GHOST TRAIL

by Brian Tyree

  Hal heard a scuffle across the canyon and saw movement from the corner of his eye. It was the arriving Lennon, taking cover on the opposite canyon wall. He readied his M203, a grenade launcher with a 40mm projectile. Lining it up on the bold insurgents rushing toward the mouth of the canyon. Lennon fired and the explosion hit the dirt at the feet of three insurgents, sending them flying. The others held fast at the opening. Adjusting their strategy. They took cover and entered more slowly with caution.

  A few who ducked for cover from the 203 unwittingly opened themselves up to Hal. He fired, dispatching one while the others backed up to more secure cover. Hal gave up his location by firing, and the insurgents riddled the solid boulder with bullets. The rounds ricocheted off like BBs. Forming a dust cloud that provided a natural “smoke” cover for Hal. He dropped down lower, changing firing position from behind the giant rock.

  Hal heard shouting in Arabic and the enemy fire ceased. A sign they were bringing in something more powerful than their AKs. Hal peered around the base of the boulder—observing an Iraqi shouldering an RPG launcher, aiming it on the boulder. Hal squeezed off a quick burst from his M4, striking the man in the torso. His pain response caused him to pull the trigger on the rocket-propelled grenade. It skipped off the canyon floor and bounced up into the solid rock guarding Hal. EXPLODING.

  The boulder broke apart into chunks, shielding Hal from the bulk of the blast. The concussion was so strong it sent Hal to his hands and knees. The detonation sound amplified off the canyon walls, giving Hal temporary deafness. With ears ringing, his world was now in “slow-time.” Hal rose up to see another Iraqi fire an RPG on Lennon’s position. Lennon dove behind a small cluster of rocks. The RPG hit it, blasting it to dust and jarring Lennon, who floundered out into the open like he was lost. Easy picking for the insurgents. They fired, striking Lennon in the ribs.

  The SEALs unloaded with cover fire over the top of Lennon. Pushing the Iraqis back to the mouth of the canyon. “Two-three to Lifter one-nine, request permission to advance.”

  “Negative,” Hal replied. Their primary objective was to protect the HVT—the stealth bomber. If the SEALs advanced, it would put them at risk and expose the B-2.

  Hal’s cover was now reduced to rubble, but the SEALs were keeping the Iraqis at bay with their suppression fire. Hal knew he had to move. “Two-three and Two-four, cover me,” He ordered. Hal rose to a low crouch and darted across the canyon, out in the open. Strafing the Iraqis on the fly. If the Iraqis had NVGs he would be a goner. Hal grabbed Lennon by the collar on the run, dragging him to cover on the west wall. Hal checked his pulse. He was alive but unconscious. Hal staunched the bleeding from Lennon’s chest and keyed the radio. “Lifter19 to Coach07, how copy on CSAR? Man down. Condition alpha. Gunshot wound to the torso.”

  “Coach to Lifter, five minutes out. Looking for a safe LZ.”

  The Iraqis plotted outside the canyon. Even with numbers dwindled to under a dozen; they were emboldened knowing only a few armed Americans remained. They knew air support would be arriving soon and their best hope for cover was inside the canyon. The Iraqis moved in using cover-and-fire tactics copied from American urban assault teams. Half of them made it all the way in and took cover behind rocks on a far wall. Firing on the Americans inside. Hal hurled both his M67 grenades, one after the other. Taking out a couple Iraqis. The others kept coming.

  The SEALs threw everything they had, but couldn’t stop the insurgent advance. Hal picked up the 203 and fired, holding them off—for a moment. The insurgents were getting the upper hand. More of them crept into the canyon. All the kicked up dust from the firefight rendered Hal’s NVGs useless. He emptied the last clip of his M4 into the dust cloud. One insurgent would drop and another would appear from outside to take his place. How many are there? Hal thought. It seemed like they had already killed the twenty PAX reported by command.

  Just inside the canyon, a few insurgents gathered with a flashlight, shining it at the ground. Hal watched them pull the B-2 wingtip that broke off when it clipped the canyon wall in the forced landing. The insurgents brushed dust off it. A bullet ricocheted off the wall next to Hal and he ducked down. Why didn’t the pilots pick it up? He thought.

  The Al Qaeda rebels celebrated. Yelling in Arabic. Passing the wingtip pieces around. Keenly aware of the financial and strategic value of the highly-secretive stealth fragments. They could trade the pieces for an arsenal of weaponry with Russia or China. Countries more than happy to get their hands on stealth fragments they could reverse engineer to improve their own stealth aircraft. Or to create better defenses against American stealth fighters and bombers. Either way, the fragments were worth a lot to them. A troubling development for Hal. He keyed his radio. “Lifter19 to Coach07.”

  “Go for Coach, Lifter.”

  “Enemy insurgents have HVT fragments. They’re taking them from the canyon. Over.”

  “Lifter19, please repeat last.”

  “They have HVT pieces. A wingtip. How copy on pursuit?”

  There was no response.

  “Lifter19 to Coach07,” Hal continued. “They’re getting away with an HVT Boomerang component. How copy on pursuit? Over.”

  Hal waited for the answer. He was sure they heard him and they were just mulling over options. A petrifying thought occurred to Hal... These fragments could end the Air Force’s tactical advantage over the entire world. We may never again hold the title of Owner of the Night.

  Salty sweat ran into Hal’s eyes. Blinding him for a moment. He wiped his face with his sleeve and watched the fragments loaded into the back of a truck. They would be gone forever if he didn’t act soon. He slammed a thumb onto the push-to-talk radio. “How copy on pursuit?”

  Having spent the ammo from his own sidearm, Hal pulled the Beretta from under Lennon’s jacket and rose to his feet. It was dark enough that the enemy couldn’t see him if he didn’t fire, so he hugged the canyon wall and crept forward. Reaching the protrusion of rocks that bit off the B-2’s wingtip. The same protrusion providing the enemy with cover on the other side.

  Hal leaned out around the rocks and got the drop on two enemy fighters. He was now in the realm of in-your-face close quarters. His training came back to him in a flash. Anatomical textbook diagrams of vulnerable points appeared in his mind’s eye over his enemies. Like augmented reality in an imaginary heads-up-display. Hal went target to target. The first he shot in the neck. Before either could raise their weapons, he shot the second in the head. The SEALs laid down cover fire on the sound of his gunshots—keeping insurgents in the canyon from lining up clear shots on Hal.

  An enemy stormed from Hal’s left. Hal threw a jab upward with the heel of his palm, thrusting up through the man’s nose. Rifling his septum into his brain. Instantly killing him.

  A crackled reply came from command. “Negative on pursuit. Stay with HVT.”

  Too late now! Hal thought.

  Footfalls scurried toward Hal from the canyon opening. Hal yanked the AK out of Flat Face’s dead hands, spun and squeezed off a burst into the enemy storming the canyon. Hal sprinted out of the canyon, shooting at anything that moved. One of the transport trucks, a small Toyota, took off across the desert with two men in the cab. Insurgents fired out of the canyon toward Hal. He stayed low, taking cover and firing back. Then made a break for the other truck with the mounted gun in back. He threw the door open, jumped in and turned the ignition. No keys. He looked up at the dust plume trailing the Toyota ahead of him. American air-superiority slipping through his fingers. Hal glanced around the cab and then down to the seat—at the keys. He fired it up and took off.

  The frantic radio call from a SEALs sounded over his headset. “Romeo23 to Coach17. Where is evac and support? Enemy moving in fast.” Hal could hear volleys of machine gun fire over the radio.

  “Coach07 to Romeo23, Stark01 five miles from LZ.”

  Hal focused through NVGs on the Toyota ahead as it bounced across the scrub. The bouncing of his truck made the NVGs too
erratic, so he flipped them up. Pointing his truck toward the hazy village lights ahead.

  Command broke over the radio. “Coach07 to Lifter19, SITREP. We’re tracking a light truck heading back toward village and the Technical closing fast.”

  Hal had to come clean before the Pave Hawks rained fire on him. “Lifter to Coach. I’m in the Technical. Pursuing other. Do not fire. Over.”

  “Lifter19 Repeat.”

  “I’m in the Technical, in pursuit of HVT fragments, sir.”

  “Lifter19, you are in violation of a direct order. Return to canyon and mark the LZ for Stark01.”

  Hal could now see the rear of the lead truck with its one working tail light. “Coach07, I can recover HTV.”

  “Negative. Lifter19. KIO, Lifter19, KIO.”

  The order hit Hal hard. KIO was the Knock-It-Off order. Anyone up or down the Air Force chain could utter it at any given time and the mission must be aborted. No questions asked. Hal’s glare on the truck ahead sharpened. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and stepped on the gas.

  “Negative, Coach07. HVT intel is priority.”

  A radio channel opened in the canyon and Hal heard a flurry of gunfire along with two Navy SEALs yelling “HOOYAH!” Hal knew he made the right call with them.

  Hal closed in on the lead truck with lights off. Neither insurgent in the cab saw him coming. Hal grabbed the AK on the seat and used its stock to pound out the windshield. He flipped the rifle around and aimed on the truck driver ahead. Both trucks bounced over the thick scrub. The most he could hope for was a lucky shot. He squeezed the trigger. Holding it down for a long spray across the cab. Bullets rattled through the thin aluminum and crashed through the back window. The truck pulled hard to the right, telling Hal he hit the driver. The Iraqi beside him fired back at Hal then took the wheel. Hal raised the AK again only to hear the CLICK of an empty magazine. He would have to stop the truck the hard way.

  In the canyon, the SEALs, Jonah and the crew of the Colorado hunkered behind the landing gear that shielded them from the storm of bullets. Grateful the insurgents used up all their RPGs. The Americans stayed out of the aircraft in the event of a lucky shot on one of the fuel tanks. Romeo23 was behind the wheel post at the nose of the bomber. Romeo24 was behind the right-rear landing gear with the pilot, and Jonah was behind the left-rear with the Mission Commander.

  Romeo23 emptied his last M4a1 magazine and switched to his sidearm. Romeo24 had already abandoned his rifle and was about empty on his sidearm. Jonah had long fired off all his M4 ammo and was down to plinking with his Berretta 9mm.

  Romeo23 yelled back to the Captain by two-four. “How much fuel does she have?”

  “More than half a tank!” He yelled back.

  “Two-four to two-three,” sounded over the radio. “Set demo?”

  Romeo23 thought about it as Iraqi bullets pinged off the landing gear in front of him and off the aircraft itself. This won’t be another Mogadishu, he thought. The battle where Somalis shot down a Black Hawk leaving SEALs, Rangers and Pararescue outnumbered in a stand-off they couldn’t win. Resulting in dead Americans dragged on their backs and paraded through the city. “Set the charges,” Romeo23 ordered.

  Hal tailed the small truck in a race to the village. He had to make a move or find himself following the beat-up Toyota into an ambush. He angled his truck adjacent to the other and gunned it. Nudging the right corner of his truck into the left rear of the other in a spin-out maneuver. Hal plowed into him, and it kicked the back of the other truck out. The driver lost control and rolled the small truck. It spun a few revolutions and came to a stop on its roof. The enemy crawled out the back window. Hal hit the brakes and turned his high-beams on the Iraqi’s face. He stood up and froze in the light with his arms raised in surrender. Now what? Hal thought. He stepped out of his cab with the empty AK and snapped the lever hard. The Iraqi heard the mechanism and dashed off into the bushes. Sprinting toward the village.

  Hal removed his J5 tactical flashlight and swept the ground for wingtip debris. The fragments stood out on the light sand like coal on snow. He collected a couple pieces and backtracked to where the truck’s roll started, finding the larger fragments. Hal loaded them into the back of his truck then peered under the other truck to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

  Hal leapt in the small truck and cranked it back around toward the canyon. “Lifter19, Lifter19, Stark01.”

  “Go for Stark01, Lifter19.”

  “HVT fragments in possession. Returning back to the DZ in insurgent truck. Do not fire. Repeat. Do not fire. I’m in the insurgent truck. Flashing my headlights now. Over.”

  “Roger that. We have a visual. Landing momentarily.”

  Hal killed his lights, flipped the NVGs down and looked up into the sky. He saw both Pave Hawks five-hundred feet up, approaching the LZ at the canyon entrance. Strobe lights echoed on the canyon walls. Flashes of gunfire from the raging firefight inside.

  A crackle of radio static sounded over Hal’s headset and then... “THEY’VE OVER-RUN US! WE HAVE TO BLOW IT!” Hal knew it was the voice of the SEAL leader, Romeo23.

  Hal saw the massive fireball bloom from the canyon mouth before he heard it. The BOOM of the exploding demo charges came a moment later, rattling his truck. The bright explosion whited-out Hal’s NVGs. He shoved them up only to see a massive fireball rising above the canyon. The ignited fuel of the B-2. Hal slammed on the brakes. He heard radio chatter from the panicked helicopters about to land. Stark01 moved further away from the canyon to a new landing zone. Stark02 hovered above the canyon opening with vengeance. Picking off insurgents fleeing from the canyon, including those on fire from the blast.

  “Coach07, Lifter19 SITREP.

  Hal ignored the radio. Watching the blooming explosion in a daze. Driving toward the canyon. The call repeated. Asking his status and for a report on what happened in the canyon.

  Hal arrived as Stark01 set its skids down on the packed desert sand. He got out of the truck without taking his eyes off the huge orange-black fireball over the canyon. Knowing everyone inside, everyone under his care—his whole unit and the crew of the Colorado were all dead... Except him.

  Two PJs from Stark01 grabbed Hal and rushed him on board, checking his vitals. Another pair of PJs gathered the wing fragments from the back of the truck. They jumped in next to Hal, securing the debris.

  “What the hell happened down there?” A PJ asked.

  Hal could only look at the fragments in a daze. The all-secure came from the pilot and Stark01 took off. Hal looked out the window. The blackness of the sky seemed to weigh down on the earth like granite.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  JSRC command allowed Hal to shower and collect his thoughts before the debrief. Hal fully expected to be “Article Thirty-Two’d.” Court-martialed for disobeying a direct order that may have resulted in the deaths of his men. In his mind, there was no question it did. Hal believed he deserved a court martial and any other punishment they could give him.

  Hal’s recounting of events was somber. He often had trouble finishing his sentences, thinking about his men. Article thirty-two never even came up. The mission never existed so command was unable to issue any formal discipline. Hal’s conscience eased when the commander assured him “there’d be plenty” of informal punishment for his actions. Thinking about his men, Hal didn’t even care what it meant. If the op wasn’t covert, and command permitted Hal, he would have delivered the news to the families of his men and the crew of the Spirit of Colorado himself.

  CHAPTER ONE

  HOLLOMAN

  Holloman Air Force Base (AFB), NM

  Fourteen years in a dark, tin can on the Mojave Desert. That was Hal’s “informal punishment,” courtesy of a transfer to Indian Springs, Nevada, the location of Creech Air Force Base. Hal’s title—RPA Sensor Operator. He was part of the small Remotely Piloted Aircraft crew squeezed into a shipping crate-like metal box called a ground control station. Joining him were the RPA (drone) pilot and a
superior officer. Occasionally, an imagery analyst or specialists from the CIA would sit in.

  Hal and the pilot sat in comfy Lazy-Boy style chairs before computer terminals and an array of flat screen monitors. Airmen controlling the eye-in-the-sky drones called the container “the box.” They worked twelve-hour shifts in the box, guiding recon missions and air-strikes half a world away. Though Hal wasn’t demoted in rank, Sensor Operators were entry-level ensign posts. Quite a step down for a Tier One Special Forces Operator like Hal. Hal’s duties included monitoring cameras, lasers and other sensors on the unmanned aircraft. And when the pilot pushed the button to launch missiles, Hal would guide them to the target. Somebody high up had it in for Hal to transfer him to the Siberia of the USAF, and then keep him in the box for fourteen years. Hal would have gladly taken a transfer to a base in Alaska over the box. At least he could hunt and fish on weekends.

  RPA crews suffered the highest burnout rate in the Air Force. Not only from long, hot shifts in the metal crate, but many airmen experienced PTSD from their RPA service.

  Hal “embraced the suck.” Never complaining and never once requesting a promotion or transfer. He dealt with the stress by diving headfirst into his off-duty hobby—Mixed Martial Arts. He had learned Judo as part of PJ training and took it upon himself to learn Jujitsu, Muay Thai and Aikido. He even drove to Las Vegas to fight in amateur MMA tournaments. Until he began winning. And drawing unwanted attention to the Air Force and his role in the drone program.

  Relief came for Hal about six months ago, with a transfer order that sent him to Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico. From one desert to another. The transfer told him he paid his dues, even though his new role would be in the chair force—a non-flying desk job. Not only was he back on a nine-to-five schedule in a role befitting an officer, but he was serving Big Blue. The force he loved.