GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel

by Brian Tyree

  A moment later, he sent the same four-digit code, calling her back to the ranch. She answered with the code for copy that, jumped in the shower and was out the door.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Jennifer’s car pulled up to the hitching post in front of the bunkhouse. Hal was there waiting for her. She glanced around for the others and noticed Hal was unarmed. She rolled her window down.

  “Our Chinese friends found the box,” Hal said. It didn’t register with her. “The ground control station—the metal shipping crate from the barn. It’s not far from here.”

  “That’s great! Did you call the police?”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that easy.”

  “They’re calling Henry’s death a suicide!” Jennifer said. “And Doctor Elm’s a botched robbery!”

  “I know.”

  “They’re still hunting us!” She said. “We have to stop them!”

  “We’re going to,” Hal said, nodding up to the bunkhouse loft—inviting her.

  “Do you trust them?” She asked.

  “I do. They need us and we can’t end it without them.”

  Jennifer climbed out of her car, following Hal into the bunkhouse and up to the loft.

  The MSS agents had restored the bunkhouse to its former spycraft haven. All the equipment was back in place—the time-lapse camera pointed at the runway, surveillance feeds ran to one laptop, and live imagery from the Chinese spy satellite fed into the other. There was a new addition to the room—a large map on the wall of Eastern Manhattan, covering a five-block radius from 41st St. to 46th St. and Second Ave. to the East River. Next to it on the wall was a blueprint of the United Nations Headquarters in New York City.

  Weng greeted Hal and Jenny, offering them seats in front of the map on the wall. Charlie and Matt worked at the laptops. “The leaders of our two nations have been in back-channel discussions for over a month—regarding the bombing of the Fuzhou Railway Bureau Building. We know this was a deliberate action by the Cloudcroft operation. An act of war. We have provided your leaders with ample time to publicly acknowledge this, and they have refused. So, this Tuesday when President Weilen addresses the General Assembly of the United Nations, he is going to announce this act of war to the world.”

  Weng paused, looking at Jennifer. “This is what your colleague, the doctor, was referring to. I believe they will send ghost assassins to make sure President Weilen never makes it to the podium.”

  Jennifer is stunned. She looks at Hal in disbelief.

  “I have alerted President Weilen of the danger. Postponing the trip is impossible. Your leaders would perceive it as a sign of weakness. I have informed my President that this rogue operation does not reflect the will of the people. But as your President is aware of it, he is not free from accountability.”

  “It’s a no-win!” Jennifer exclaimed. “If they get to—fulfill their goal, it’s an act of war. If not, your President proclaims an act of war.”

  “They’re going to make it look like it’s not the U.S.,” Hal said, referring to Cloudcroft’s attempt at preventing the Chinese President from speaking. “They can’t. I’m sure they’ve thought through the scenarios.”

  “If they’re stopped before they reach your President, will he be flexible,” Jenny asked Weng. “Will he show leniency?”

  “I have discussed this with him. He is agreeable to it, provided your government denounces the corrupt organization and holds them accountable. Your government would also have to issue a public apology and provide reparations for the Fuzhou bombing.”

  “So, why do you need me?” Jennifer asked Hal.

  “We’ll need you for communications,” Hal said. “We’ve changed the frequency on my GPS tracker, so you’ll be able to see me here on the monitor from the Chinese satellite feed. You’ll be able to direct me through the building once I’m inside. Matt will be on the mission with us and Charlie will be remotely guiding the satellite and setting up the comms here for you.”

  “I have arranged a private jet at the Alamogordo Airport to fly us to New York tomorrow,” Weng said. “We only have the remainder of today to brief.”

  “Just tell me what to do,” Jenny said.

  “Good,” Weng said. “A van will pick us up at LaGuardia Airport. From there we’ll drive to Manhattan and pick up equipment at the Chinese Consulate…”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Dragonfly is away,” Force Recon Sergeant Ronald Hughes said over the microphone of a lightweight headset. Hughes clutched a military-grade tablet device, remotely operating a black USAF Regis heavy-lift quadcopter drone. Its cargo—a large black Storm case.

  The drone elevated a couple hundred feet, disappearing into the Manhattan night sky. Hughes guided it via the on-board camera, its display and controls on-screen of his tablet. The drone passed over Tudor City Place and the Isaiah Wall. Flying in a bee-line toward the United Nations Headquarters, basking in the glow of a dozen spotlights. The lights of Long Island flickered on the horizon like glimmering jewels, beyond the shimmering jet-black East River.

  The drone hovered unseen, hundreds of feet above the UN headquarters. Slowly descending to a soft landing on the roof of the South Annex building of the UN campus. Other buildings connected the South Annex to the main structure of the UN campus—the General Assembly Building.

  “Touchdown,” Hughes reported over his headset. “Returning to base camp.” Hughes slid the tablet inside his coat and removed the headset, marching toward the stairwell door on the hotel roof.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “We’ve got about four hours until go-time,” McCreary said, removing his headset and tossing it on the console. He and Baldo were the only ones in the box. “You can rack out until Trest and Douglas arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Baldo stepped out into a crisp and cool New Mexico night filled with stars. Not a cloud in the sky. He snapped open a cot leaning against the box and lay down, looking into the infinite beyond. Closing his eyes.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sunrise broke over the Atlantic, creeping its way across South Hampton, Queens and Brooklyn. Sergeant Hughes squinted into the sunlight, approaching a limousine town car in front of the hotel. The driver bound around to open the door for him. “I got it,” Hughes said in a stern voice. The driver nodded and returned behind the wheel.

  Hughes looked sharp in a dark suit and tie. He had a concealed earpiece in one ear and a tiny microphone tucked inside his shirt collar. Remaining in constant contact with the box nearly two-thousand miles away. He opened the back door for his Force Recon spotter, Lance Corporal Merrick. Merrick also wore a suit and tie. A lanyard looped around his neck with an official UN delegate badge. Merrick got in the limo, sliding to the far side. Hughes paused for a few seconds before stepping into the car and sat near the door, leaving a wide gap between he and Merrick.

  “Oscar Mike,” Hughes said quietly, dipping his jaw to his collar. Letting those in the box know they were on the move.

  An acknowledgement sounded from the familiar voice of Beacon, “Once inside the lobby, Ghost Two has the point. Remember, he can’t open doors, so give plenty of time to let him in behind you. I’ll guide you to the South Annex from his helmet cam and tracker.”

  “Roger,” Hughes said, eyeing the street ahead as the driver turned toward the sprawling UN campus.

  The main gates of the UN opened to a long line of limousines and taxis. Sergeant Hughes’s town car was leading the pack. Merrick and Hughes showed the gate guard their badges and he waived them in to the circular driveway of the Secretariat Building—a thirty-nine story office building of shimmering glass. It was the tallest building on the UN campus.

  Hughes got out and held the door open. The driver leaped out and opened the door for Merrick. There was an awkward pause as Hughes seemed to be holding it for no one. He started to close it, and it was momentarily blocked by an unseen force. Ghost Two wasn’t all the way out.

  Hughes held the Secretariat door for Merrick and
his invisible brother in arms. “Okay, proceed straight ahead,” McCreary said over the radio. “You gotta’ move. Most of security is outside for the flag-raising.”

  Hughes and Merrick passed satchels, phones and computer tablets through the metal detector. Scooping them up with haste on the other side. Headed down the main corridor of the building.

  “Turn right and go about a hundred feet,” McCreary said over their headsets. “Then left into the South Annex. Look for the elevators and take them to the top floor.”

  “Roger.” They walked as fast as they could without drawing attention.

  “The guards are moving to the flags,” McCreary said. “Double-time it!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the brief, McCreary informed them of the UN Security Forces morning ritual—raising the 193 flags of UN member countries lining the front of the campus. This was the UN’s most vulnerable time—the best time for the men to get their gear in the building as many guards left their posts for flag duty.

  The trio exited the elevator and found the small office rented in advance, courtesy of the government of Taiwan. Or that’s how it would look on the books. They locked the door behind them and went to work. Merrick pulled a diamond-tipped tactical pen from his jacket and cut a three-foot square in the window. The window facing a courtyard between the South Annex and the large conference building. Hughes removed the tablet device from his jacket and powered up the quadcopter drone on the roof above them. “Dragonfly is skis up.”

  Merrick completed the square and the glass piece broke free from the window. It seemed to hover in mid-air as Ghost Two carefully lowered it to the floor nearby. Moments later, the quadcopter drone descended, carrying the cargo of the heavy-duty Storm case. Hughes guided the drone through the hole in the window and Merrick grabbed it and the case from mid-air.

  Hughes cut the rotor power, saying, “Package received” over his microphone. Merrick removed the case from the drone and popped the lid. Revealing a suppressed compact MP5 machine gun, night vision headbands and odd steel components that Hughes quickly transferred to an inconspicuous briefcase.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Radio check,” Hal said. His own voice reverberating off the inside of his helmet. “Are you hearing this?”

  A crackled reply came back from Jenny in the bunkhouse. “Yes, I hear you. Loud and clear. I don’t see your tracker though.”

  “Copy that.” Hal deactivated the camouflage stealth mode of the suit, appearing in an armored limousine, sitting across the wide seat from Weng. Their car trailed the presidential car with a motorcade behind them—all parked in front of their Manhattan hotel.

  Hal peeled back the flap on his sleeve and typed into the pad. The controls appeared on his HMD visor. He navigated through the menu to GPS and activated the tracker, set to the new frequency of the Chinese spy satellite. “How copy?”

  “We see you, leaving the Westin.”

  The snaking motorcade of the Chinese President’s vehicle along with those of the ambassadors and their staff rolled out. Escorted toward the UN by a cadre of New York’s finest.

  Hal reactivated the suit, seeming to vanish from the seat. He gazed out the dark black windows at a motorcycle cop unable to see in. He thought about flagging the cop down and telling him to lock down the UN from the threat of an active shooter. Hal recommended notifying authorities or the FBI that the Chinese President may be in danger. Weng wasn’t on board. The Chinese President would never throw in the towel. He had complete faith in his own version of secret service—the “Zhongnanhai Baobiao”—The Bodyguards of the Red Palace. He also trusted the Security Forces of the UN, which are independent from official United States government security.

  The Westin was three blocks from the UN Headquarters. Even with an official escort, it only took a few minutes to arrive. Weng led the team of delegates and ambassadors into the General Assembly entrance. All of whom were unaware of the Ghost following behind.

  Weng, in a suit and tie with a delegate badge, passed a briefcase and iPad through the security screeners. Hal easily climbed over the barricades, unseen in stealth mode. Once past security, the presidential entourage proceeded down the corridor. Entering the cavernous General Assembly building.

  Hal kept to the right of the President. Scanning the lighting grid and ceiling on one side of the assembly while Weng scanned the other—searching for potential snipers. All clear. Weng escorted the President and ambassadors to their seats at the designated section for China. Hal stood off to the side, out of the way of anyone passing by who might accidentally bump into him.

  Hal diligently scanned the area for threats. Unlike the Secret Service clearing areas prior to events for potential threats, Hal knew a threat was imminent. An assassin or team of assassins were somewhere in the building.

  Weng continued through the General Assembly to an exit on the opposite side, carrying a thick briefcase. He left the lofty General Assembly, passing through a narrow walkway toward a more common looking four-storied Conference Building. He spoke into a concealed microphone clipped to the inside of his shirt, saying “En route” in Chinese.

  A reply came back over a concealed earpiece. It was the voice of Matt, also speaking in Chinese. “Copy. In que now. We’ll be a few minutes.”

  Matt wore white produce deliveryman overalls. Flashing a UN badge at the service entrance to the Delegates Diner in the Conference Building, overlooking the East River. He pushed a crate of random produce on wheels—carrots, cucumbers and several heads of lettuce on the top rack, and a case of eight one-gallon cans of tomato sauce on the bottom rack. A UN security guard stopped him. “Raise your arms, please.”

  Matt did as told and the guard waved a portable metal detector all around Matt’s body. The guard inspected his cart. “May I?”

  Matt lifted individual heads of lettuce up for him to inspect. The guard noticed the case of tomato sauce below. “That’s a lot of pasta.” Matt nodded. “Open one, please.”

  Matt obliged, removing a triangular-tipped can opener from his pocket. He opened it like an old oil can and dipped a finger in, holding up the thick tomato sauce to the guard. Matt licked it off his finger. “It’s tomato sauce.” Satisfied, the guard waved him through.

  Matt wheeled the cart through a bustling kitchen. Each member of the kitchen staff on pre-ordained missions and too busy to care about a delivery guy. Matt got the lay of the kitchen, noticing waiters going in and out of the dining room through a swinging door. He spotted the walk-in cooler, beside the kitchen. He spoke softly into his collar. “Go through the restaurant, you’ll see the kitchen door. Pass straight through and into the walk-in cooler.” Matt wheeled his cart toward the cooler, opened the heavy door and went inside. He looked around, wondering if Weng could sneak in. The door burst open, startling him. It was a prep cook. Matt quickly unloaded the lettuce heads onto a shelf. The prep cook grabbed a crate of eggs and left as quickly as he entered.

  Weng strode through restaurant dotted with a handful of patrons for breakfast. He spotted the swinging door Matt told him about. How do I get in without anyone seeing? Weng thought.

  A waiter bolted out of the kitchen with plates of breakfast entrees. Weng spotted a tray of glasses beside the door. He removed his phone, pretending like he was talking on it as the waiter returned. Weng jammed the phone in his pocket and hoisted up the tray of glasses. Holding them high to conceal his face. He picked up his briefcase with his free hand and pushed the door open, darting to the walk-in cooler. “Open the door. NOW,” he said into his concealed microphone.

  The cooler door swung open, held by Matt. Weng entered and set the glasses down. “Does it lock?” Matt couldn’t see a lock. “Hold it closed.”

  Weng worked quickly, popping the latches on his briefcase, which was completely empty. He removed the entire top section of the case of tomato sauce. It was a faux case. The top of it composed eight thin containers as thick as tuna fish cans. Each holding enough tomato sauce to pass for full cans
if opened. Beneath the faux top, was a metal box with rounded sides resembling the tomato sauce cans. Inside, were two Type 06 9x19mm Chinese submachine guns with suppressors and 50 round helical magazines. Weng quickly put them inside the briefcase. He then removed two NORINCO CF-98 9mm sidearms, stuffing one inside his jacket and handing the other to Matt.

  Weng replaced the faux top on the cans and hid the cart between shelves. Matt tore off his deliveryman coveralls, revealing a dark suit and tie underneath. Weng snapped the briefcase closed and they both left the walk-in cooler.

  They headed toward the kitchen door, surprising a waiter who barreled through from the other side. Weng pretended to be lost, speaking in a thick Chinese accent. “Lestloom?” The waiter gave a puzzled look, then understood. Directing them toward the restroom. Weng bowed to him. He and Matt cut across the restaurant, headed back to the General Assembly building.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Send up the overwatch,” Trest ordered Douglas.

  “Yes, sir. AOD taxiing to runway now.”

  The stealth drone pulled out of Hangar 302, guided by Douglas from the box. It wound through the taxi-way toward runway 25, and took off heading east. Cleared by the Holloman tower under the guise of a training mission, it banked north and climbed to ten thousand feet, beyond sight of anyone watching with a naked eye.

  The image from the AOD’s camera showed the lone, sand-brown ground control station.

  “AOD above and circling,” Douglas reported to Trest. “All clear.”

  “SITREP Cobra-22?” McCreary inquired over his headset.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hughes, call sign Cobra-22, split off from Ghost Two and Merrick, who was Cobra-24. Hughes quickly strode up a narrow hallway running along the east side of the General Assembly building. There were too many UN translators in the hall for the Force Recon Marine to reply to McCreary. Translators from all over the world arriving at their respective translation booths, overlooking the General Assembly.