by Brian Tyree
“Roger that, sir.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Weng zoomed the night vision scope through a sagebrush concealing him. Aiming it on the barn doors less than a hundred feet away. A faint light bloomed at the base of the door and through gaps in the siding. Weng lowered the scope and whispered to Charlie, who crouched down the thick brush beside him. “I’m going for a closer look. Cover me.” Charlie raised his QBZ-95 assault rifle with suppressor and night vision scope, locking and loading, then peered through. Following Weng as he paused at the grey Air Force truck for cover, and stealthily stalked toward the barn.
Weng reached the face of the barn. Hugging the old lumber siding, inching his way toward the doors. He spotted an empty knothole in one of the boards and peered through it. Spotting three airmen inside—stuffing their gear into the box in haste and disconnecting an array of cables snaking out of it. Weng spotted the major, now in civilian clothes. Deducing he got dressed in a hurry, wearing only jeans and a flannel shirt, which confirmed his suspicion: Something went catastrophically wrong with the mission. But what? Weng raised the scope to the knot hole, focusing on the major. Snapping pictures with the digital camera. Taking other pics of the box and airmen bustling around.
The major turned—heading to the barn doors. Weng scampered back. Scurrying along the face of the barn and ducking out of sight around the corner, just as the major threw the barn doors open. He marched to the truck, fired it up and waited... ...An airman dashed from the barn, running awkwardly at full attention. He jumped in the passenger side. “Sorry, major,” Douglas said, apologizing.
Weng ducked back from the truck headlights, wondering how high up the operation went if a major was involved. The truck took off and was soon concealed in a fog of dust, blazing down the ranch road toward the highway. Weng crouched low and dashed back to the cover of brush where Charlie hid. Whispering to him in Chinese… “It’s their officer. A major. The man with him is the driver of the flatbed trailer. They’re coming back for the crate. We have to be ready to follow them.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Hal ripped open the plastic packaging around a small Alcatel disposable cell phone. He stood in the cramped quarters of a fitting room in the Bonne Marche shopping mall. Made even more cramped with the large suitcase stuffed beside him holding his MP10, the stealth suit and helmet. The neon tracksuit lie discarded on the floor, and Hal was now dressed in dark jeans and a brown jacket with the price tag hanging off a sleeve. He popped the battery in the phone, inserted a SIM card and pressed the tactile power key. It fired up with a jingle from 2005.
Hal ripped off one of his new brown loafers and tugged off his sock, sitting down on the corner bench. He angled the sole of his foot up, reading two sets of numbers scrawled on it in permanent marker. J followed by a seven digit number and H followed by a seven digits. He punched them both into the springy buttons of the keypad, and saved them to the contacts. Jenny and Henry’s phone numbers. He sent a coded text to Jenny that read, “I’ll be late for yoga,” and one to Henry that read, “Happy hour?”
Hal put his sock and shoe back on, and cleaned up his mess in the fitting room, waiting for their replies. A text ringtone blared over his phone. He quickly turned the volume down, reading the text from “J,” “It’s okay. See you soon.” He sat down, waiting for Henry’s reply. Reading the time on his new French Connection analog quartz watch, calculating the time difference. Hal skimped on the phone, but splurged on the watch. It was a quarter after noon. 10 p.m. in New Mexico. Hal pondered why Henry hadn’t replied yet. Is the old man asleep already? A knock sounded outside the fitting room.
“Avez-vous déjà fini?”
“Yes. Oui! Coming out now.” Hal collected his bags and exited the fitting room.
♦ ♦ ♦
A cell phone vibrated with an incoming text. The screen lit up, showing a repeat of the text Hal sent earlier. The phone was on the polished-granite surface of Henry’s kitchen island, in a completely dark house. A beam from a flashlight outside raked past the window. It was Henry, rounding the corner of his house from the backyard to the side where his circuit box lived. He scanned around the yard to the neighbors homes around him. They all had power. A brisk chill ran up his spine. He reached the power box and the door opened freely. Unlatched. If someone was in the yard, why didn’t they trigger the motion sensors? Henry thought. Feeling imminent danger, he mentally ran through his options. He could hop the wall and run for safety, but whoever knew how to hack his security system would likely have the perimeter surrounded. Any attempt to climb over the wall would make him a fish in a barrel for even a rookie sniper. He could try 911 on his landline. There was a fifty-fifty chance it was dead too, and whoever broke in may be waiting there, anticipating Henry’s next move. The landline was out and his options were dwindling. It came down to making a break for his cell phone inside or the gun rack. The phone was closer.
Henry dropped the flashlight and zipped around the corner of his house. As fast as an old man with a beer belly could zip. He plowed through the back door, turned on a dime and lunged toward the kitchen. Reaching out, expecting to sweep up the phone off the island counter, but his hand swiped across a clean surface. His phone was gone. They’re inside.
♦ ♦ ♦
“CDG sil vous plait,” Hal said, leaning to the window of a cab, instructing the cabby to take him to the Charles de Gaulle airport, having learned to say ‘please’ in French. Hal barreled into the cab with the large suitcase he plopped onto the seat next to him. He clutched the burner phone in his fist, still waiting for Henry’s reply. It’s not like him, he thought, as he sent another text. “Answer, Hank!” He said into the phone.
“Quelle?” The cabby replied.
“Not you— sorry.”
Hal broke protocol. Instead of sending another coded message, he called…
♦ ♦ ♦
An old GMC pickup fired up beside the bunkhouse, spewing a cloud of smoke from the tailpipe. The tailgate was missing and loose strands of hay were strewn about the dirt-caked cargo bed. The rancher lent it to the bunkhouse boys when their truck was totaled in a “hit and run.”
Weng drove with Charlie riding shotgun, searching the desert horizon with the night vision scope. “Got ‘em,” Charlie said in Chinese.
They took off down the dirt road. Headlights off. Weng wore a black Special Forces helmet with night vision goggles, enabling him to see the road. They were a couple of miles behind the convoy made up of the flatbed trailer, piggy-backing the RPA crate and the air force pickup trailing behind. The convoy took a left, surprising them. Going down an even more desolate road, deeper into the desert, instead of taking a right to Highway 70, Holloman, Alamogordo and civilization. The convoy continued north on the dilapidated and bumpy dirt road.
It took Weng’s truck another minute to reach it. They followed hidden in the dust cloud and dark, trailing the convoy. The NVGs were useless in the thick cloud. Weng sped up just enough for the pickup’s tail lights to break the dust cloud.
The convoy led them north for a mile. Weng updated Matt with the convoy’s location over the radio. He was following them from the bunkhouse over the satellite feed.
“They turned west on County Road,” Matt’s voice sounded over the radio. The convoy took a left on an abandoned highway, several miles northwest of Alamogordo and just north of the Holloman border. County Road was a little smoother, but pothole-ridden with clumps of shrubs sprouting up from the pavement. Weng slowed down and remained in the dust cloud, allowing the convoy to get way out ahead of him. He proceeded onto the old paved road, following the convoy lights ahead.
“South on Sabre Road,” Matt said over the radio. Weng was losing the convoy lights so he sped up. The surrounding area was flat desert with light scrub. A handful of abandoned Air Force shacks appeared on both sides of the road. Surrounded by perfectly round patches of bare desert ground.
The old ranch truck slowed at the intersection, creeping over the cracked and pock
-marked pavement. Charlie kept an eye on the convoy through the NVG scope, pulling it down in a moment of astonishment. “Is that snow?”
“Sand,” Weng said. “White sand. We’re on the missile base. Or where the missile base was a decade ago.”
“They stopped,” Matt said over the radio.
Weng snuck the truck up within a half mile of the stopped convoy. Pulling it off the road into the cover of sagebrush. He and Charlie proceeded on foot, getting within a quarter mile.
“They’re unloading the crate at an old fueling station,” Weng said over the radio to Matt. “We’re not far from the perimeter of the base. It probably still has power.” He flipped up his NVGs and Charlie gave him the night vision scope for a closer view. Confirming his hunch when he saw airmen running power cables from the old station hut to the RPA crate. Another airman angled a communication disk back toward Holloman. In line-of-sight of the air traffic control tower. “It’s their new home,” Weng said over the radio to Matt. “Setting up remote surveillance now.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Henry reached to his back pocket for the flashlight, then saw its beam raking through the grass outside. He forgot to grab it. He flipped the light switch and when it failed to turn on, he remembered he left the circuit box before turning the power back on. Blind in his own house with no phone, he had to go back. First the power switches then the flashlight. Get it together, he thought. His cell phone RANG. Sounding like it was ringing from the living room. Whoever took it was letting it ring, Henry thought. Perplexed. He abandoned the plan to turn on the power, and crept with caution to the living room, aware it may be a trap. He stopped suddenly, staring to the middle of the living room. Mystified by the cell phone that seemed to hover in midair, four feet above the floor. It was still ringing. Was it hanging on a string? Just as he reached out for it, the answer clicked in his brain. Unfortunately, a moment too late as the assassin in the stealth suit, Ghost Two, unleashed a devastating punch to the old man’s jaw. Henry’s knees buckled. He felt arms around his neck. The cloaked assassin grappling him in a lethal vascular neck restraint—a chokehold. The phone fell to the floor next to Henry’s knee. He lunged forward, rolling the man over the top of him, and scooping up the phone at the same time. He couldn’t break the man’s grasp, but he fought the oncoming blurriness to swype a message across the keypad, struggling to hit send. The ghost realized he was trying to call or send a message and choked even harder, changing positions to increase his leverage over the old man. Squeezing the life out of him in a tactical military chokehold.
Henry’s body relaxed. Gave up. Limp and dead. Ghost Two dropped him from his grasp and Henry’s body collapsed awkwardly, piling up on the floor like only dead men do. Ghost Two picked up the phone, reading the text and the number Henry sent it to. Ghost Two’s voice sounded, speaking into an unseen microphone within his stealth helmet. “Primary target eliminated. Proceeding to secondary. Run this number… 011 33…”
♦ ♦ ♦
“Charles de Gaulle,” the cabby said, pulling to the “departes” curb. Hal fished a wad of Euros from his pocket as he read the meter. His phone buzzed in his coat pocket with a text. Hal grabbed his phone, ignoring everything else. It was a text from Henry. It read “Remmngg321524444.” Hal immediately called again. The number just rang, going to Henry’s voicemail. Hal hung up when the thought struck him. He’s been compromised. Hal gave the Euros to the cabby in a daze, not even looking at them, stumbling out of the car to the curb. Hal stared at the text again. Then looked back to the cabby.
“Pen?” He made a writing motion to the driver. The cabby shuffled through the glove box and handed Hal a pen. He wrote the cryptic number on his arm. Hal pulled the suitcase from the cab and hefted it up on the curb by a trash can. He tore the back of the phone off, ripped out the battery and tossed all of it in the trash.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I’ve got you under my skin,” Dr. Elm sang as he chauffeured his wife in his spotless, classic, 1972 Mercedes Benz. One hand on the wheel and the other conducting as he sang. She giddily swayed with him as he danced in his seat, serenading her to the Sinatra tune on the stereo… “I’ve got you deep in the heart of me... He pulled the black Benz onto a residential street adjacent to a golf course in the affluent Alamogordo suburb of Desert Lakes. “…So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me...”
The Benz eased up the curb to the semi-circle driveway of their modern, two-story Spanish-style home. The driveway bathed in soft moonlight. Glowing Malibu lights marked a warm and inviting path through lush landscaping, winding to the front door. Dr. Elm continued his song and dance as he got out, waltzing past the car’s hood, twirling an imaginary lady as he rounded the corner to his wife’s door. She chuckled with delight. He opened the door and helped her out. She emerged and caught a view of the house. Her smile drearily faded. “Is the front door open?” she asked.
Dr. Elm spun on his heels to see a gap in the doorway. His home dark inside, beyond the reach of Malibu light rays. “Stay in the car. I’ll call security.” He closed the door, fishing a cell phone from his pocket. Looking up the number in his contacts as he shuffled up the walkway. He looked up to the open door and heard a Pffft sound followed by a bright clink of glass from a section of the stained glass trim. He squinted with peculiar curiosity at the tiny hole in the stained glass, then felt a warm wetness spreading across his chest. The pain hit. He looked down to see dark blood, blooming outward from the center of his white dress shirt. The phone fell from his hand. Dr. Elm turned back to his wife and she screamed. He fought the pain and struggled back to the car. Two more pffft-plunks sounded from within the house. Suppressed fire of a 9mm handgun. Striking the side of the car. “GET DOWN!” He yelled to his wife as he crawled into the driver seat and took off. Another plunk of a gunshot took out the rear window as he squealed out of the driveway. Dr. Elm searched for the shooter in the rear view, but saw no one. He sped to the end of the street and turned hard right, screeching the tires around the corner. Glancing over at his wife.
“You okay? Were you hit?” He saw no blood on her, but felt her looking at his chest wound.
“I’m okay,” he said. More for her benefit. He clearly wasn’t. “It hit below my heart.”
She started to cry. “Who was that? Why—?”
“—Stay calm,” Dr. Elm said. “Your blood pressure.”
“Are you going to the hospital?
“Yes. First I have to drop you off.”
“WHY???”
“Jennifer is in trouble. I have to warn her.”
“Can’t you call her?!”
Dr. Elm shook his head. “Too risky. It could lead them to her.”
The car pulled up to an older home with a flower-lined driveway. “Go,” Dr. Elm said.
“I want to go to the hospital with you!”
“You can’t. It’s too dangerous. Please, go. I’ll call you here from the hospital.” He curled forward in pain. Wincing and grabbing his stomach. She wept. “Go!” he said firmly.
Mrs. Elm got out and scurried up the sidewalk, ringing the doorbell. A light came on in the house. It was enough for Dr. Elm. He took off. Moments later, a lady his wife’s age answered the door, recognizing his wife and welcoming her in.
♦ ♦ ♦
Dr. Elm’s bullet-ridden Benz squirreled down a paved path inside a modest townhouse complex. It jumped the curb and screeched to a stop. Half on the driveway and half on the lawn of a narrow, quaint townhouse.
Jennifer’s eyes snapped open from sleep in her townhouse bedroom. Alarmed by the sound of the brakes and the headlights blasting through her window at an odd angle. She threw the blankets off and peered around the corner of the drapes, recognizing Dr. Elm’s car in her yard. She threw a sweatshirt and sweats on, and stormed out, bolting out her front door without closing it behind her. She arrived at the Benz to find him slumped over the wheel. “Dr. Elm?!”
Jenny yanked the door open and carefully leaned him back into t
he seat. Blood covered the steering wheel. He was still conscious. His eyes locked on her. “Get in,” he said. “You’re not safe.”
She tried to lift him out of the seat. He was too heavy for her. “I’m taking you to the hospital.” She pulled the back door open. “Can you stand up?” She tried lifting him again. He helped, rising out of the seat. She got him around the car door and sat him down in the back seat, propping him up. She closed the door and glanced up at her townhouse. Realizing she may never see it again. She dashed back inside. Scooping up her cell phone, keys and wallet, throwing them into a purse and abandoning her home like it was on fire.
Jenny leaped behind the wheel and gassed it. Spinning the rear tires on the concrete and grass. Pulling out. She dug her phone out of her purse. Dialing 911. “I’m en route to the General Champion ER. I have a man with an open wound to his chest… Yes, appears to be a gunshot wound. Send an ambulance to meet us. I’m northbound on White Sands Boulevard.” She hung up, looking in the rear view at Dr. Elm. He stared back at her. Conscious.
“Jennifer,” Dr. Elm said in a calm, lucid voice. “You have to run. You can never go back. This… is bigger than you know. They’re— hunting—” He struggled to speak. “Everyone — now.”
“Who is?”
“Trest. It’s all Trest. China… next.” He gasped. Struggling to breathe. Curling up.
“Doctor Elm?” She pulled the car over, seeing him clutch his stomach in pain. Jenny rushed to him, laid him down on the seat and checked his pulse. Propping his head up so he could breathe. His eyes opened.
“U---N…” he said, and closed his eyes.
“Doctor Elm… Stuart… Stay with me.” She felt for a pulse on his neck, and started chest compressions. A siren sounded in the distance and a flicker of red lights bounced around the inside of the Benz as the ambulance arrived. Jennifer ignored it, pounding her full weight through clasped hands on his chest, furiously trying to kick start it. Trying to will life back into him.
