot representing Hal on screen, from the satellite feed as he moved up the Quai de Montebello. “Go left in fifty feet.” The dot turned the corner as ordered. Moving further into the heart of Paris, down the narrow Rue de L’Hotel Colbert. The glowing light flickered. Obscured by tall buildings of the narrow, alley-like street. “Move to the middle of the street.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hal pondered the logic of the order, realizing they were watching him from above. He also noted that they lost visual when he was on sidewalks tucked against the tall buildings.

  “It’s down the street on the corner,” Hal heard while seeing the corresponding flashing light on his target. “The one with the boarded windows.”

  Hal spotted the five story apartment building with bland grey-stone features. There was no space between neighboring buildings and apartments. All the buildings in downtown Paris seemed to butt up to one another. The surrounding apartments appeared lived-in, painted with clean tan over stucco and smooth stone bricks. Compared to the dull, boarded-up building sandwiched between them—his target. As he drew nearer, he realized only the ground level doors and windows were covered with plywood. The windows from the second floor up were all intact.

  “Target is on the
third floor.” Hal looked up to the row of third floor windows, wondering how he would get in. Waiting for instructions. “There. Second floor window. It’s open. Climb in.”

  Climb in? Hal thought. How? The surface looked like flat concrete. There was a lip of an overhang separating floors beyond his reach, and he knew his feet wouldn’t grab any traction on the smooth wall. He hesitated, inching toward the wall.

  “Beacon to Ghost One… CLIMB!” McCreary said sternly.

  Leap of faith time, Hal thought. He got a running start and darted straight toward it, like he was about to run through it. Hoping to build momentum to get a couple good steps on the wall that would propel him up within reach of the overhang. That was the plan. He leapt up and planted a right foot on the surface of the wall. To Hal’s surprise, it stuck like track spikes on a rubberized surface. It gripped too well, vaulting him past the first overhang. He panicked, having no hand hold. He stretched out both arms, palms spread wide, hoping at least to use the wall to slow down his imminent fall. To his astonishment, the moment he put his palms to the wall—they stuck—holding him in place. Realizing the grip on his gloves supported him, he assumed his shoes had a similar grip. He put both feet on the wall and proved himself right. He caught his breath and easily scaled the wall toward the open window of the second floor.

  “Pause,” McCreary commanded, then turned to Baldo. “Thermal view.” Hal’s visor changed from night vision to a thermal view where heat images appeared through the wall. Glowing water pipes were the only thing to register. “The room is clear. Proceed. Enter.”

  Hal slowly pushed the window fully open and climbed in. His visor returned to night vision and he found himself stepping onto the kitchen counter of an abandoned apartment. A cat dashed by, startling him. He climbed down from the counter and followed the flashing light, which appeared slightly above his line of sight. Hal opened the apartment door to a hallway with paint peeling off the walls. Jagged holes in drywall exposed a skeleton frame of boards beneath. The hallway lights were out and the entire floor seemed vacant of tenants.