GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel

by Brian Tyree

  Hal eased into the deep-backed couch that felt like falling into a fluffy cloud wrapped in paper-thin soft leather. He looked at the book-lined walls as Dr. Elm grabbed a clipboard from his desk. Elm returned and sat in a chair before Hal that matched the couch. “So, how do you feel, Hal? I mean about life?”

  Hal’s eyebrows furled for an instant and he eased back into the couch even more. It was such a broad question. He didn’t know where to start. “I feel good about life. I’m happy. Enjoy my job. Enjoy living on base and the lifestyle.”

  “Have you noticed any recent changes in mood?”

  “Yeah, since this whole... episode started. I have to admit, it has gotten me down.”

  “We’ll address that in detail in a bit. For now, I’d like to focus more on the general. I have a list of questions here called the MMSE-Mini-Mental State Examination. It’s a standard list. You may find the questions very simple. Try to answer each as you would answer any question, not rushed, but not taking too long either. Here goes...”

  Dr. Elm asked Hal several basic questions to get a baseline on his mental state. Making sure he knew the date, year, month, season, then location, country, state, city, clinic and office floor. Hal answered each with no abnormality.

  “Apple, bicycle, basketball,” Dr. Elm said. “Please repeat these objects back to me.” Hal did. “Now count down backward from one-hundred, going by sevens.”

  “93, 86, 79…” Hal said. It took him a little longer than Dr. Elm expected. He made a note of it.

  “Now spell WORLD backward.”

  “D-R, D-L-R-O-W,” Hal said. Dr. Elm took a note of his flub.

  “Please repeat the three objects I just named to you.”

  “Hal struggled to remember. “Basketball… apple… and truck?”

  “Bicycle,” Dr. Elm said, making a note. He continued with the test, asking more questions, and had Hal fold a piece of paper and draw geometric shapes per his instructions. Hal sat silently as Dr. Elm tabulated the results with a scoring sheet on another page. He set the pages aside. “Do you have any difficulty thinking, reasoning or remembering? For example, when you carry out typical daily tasks like banking, shopping, eating or getting dressed?”

  Hal pondered for a while. Sincerely thinking about it. “No. Not that I’m aware of—with daily tasks. I have noticed changes in my memory. It’s not that I’m forgetting things, I’m not. I’m remembering things that I’ve never done before. I know that sounds a lot like forgetting, but I have memories of things that seem random, like I’ve never been to the places of my memories.”

  “Will you give me an example?”

  “Yeah—I have plenty. Images from combat. The dreams and flashes of visions or whatever you call them, during the day. I have no memory of nearly all of them.”

  “Do you ever have any thoughts of hurting yourself?”

  “No,” Hal answered sternly. Looking at the doctor like he was insane.

  “Do you drink alcohol?”

  “Who doesn’t on an Air Force base?” Hal asked, joking.

  “Has this recent episode made you feel angry, resentful or hostile?”

  “Yes, it has.” Dr. Elm makes a note.

  “What?” Hal asked. “What did you write?”

  “These symptoms are also caused by alcohol dependence.”

  “I’m not an alcoholic!” Hal said. Raising his voice.

  “That’s what most people say who suffer alcohol dependence.” He scribbled again. Noting Hal’s raised anger.

  “I’m not,” Hal said more calmly. “I control my drinking. I rarely drink during the week and only have a few on the weekend.” He expected the doctor to scribble that in his notes, but Dr. Elm just stared at Hal calm and cool.

  “Were you drinking before you had these dreams or visions?”

  “No. Well, yes, one time that I know of. Most happen at night and I made it a point to not drink before I went to sleep to see if it was causing them.”

  “And?”

  “I still had the dreams?”

  “Would you call these dreams hallucinations?”

  “No. I didn’t imagine them. I don’t know what to call them.”

  “Then, how do you know they aren’t hallucinations?” Dr. Elm makes more notes.

  “Because they happen… when I’m asleep.”

  “You said you have some during the day too, when you’re awake.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see things or imagine things that aren’t there. They’re flashes in my mind. Like a daydream. Not a hallucination.”

  “It’s fine. I understand. There’s no need to get worked up. I’m just asking questions.”

  Hal shook his head in frustration and nearly apologized, but bit his lip instead.

  “Why don’t we take a short break? I just have a few more questions.”

  “I’m good, doc. I’d rather we just plow forward and get it over with.”

  “Fine. So, when you have these dreams, what exactly are you seeing?”

  “Combat. Explosions, muzzle fire. Buildings, landscapes, people’s faces. Nobody I know, but they seem familiar. I see their faces at the moment they’re shot. And it seems like I’m the one shooting them.”

  “Tell me about some of the most distinguishable things you remember.”

  “Turbans men wear... Specific weapons... Middle Eastern men… Mexican-looking men.”

  “Mexican?” Dr. Elm asked, surprised. Making a note. “What happens when you wake up from these dreams? Are you alarmed or frightened?”

  “No. I feel like I’m waking up in a foreign place, even if I’m at home. I feel sore all over—aches and pains. Rashes at times, marks on my neck, face and arms. Dizzy sometimes.”

  “These marks—what happened to them? Will you show them to me?”

  “They’ve gone away. They don’t last longer than a day. I’ve never bruised easily.”

  Dr. Elm scribbled on his pad. “I read your file. You served in the RPA program at Creech.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you aware Creech has the highest rate of PTSD cases in the entire Air Force?”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “And you served there fourteen years. Do you believe it’s possible that these symptoms are a form of PTSD?”

  “You’re the doctor. Why are you asking me?”

  “Have you had PTSD before?” Dr. Elm asked.

  “No.”

  “How often do you think about your late wife and child?”

  Hal looked at him oddly, wondering how he knew.

  “It was in your file. From a Creech assessment. It doesn’t say how they were…”

  “Killed.” Hal finished his sentence. “By a drunk driver. And yes, I think about them every day. And I thought about them every day before I started having these symptoms.”

  Dr. Elm flipped through his notes. “That’s all I have for today. It will be some time before I can determine a complete diagnosis. Your symptoms are pointing to any number of psychological disorders: PTSD, anxiety disorder, conduct disorder, Alzheimer’s Disease… It’s too early to rule any one of these out. The next step is to see what’s going on in your brain, so I’m going to order a CT scan and MRI. I’m also going to refer you to a neurologist, after you get the CT and MRI. They’ll be able to tell if there are any abnormalities in your brain itself. After you complete these, come back and see me.”

  Dr. Elm scrawled out a prescription, tearing it off and handing it to Hal. “This should take care of those nightmares. And this...” He wrote another prescription. “...Is an anti-depressant. Both will help you to get better sleep, which at the least should ease your symptoms, and at the most, may knock them out completely. Come back in a couple weeks if you don’t feel any difference.”

  Hal nodded, stuffing the prescriptions in his pocket. He thanked the doctor and found his own way out.

  Dr. Elm picked up his desk phone and dialed, peering through the blinds, watching Hal leave the building. The doctor spoke in
to the receiver, “It’s Stuart. We have to talk.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MINDANAO

  A portable projection screen stood in the dark corner of Hanger 302. Just beyond the VR OmniTrainer near the padded wall. The screen was the rickety metal kind from the 1970s. An odd contrast to the most advanced aircraft, electronics communication and VR equipment in the world.

  McCreary, Baldo and Douglas sat in folding chairs before the screen. Baldo ran a laptop computer connected to the projector. Trest paced in front of the screen. “In case you desk jockeys haven’t heard,” Trest preached, “China has been kicking our asses in the cyber realm. When the President learned they hacked the designs of our newest stealth battleship, it put him over the edge. Which is good news for us. He just green-lit our next high-priority mission on the port city of Fuzhou.”

  Trest nodded to Baldo and the screen glowed with the first slide of a PowerPoint presentation— a satellite image of an urban office building. It was zoomed to the roof, cluttered with a forest of communication dishes, microwave transmitters and radio towers. “This is an office building in Fuzhou, a city in the province of Fujian on the Eastern coast of China. It’s called the Fuzhou Railway Communications Bureau Building, but intel confirms that’s a front. The building is actually a key weapon in the Chinese cyberwar arsenal.”

  Trest looked to Baldo, who forwarded to the next slide. The word “NIPRnet” appeared in bold, along with its definition... Non-classified Internet Protocol Router Network. “The Department of Defense confirms a series of cyber attacks on NIPRnet,” Trest continued. “Originating from this facility. Great Britain and Germany also reported Chinese cyber attacks in recent weeks. NIPRnet lives in the Pentagon. It’s the system we would use to mobilize forces, in the event of a Chinese attack on Taiwan. Should China launch an attack on Taiwan, they could hamper our quick-response ability through cyber attacks on NIPRnet. Giving them the extra hours they would need to complete an invasion and occupy Taiwan.”

  Trest paused, letting the weight of it sink in. “We don’t have any assets inside the Fuzhou building, and it would take months or years to work someone in undercover. Time we don’t have.”

  The next slide popped up. It was a photograph of a small black box with protruding wires.

  “Our task: Put eyes and ears on the facility with a surveillance tap capable of intercepting all communications within a ten-meter radius. The ideal placement—is right here...” A close-up of the roof showed a network of cables dove-tailing into a box that ran down into the building. “This tap will detect all inbound and outgoing electronic transmissions. Allowing us to not only see and hear what they send and receive, but also revealing their method of hacking Pentagon firewalls. The only way to plant this device is with a ghost.”

  McCreary shifted uneasy in his chair. It was a daunting task and he could think of scores of obstacles that made it nearly impossible. The first came out in the form of a question to Trest. “In China? How will we get him out?”

  “Getting out isn’t the only problem. We have to figure out how to get him in too. The Fuzhou population is seven million, so parachuting on the roof isn’t an option.” Trest said. “We parachute him to a park near farmland along the coast, within an hour of the city. A CIA asset transports him to the building, where he infiltrates and plants the device on his own. It’s in an industrial area, with surprisingly little perimeter security. After he plants it, we exfil him back to the beach where a DEVGRU Black Squadron team is waiting in a Sealion to fast-craft him to international waters. Our boys will pick him up there and transport him to a Taiwanese AFB to transfer to the Nightwing. Estimated time of the mission: eight-point-five hours.”

  “We’ve never had a mission that long, sir,” McCreary said.

  “I realize that,” Trest replied. “But this is an in-and-out recon with no combat. A cakewalk.”

  “Non-combat—if he’s not detected,” McCreary said. “What are the ROE’s? And what if he’s detected or captured?”

  “No lethal force. And the usual fail-safe is in play—” A knock at the door interrupted Trest. He looked to Baldo, who handed the laptop to Douglas and jogged to the door. He returned quickly.

  “It’s Dr. Elm to see you. He said it’s urgent, sir.”

  Trest grimaced. Unhappy at the intrusion. He made a brisk stride to the hangar door. His men watched as he led Dr. Elm into a room near the entrance and closed the door. Something must have gone wrong, McCreary thought.

  The frazzled doctor skipped pleasantries and spat out the reason for his urgent visit. “Sheridan is having dreams!”

  “What?”

  “He’s having dreams. Nightmares. Seeing flashes of combat from the missions. Accompanied by headaches and other symptoms.

  Trest was dismayed. “You said he wouldn’t remember anything!”

  “He’s not supposed to,” Elm replied. “I don’t know why he is. None of the other subjects did.”

  “What did he see? What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing concrete. Images of combat somewhere in the Middle East and Mexico! What the hell happened in Mexico?” Elm looked at Trest’s hard empty stare, realizing he’s never going to tell him. “He remembers details,” Elm continued. “Locations, men’s faces. And bruises—marks on his neck from missions...”

  “I thought you gave him something to hide the marks?!” Trest asked.

  “I did. And it worked! I couldn’t see them. I told him the visions were hallucinations.”

  “So, what did you do? What do we do?”

  “I gave him Prazosin. It’s a dream blocker. Told him it will help him sleep too.”

  “What should we do?” Trest asked.

  “Take him offline,” Elm said sternly.

  “What?! We can’t.”

  “You have to. He’s starting to piece things together!” The doctor said, agitated. “Take him offline. Temporarily. And maintain his dosages. Keep up his training. Program him to believe it’s all in his head.”

  “Why can’t we do that and keep him online? He’s the best we’ve got. Going offline now isn’t an option.”

  “Why?” Elm looked at him blankly.

  “For reasons I can’t tell you. He stays online. Increase his meds. We’ll put more men on him.”

  “I can’t give him more meds. Not without significant side effects.”

  “What side effects—?”

  “—Sir?” Baldo interrupted. Speaking loudly through the door. “He’s nearing the drop point, sir.”

  Trest opened the door for Dr. Elm. He took the hint and left the hangar.

  Baldo returned to his seat in the box beside McCreary. They had all moved from the makeshift movie theater back to command and control in the box. Trest hovered over Baldo’s shoulder, wiping sweat from his face. Agitated that the AC still wasn’t working. Baldo’s bony fingers rattled on the keyboard, and an infrared satellite image flicked to life on screen.

  “We have MISTY IR over Mindanao,” Baldo confirmed. Mispronouncing the island in the southern Philippines. McCreary corrected him with an “ow” sound at the end of Mindanao.

  In glowing infrared, a human form passed below a canopy of thick vegetation, dimming the image.

  “The ISIS cell—their training camp, is here, sir.” Baldo pointed to an area with glowing dots on the satellite feed.

  “This is Beacon.” McCreary said into his headset. “Activate and proceed north to the camp.”

  The IR image of the figure instantly vanished. Another flat screen showed the thick rain forest at night, through his night vision helmet cam.

  “Move slowly. You’re about ten meters from the target hut.”

  On the IR monitor, three horizontal glowing forms were visible under the thin transparent grass roof. Their heat signatures weren’t as bright. The men were dormant. Sleeping.

  Outside the hut, another heat signature glowed, moving back and forth—a guard making his rounds. Two smaller glowing dots appeared, springing into actio
n. Guard dogs. Their barks sounded over loudspeakers in the box, from a microphone feed inside the helmet.

  “Freeze!” McCreary ordered. “Guard dogs at twelve o’clock. Take them out. SILENTLY.”

  Wide banana leaves and thick bushes obscured the view on the night vision monitor as the helmet cam lowered into thick cover. On the IR monitor, the men sleeping in the hut were now awake. Investigating whatever made their dogs go haywire. A human form in IR darted from the hut to the dogs. Unleashing them into the nearby jungle.

  “Here they come!” Trest said.

  The MP10 muzzle rose into view in night vision on screen. Nothing in sight. A German Shepherd leapt from the blackness. Smothering the helmet cam. Growling and snarling viciously as it ripped into clothing and flesh. The painful shrieks of the victim sounded clearly over the speakers in the box.

  “He’s in trouble,” Trest said, “Get him out of there!”

  “This is Beacon One, retreat to extraction zone. Abort mission and exfil. I repeat, abort.”

  “I thought dogs couldn’t smell the—”

  McCreary interrupted Baldo. “—They didn’t. They heard him and he panicked.”

  Another dog arrived and the mauling continued. The screen of the shaking helmet cam was a blur. Looking up at the trees and a field of jostling stars. The IR satellite view showed the two German Shepherds tearing into something on the ground. Other glows approached. The men from the camp.

  “They’re coming.”

  An alarm flashed on the console before Baldo. “Ghost suit malfunction, sir.”

  “He’s deactivated,” Douglas confirmed. “They can see him now!”

  His glowing form appeared on the infrared screen, directly beneath the attacking dogs. The armed ISIS rebels approached their dogs, mauling a hapless victim in a black suit dotted with thousands of metallic flecks. The middle of the suit a bloody crevasse with squishy intestines oozing out. The men froze. Looking at his ominous helmet, mask and suit. Slowly pulling off their dogs.

  “Self-destruct,” Trest ordered in a serious tone. “NOW!”