GHOST TRAIL

by Brian Tyree

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Low Level Route Survey documents were fanned out beside a map on a table in Hangar 302. The Air Force survey was a spreadsheet of all the dwellings and their coordinates surrounding Holloman AFB. McCreary pointed to an area on the map. “Holloman… Alamogordo. A zoning map of all structures in the area. We need line of sight within five miles of the Holloman radar tower here for SAT COMMS. Doesn’t give us much breathing room. We’ve gotta’ find cover somewhere within this radius. Help me find a new home, boys.”

  Baldo and Douglas joined him in searching the desert around Holloman on the survey and map. “Can we use camo nets?” Douglas asked.

  “Negative,” McCreary said. “IR can see right through them.”

  “Here,” Baldo said, pointing to a location on the map. “This might work.” McCreary looked closely. Nodding his head in approval, giving Baldo a brisk slap on the back.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The undercover MSS agents hungrily dove into a stack of steaming flapjacks, sunny-side-up eggs and thick bacon strips. All whipped up and served by Mrs. Barrett, the rancher’s wife. The three MSS agents sat around a square dining room table with a checkered tablecloth. The quaint country kitchen decor included wall hangings of chickens, hens, a barn and other animals. Aromas of sizzling bacon, fresh maple syrup and pancakes right off the griddle filled the entire home. The morning sun cast bold rays through a large square window over the kitchen table, looking out to the Barrett Ranch driveway. Weng spotted a snaking dust cloud in the distance, trailing a vehicle like a missile plume—heading for the ranch. The table seat under the window sill was vacant. A sparkling clean plate, neatly arranged silverware and empty coffee cup awaited the man of the house. “Where is Mr. Barrett this morning?” Weng asked.

  “Oh, he’ll be in shortly,” the charming rancher’s wife answered. “Had to repair a fence in the horse corral. Those ponies just about figured out how to get through it.”

  The other MSS agents didn’t seem concerned about Barrett’s absence. Both their heads were down, mowin’ into the fine grub. Weng eyed the vehicle as it approached, finally close enough to distinguish— a plain Air Force service SUV. Painted in the same flat dull gray as an F-16 fighter. Weng looked to the other agents, neither of whom noticed the vehicle.

  Barrett rounded the corner of the house from the direction of the horse stalls. Taking off his cowboy hat to dry the sweat of his brow with the arm of a long-sleeved shirt. Weng watched Barrett freeze in the driveway, waiting for the SUV with curiosity.

  Mrs. Barrett topped off Weng’s coffee and saw what he was looking at. “I wonder what this is all about.”

  Charlie and Matt finally looked up from their breakfast. They all watched an officer step down from the passenger side of the cab. Dressed in his Air Force Battle Uniform or ABU, the non-combat work duty uniform. Weng saw the golden oak leaf patch on his arm that identified the airman a Major. Barrett and Trest exchanged a friendly handshake and seemed to make light conversation. Barrett gestured back to the house, and the major appeared to look right at the undercover MSS agents eating their morning breakfast.

  Weng noticed Matt tightly grip a steak knife by his plate as Charlie eased an arm inside his jacket. Undoubtedly reaching for a concealed sidearm. Weng made a subtle gesture to both of them—shaking his head. They backed down. Returning to their meals.

  “That was an excellent breakfast, Mrs. Barrett,” Charlie said.

  “Why, thank you,” she replied.

  Weng glanced outside to see the rancher shake hands again with the major, who returned to his truck. Mr. Barrett opened the door and trod into the living room with such glee, he forgot to close the door behind him.

  “The door! And your boots!” his wife said.

  “Hush about that for now, Missus,” he said. “The kind major has honored us by ‘requestin’ the rental of our barn for official government business.”

  “He what?” she asked.

  “We’re rentin’ out the barn to the United States Air Force. Makin’ a pretty penny too!” He turned to the tenants of his bunkhouse. “If it’s not too much to ask, you fellas mind helping clean out the barn for ‘em? We’ll have it emptied out in no time with all hands on deck!”

  “We’ll be happy to help,” Weng answered for the group.

  Barrett rushed over and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. “Keep mine in the oven, will ya’? We’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  An hour later, the bunkhouse crew and Barrett were still at it. Dragging saw horses, plows, and bales of hay out of the large wooden barn, making room for who-knows-what the Air Force had in mind for it. It was a classic old barn, just like the kind Mrs. Barrett had as a wall hanging in the country kitchen—red with wide double doors, and a sturdy wooden ladder inside ascending to a hayloft. Barrett even topped the barn’s spire with a rooster weathervane.

  The last big item was an old rusty tractor from the 1950s. Rancher Barrett tried to turn her over but she wouldn’t start again in his lifetime. He put it in neutral and steered as the bunkhouse boys pushed it out of the barn. They made a tight turn and parked her around the side of the barn, out of the way. While heading back in, they saw a massive dust cloud trailing an eighteen-wheeler, storming toward the ranch. On the flatbed was a rectangular metal shipping crate. Weng immediately recognized it as an RPA Ground Command Station. He stood in disbelief as the clandestine phantom operation delivered its command and control headquarters right to his doorstep. It had to be from the black op, he thought. There was no other explanation to hide an RPA crate off an Air Force base less than a mile away.

  Douglas drove the big rig and Baldo jumped out the passenger side. The same gray SUV from earlier pulled up alongside it with Major Trest riding shotgun and McCreary driving.

  Baldo shook hands with Barrett and each of the bunkhouse boys. “We’ll take it from here,” Baldo said. “Thank you for your service to your country.”

  Barrett led the undercover MSS agents back to the house while the airmen sprang to work. Project Cloudcroft would soon be up and running once again.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Back in the bunkhouse loft, Matt drilled a small hole in the wall and fitted a pinhole camera inside. He ran the cord to a laptop and plugged it in, revealing a wide angle view of the ranch. He adjusted the iris, reducing the glare and the barn came into sharp focus. Only the side and front of the barn were visible from this angle, but it was enough to see anyone entering or leaving.

  The airmen were busy in the barn. One stepped out, searching the side of the barn for something—and then found it. A circuit box. McCreary opened the rusty panel, flipped switches and snapped the old box closed.

  “Whatever they’re doing requires a lot of power,” Weng said. “It’s likely they have the phantom suit inside too.”

  “Do you think we could take them?” Charlie asked.

  “Three on four? And no idea what weaponry they have? Taking it by force isn’t an option,” Weng said. “We also don’t know if the phantom is inside or nearby. Are you linked to YG?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie answered.

  “Set it to watch the barn. Record all sensors around the clock. Notify MSS that an RPA box is inside and the phantom suit and operator may be here also.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Inside the barn, Baldo, McCreary and Douglas hustled to set up the box. Each performing pre-assigned duties. Baldo dragged the VR OmniTrainer gear out from the box, staging it in a corner of the barn. Setting up all the components. McCreary focused on the box’s wiring and electrical, patching them to the barn’s dusty and antiquated outlets. Douglas was up on the hayloft, kicking loose straw out of the way to lower the tripod legs down supporting a mobile communications disc. He aimed the disk out the hay door toward the radio tower of Holloman. Douglas plugged a cable into the disk and tossed the other end down to McCreary, who connected them to the box.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Hal strolled down the long, wi
ndowed corridor toward his office, drinking a hot cup of coffee. He spotted a blinking surveillance camera in the corner of the hallway and for the first time in a long time, felt relaxed. Calm. He knew he was being watched, but at least he now knew why.

  Hal gazed through the rows of rectangular windows of the corridor. Nicely framing the legacy aircraft on display outside. They were supported by iron posts, jutting up from the trimmed green grass that separated the building and parking lot. One of the prominent fighters on display was a faded F-117A. The Iron Ball paint had been sand blasted off and replaced with a flat black paint, which had oxidized over the years to an ashy hue. Beside it was a light gray F-16 and next to it a darker gray, Vietnam-era F-4 Phantom.

  Hal was about to turn into his office when a glimmer of sunlight off an approaching motorcade caught his eye. Shiny, black Cadillac Escalades entered the parking lot and pulled up to the red curb, parking in the fire lane. The vehicles each bore two flags on the front—Old Glory and a white flag with a fierce bald eagle gripping a bundle of arrows in one claw and an olive branch in the other. The white flag with the eagle told Hal it was the motorcade of the Vice President of the United States. Hal stopped in the corridor outside his office. Watching the Secret Service escort Vice President Marks to the front door.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Minutes later, Hal was busy at his computer when the VP entourage appeared at his office. Led by Holloman top brass: base Wing Commander Colonel Howell and Major Trest. The entire office stood at attention. The wing commander led the stern-faced Vice President in while Major Trest served as his tour guide. “This is the imagery department, sir, where we analyze reconnaissance and combat imagery from the field.” Vice President Marks looked around the room, nodding as he made eye contact with the imagery specialists. The group made their way to the back, where McCreary stood at attention beside his office. “This is First Lieutenant Warren McCreary,” Trest continued, “who leads the airmen and specialists of the imagery department.”

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” McCreary said. Shaking the stony hand of the Vice President.

  “Please join us,” the Vice President said. “I have some questions about your department.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m happy to help however I can.” McCreary and Trest exchanged a brief look. Hal caught it. From their reactions it was obvious this was an unscheduled visit. The entire visit seemed awkward and tense to Hal. Mainly from the anxious demeanor the VP exhibited, but also the way Trest was bending over backward to appease him. Trest didn’t hand-hold anyone.

  McCreary gave the VP an informal brief of the various projects his department was currently working on. Ranging from aircraft footage from Afghanistan to reconnaissance and satellite footage of North Korean nuclear facilities. The entourage made a retreat from the far end of the office, back to the entrance. Passing Hal’s desk with Trest and McCreary trailing the group.

  The entourage took a right at the corridor, continuing down the hall with the wing commander now guiding the tour. Pointing out the legacy aircraft in the yard like he was giving a tour at Disneyland.

  Once out of sight, Hal got up from his desk and left the office. Inconspicuous. Turning the opposite direction down the corridor. On a beeline to the office of Henry Banks.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Uncle Hank’s charm went a long way on the base. His gentle soul brought him cache that could neither be bought nor earned by rank. Henry used it to gain entrance to the security station at Holloman, accompanied by Hal. The two passed rows of Security Force officers’ desks, entering a dark, windowless room. Inside were security monitors covering the entire base. Enough cameras to require two guards stationed around the clock. The disciplined sentries never looked up from their monitors when the visitors entered behind them. Hal and Henry scanned the monitors, looking for the pack of a dozen men and women in the Vice President’s entourage.

  Henry gave a subtle nod to Hal. He spotted them on a monitor from a camera aimed at a hangar in Stealth Canyon. Hal read the label on the monitor they were watching—Hanger 302.

  The group entered the hangar from the side door. Hal and Henry searched for the corresponding monitor that showed inside the hangar. There were a dozen other hangars, numerically arranged on the bank of monitors. There were interior views of hangars 299, 301 and 303. No Hangar 302. As the entourage disappeared into the hangar, all Hal and Henry could do was wait.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “And this is the base of operations for Project Cloudcroft?” the Vice President asked the wing commander.

  “Yes, sir. But as I am not intimately involved in the project, I would direct your questions to Major Trest and First Lieutenant McCreary.”

  “Thank you,” the VP said, then nodded to a couple men in dark suits in his entourage. They stepped forward. “These are special agent weapons inspectors. Do you have any objections to them inspecting the hangar?”

  “No, sir,” Trest answered.

  The two men went to work. One removed a Maglite with an high-intensity beam, scanning the MQ-10S and the floor around it. The other inspector used a flashlight to examine the perimeter, the metal walls of the hangar and the floor.

  “Tell me how it works,” the VP said to Trest.

  “Sir?”

  “The operation. I see the carriage under the Aurora. I’m assuming it carries the stealth drone.”

  “That’s right, sir,” Trest said. “The Aurora can maintain high altitude and air speed with the drone attached. To prevent the Aurora from lowering in altitude, which can further expose her, we release the MQ-10S to carry out recon missions.”

  “And strike missions,” The VP said. “That’s why she’s dirty, right Major?” Dirty was the Air Force parlance for an aircraft carrying missiles or bombs under the wings. The term rubbed Trest wrong. Not the term itself, but civilian superiors using Air Force jargon. It seemed to give them a sense of false valor as if they were pretending to be airmen. Trest reluctantly replied to the Vice President. “Yes, sir. She does deliver ordinance when called upon.”

  The hanger went dark. Freezing the VP in his steps. The crack of light from the hanger door made the Aurora and AOD even more eerie. “We’ll need the lights out for a few minutes,” An inspector’s voice boomed from the far corner of the hangar. They both continued their inspections using black lights. One inspector studied the contours of the Aurora and the surrounding cold concrete floor around it, while the other focused on an area off to the side, where the VR station once lived.

  McCreary had an unsettled expression, watching the inspector wave the black light around the corner and over an area of the floor where the box was stationed.

  The banks of fluorescent lights came on overhead, slowly brightening to full strength. Both inspectors approached the Vice President and Trest. One writing notes on a tablet device. The other shined a small flashlight on the ground near the feet of the men in the group. “What used to be here? See the difference in color?” The light beam drew out a rectangular path, illuminating a faint line in the concrete that separated a lighter area making up the shape of the box. “It’s about the size of a shipping crate or an RPA ground control station.”

  Trest stepped forward to answer. “Yes, sir. There was a crate here for aircraft tools for the Aurora. Specialized tools and diagnostic equipment. We had it here for several months before she was ready for service.”

  “Will you provide us with the requisition order and receipts for this diagnostic?” An inspector asked.

  “Of course. It will take some time to find it, but I’ll have it sent to your office.”

  “Another thing…” The inspector strode to the side of the hangar, where the VR training station used to live. “There appeared to have been some carpeting or mats here. What was it for? And how do you explain the indentations in the floor?” He directed the spotlight beam to divots in the concrete.

  “That’s from the pilots,” McCreary spoke up. “They set up a small gym here. Free weights, exer
cise mats... They had dropped some weights on the concrete before using rubber matting.”

  “So, where are they now?”

  “They didn’t work out here long. Once the Aurora missions ramped up, there was too much exhaust and fuel vapor in the hangar to work out. That and the pilots themselves became more busy. They only worked out here on downtime and during the months of testing and diagnostics.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Can I help you guys with anything?” A Security Force airmen manning the bank of monitors turned and asked Hal. Henry removed a light meter from a leather pouch on his belt and pretended to eye the monitors through it.

  “No, sir,” Henry replied. “We’re just checking the luminance and video quality of the monitors. Just a spot check. We’ll be outta’ your hair soon.”

  Hal and Henry noticed the entourage leaving Hangar 302. The Vice President’s motorcade snaked around the back of the hangar. The VP shook hands with the wing commander and other officers before stepping into his Escalade limousine.

  Henry and Hal showed themselves out of the surveillance booth and made their way through the Security Force office. Once outside, Henry said, “They didn’t find anything.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Nobody left in handcuffs.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NO GO

  Hal took a pull from the straw of a soda cup he got from the base commissary earlier. He had spiked it with coffee at the base, shielding the cup with his body from any surveillance cameras or prying eyes in the cafeteria. He opened his sparsely-stocked fridge looking for something to eat. The only light in his entire house shone from the refrigerator.

  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.