GHOST TRAIL: A Military Spy Thriller Novel Read online

  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.

  Holloman AFB was a vibrant community in no-man’s land. Surrounded by barren, desert scrub and bordering on the White Sands, it was six miles from the small town of Alamogordo. Holloman was an arid home to twenty-one thousand AF active duty, Air National Guard and Reserve forces. It was also home to AF retirees, Department of Defense civilians and their families. In the 1950s Holloman was one of the premiere test sites for pilot-less aircraft. Other testing included rockets, guided missiles and classified research programs.

  In 1968, the 49th Tactical Fighter Wing arrived in Holloman, marking a new era in fighter aircraft training and operations. An era that has evolved through the decades to include stealth aircraft and a fleet of unmanned aircraft stationed at Holloman.

  Near the main entrance of the southern gate was a sprawling office building labeled Holloman Air Force Base 49th Fighter Wing. Hal entered, passing security checkpoints to an office with large double doors. The sign above read, Multi-Media Center—Imagery Department.

  Hal entered and a voice surprised him. “Good morning, Dhamār!” A man handed Hal a rugged, black external drive that looked like it was part of a stealth aircraft itself. “They don’t call it drone footage for nothing,” Staff Sergeant Eric Yarborough continued. “Yarbo” was Hal’s superior officer, even though he was ten years younger than Hal. Yarbo was a decorated former CSAR PJ and the poster boy for everything Air Force. His dark, beady eyes even resembled those of the AF Academy’s mascot, the peregrine falcon.

  Hal took a seat at a desk near Yarbo’s, fired up his computer and went to work. Dual monitors came to life and he plugged in the external drive, labeled MQ-9 Dhamār, Yemen.

  The MQ-9 Reaper was an Unmanned Aerial Vehicle—UAV. “M” was Air Force code for Multi-dimensional. The Reaper was a reconnaissance vehicle, but could also attack. Capable of firing six Hellfire Air-to-Ground missiles and an array of laser guided bombs. “Q” indicated it was unmanned and “9” refers to the number in the series. Nine being the most advanced non-classified UAV in the AF arsenal.

  The Reaper was the ultimate remote-control airplane. Its primary purpose was to provide real-time video of targets behind enemy lines. Its bulbous nose and a stick-like fuselage gave it the appearance of a thirty-six-foot-long Praying Mantis. The Reaper was gas powered and capable of flying up to fifty-thousand feet with a range of over a thousand miles. At a cruising speed of 230 miles per hour, she could stay airborne fully loaded for fourteen hours.

  Hal’s background as an RPA Sensor Operator made him a perfect fit to provide more detailed analysis of the UAV video footage. This particular one was on a recon mission flying over the Al Qaeda-held city of Dhamār, Yemen. The video footage appeared on one of Hal’s monitors. Technical data appeared on the monitor next to it, labeled MISSION BRIEF.

  The Reaper footage consisted of hours of surveillance in potential target areas. Hal began the arduous task of scrolling through the Dhamār footage while making notes on technical data. He would use the notes to compile a full analysis and then forward it to the Department of Defense, where it typically wound up in the hands of a CIA agent. Hal’s nameplate on his desk revealed his official title at Holloman—AERIAL IMAGERY SPECIALIST.

  Yarbo appeared at Hal’s desk holding two cups. “Coffee?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Hal said.

  Yarbo handed one of the cups over, asking, “How’s Dhamār looking?”

  “Sunny and beautiful,” Hal replied. “With naked women running all over. You’re missing out.”

  “That’s why I wanted you to have it.” Yarbo replied, patting Hal on the shoulder, “Some people live the life, and some watch it on TV.”

  Hal tore open a packet of aspirin and dumped two in his hand.

  “Late night?” Yarbo asked.

  “Just a headache.”

  “Probably from the ass kicking I gave you in Muay Thai last night,” Yarbo said.

  “No, that only explains why my fists are sore.” Hal retorted. Smiling. Then changing the subject. “You’ve seen action before. I’m guessing you have dreams of it, but do you ever have flashes from it when you’re wide awake?”

  “Daydreams, sometime” Yarbo answered. “Or just thinking about past missions. Not really flashes. What are you seeing?”

  “If I told you, you’d give me the boot with a two-sixty-one.”

  “Everyone remembers things. It’s part of the job.”

  Hal nodded. “The problem is—I don’t remember these.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting old and my memory is going. What do you do about yours? Nightmares from combat you can’t shake?”

  “They’re never that bad,” Yarbo answered. “Used to take sleeping pills. That was a while ago. Never had ‘em in the day though.” Yarbo paused and added, “Just let me know if you get an itch to bring your rifle to work!” He laughed at his own joke. Hal didn’t. “Try some sleeping pills. If OTCs don’t cut it, the base doc will hook you up with the good stuff.”

  Hal nodded. Raising his coffee cup in a gesture of gratitude.

  CHAPTER TWO

  CLOUDCROFT

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  A lone pair of combat boots trampled over the sun-scorched ground in a brisk jog. Heavy, echoed breathing filled the chamber of an enclosed mask.

  The sun hung low on the horizon, shrouded in dust and urban pollution. Creating a red-orange haze that bloomed over Kabul. A Muslim minaret tower broke the skyline next to a cobalt-blue mosque dome. Crackly, Quranic chants bellowed from rusty loudspeakers perched on the minaret.

  A methodical and disciplined voice broke through radio static over the operator’s bone phone speakers, fixed to his cheek bones... “Beacon to Ghost One… Activate.” The bone phone used bone-conductive technology, freeing the operator’s ears to his surroundings.

  With an electronic sizzle, Ghost One’s face shield switched to night vision. Vivid details emerged from the darkest shadows. The Afghan landscape became crisp and clear in the artificial green hue. The whisper of a pump sounded in the operator’s ears. He felt instant relief from cold water that circulated through the lining of the special combat suit he wore. A welcomed relief in the hundred-degree desert heat. Electronic numbers and symbols blipped to life in 3D on the helmet-mounted display (HMD) of his face shield. The HMD was a binocular projection, featuring digital information in augmented reality. Beacon’s voice sounded over the bone phone. “Ghost One, prepare to acquire target.” The command appeared in flashing red letters in the lower right of his display.

  TARGETING

  “Beacon to Ghost One, objective at twelve o’clock. Advance and engage.” Ghost One stood still, zombie-like. “Repeat, advance and engage.” Ghost One proceeded forward. The objective appeared through muted-green night vision—a two-story mud dwelling surrounded by an eight foot wall.

  An ISIS operative in olive green camos patrolled the perimeter, carrying an AK-47. Another stood guard at the gate, wearing a shemagh headdress.

  Two high-ranking ISIS officers in drab military fatigues spoke in Arabic over a dog-eared map on a metal table in the back yard. The leader wore a long, Arabian headdress. AK-47s and RPG launchers leaned against the mud wall. Nearby, a rotund, lower-level ISIS fighter worked on an old motorcycle. Gingerly installing an improvised explosive device (IED) beneath the seat.

  A guard sprang toward the officers, clutching the arm of another jihadi, as if presenting a criminal to a judge. He spoke Arabic in a rushed and tense tone. “I caught him smoking masaal.”

  Ghost One’s breathing slowed as he approached the patrolling guard at an archway ga
te. Arabic voices echoed from the yard beyond. Red letters flashed on the lower corner of his face shield...

  SECONDARY TARGET– ELIMINATE

  The guard’s eyes flicked to the commotion of his fellow soldiers then back to his post. Ghost One passed in front of the guard completely unseen, like a soft breeze. He made his way toward the voices in the back yard.

  Several guards gathered around the metal table—the site of the improvised trial. The only one not there was the jihadi rigging a bomb to the motorcycle. “Is it true?” Ali Abbas, the senior ISIS leader, asked the accused.

  The man was silent, peering into his leader’s eyes. Un-intimidated. The other guard presented the evidence—a rolled-leaf cigarette. Hal observed, knowing that in their brand of fanatical Wahhabi Islam, consuming alcohol and tobacco was strictly forbidden.

  “He tried to throw it away,” the accuser said.

  Abbas lunged to the wrist of the accused. Pulling it to his face—smelling the tobacco smoke on his fingers. He tightened his grip in disgust, forcing three of the man’s fingers closed. Leaving his thumb and forefinger open—the fingers used for smoking.

  “You know the penalty,” Abbas said in a condemning tone.

  He removed a machete from a sheath on his belt and brushed the map off the metal table.

  Ghost One ignored the backyard terrorist trial. Not part of his mission. Focused and disciplined, he glided toward the man by the motorcycle, like a wandering soul in the night. None of the terrorists could see him, even though he was three feet away.

  “Accept it as a sacrifice to Allah,” commanded Ali Abbas. Nodding to the other guards, who pinned the accused against the rusty table. Stretching his arm across it as Abbas recited Quran from memory. “‘Man will be evidence against himself… Make not your own hands contribute to your destruction.’”

  Abbas raised the machete—its blade glistening in the desert moonlight. Just as he was about to strike downward, a violent choking sound erupted nearby. Abbas turned to the heavy-set man at the motorcycle. He was grasping his throat in pain, struggling to breathe. The other men watched. Silent and transfixed.

  The skin of the large man’s neck rippled as though clutched by an unseen force. His crooked back strained, bearing the weight of an invisible attacker.

  A depression sunk into his flabby cheeks. Something forced his mouth open. He struggled, trying to break free. A black object appeared in his mouth, and his jaws forced shut, forcing him to swallow. Just as his cohorts arrived to help, the struggle came to an end with the large terrorist on hands and knees, coughing and gagging. Still alive. He rose with a crazed expression, looking for the culprit. Seeking revenge. “Who was it?” He asked the man nearest him in Arabic. “Who jumped me?”

  “Nobody. No one was here.”

  “Somebody did. They forced me to eat—” A burst of his own vomit interrupted. Showering the motorcycle with his dinner.

  Ghost One was well inside the dwelling, having passed another oblivious armed guard. He spotted a woman in black robes preparing dinner in pots on the floor. Approaching footsteps sounded from the patio and Ghost One backed up to a wall. The woman did a double-take in his direction. Unsure of her eyes.

  “Did she see you?” Beacon’s voice crackled in a loud whisper.

  Ghost One inched along the wall and crept up the stairs. The woman rose with a panicked expression. Her gaze focused on the spot where he just stood. She made a frantic praying gesture—blessing herself as she fled out a side door.

  Ghost One continued up the stairs, entering a small bedroom with half a dozen mats on the floor. It was their arsenal. AKs, RPG-7s, RGB-6 semi-auto grenade launchers and F1 Russian hand grenades were strewn about. Along with archaic scales, a drum of gunpowder and electronic fuses. Crude bomb-making paraphernalia. None of it concerned him as he stalked toward a window overlooking the back yard.

  He saw the heavy-set man, coming around. The others returned to their task at hand—dispensing religious justice within the ranks.

  Ghost One removed a small, black remote-control device from inside a vest pocket. He pressed a button and leaned against a wall to shield himself. Sliding his gloved finger to the remote trigger. CLICKING it. Instantly, the torso of the large man exploded in a muffled blast. Ripping his innards inside out. Spraying the guards nearby with lethal shrapnel and tattered scraps of intestines.

  Abbas screamed in Arabic. Ordering his men to take cover inside, following a pre-arranged defensive plan.

  The entire ISIS unit scurried into the dwelling, like rats retreating to their holes. They trampled up the stairs to their arsenal. Ghost One watched and waited with his back to the wall, allowing each member to enter his kill zone, one by one. None aware of his presence. The door closed behind the last one, and as the savages went for their weapons, Ghost One lit them up with his suppressed MP10 submachine gun. Muzzle flashes echoed off the faces of the men as Ghost One methodically squeezed bursts of lead into them. From one man to the next. The last to drop dead was their leader, Ali Abbas.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Holloman Air Force Base, NM

  “Whoooa!” Exclaimed Nick Baldo, a young techno-guru barely out of officer school. The Surveillance Science Specialist watched a feed from Ghost One’s helmet cam, seventy-five hundred miles away. The scrawny airman was clad in an olive green RPA flight duty uniform. “Givin’ it to the towel heads!” he exclaimed.

  “You finished?” Warren McCreary asked. Not impressed with Baldo’s outburst.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  First Lieutenant McCreary served as the Combat Control Technician (CCT) for the operation. His call sign was Beacon. In his early thirties, McCreary was a man on the rise in the elite circles of the US Air Force. Ambitious and sharp, he possessed the acumen and the necessary political contacts to make a speedy ascent up the military food chain. McCreary commanded from a bank of monitors inside “the box,” a sealed ground control station at Holloman. Baldo was on his right, handling technical support, and RPA pilot Richard Douglas was on his left. Piloting a drone that gave them a real-time video feed of Ghost One.

  Prowling behind them, like a panther waiting for the moment to strike, was the steely, sixty-year-old Major William Trest. Trest was a strict, war-hardened veteran. He wore dress Air Force blues that looked as fresh and stiff as the day they were issued. He stepped directly behind Airman Baldo. Just the shadow of the imposing figure made the young Airman nervous. Baldo’s back straightened and his eyes widened. His guilty conscience wondered what he had done wrong, anticipating a grilling from the Major.

  Trest’s voice broke the tension, barking a command to both seated men. “Get him the hell out of there, and let me see MISTY IR with DoD map overlay.”

  “Yes, sir,” McCreary replied.

  “Roger that,” Baldo said. “Patching MISTY through from NRO, and your overlay is tracking now, sir.”

  McCreary spoke into his headset, “Beacon to Ghost One, mission accomplished. Deploy IR chemlight and proceed to extraction zone.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Ghost One trampled down the stairs and exited the mud dwelling. He cracked a small plastic tube forcing a chemical reaction. Invisible to the naked eye, the chemlight was as bright as a road flare through his night vision visor. He tossed the chemlight on the roof and broke into a jog, making a bee-line through the gate.

  “Proceed to flashing marker for exfil,” McCreary ordered over his bone phone.

  A flashing dot appeared on Ghost One’s face shield, guiding him to the exfil where team members would extract him.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The chemlight glowed on Douglas’s monitor, seen from a night vision camera on the drone he flew above Ghost One. “Target acquired and painted,” Douglas said as he aimed a cursor at the glowing light, “painting” it for a laser-guided bomb to see.

  McCreary replied, “You’re cleared hot.”

  “Firing from ten thousand feet.”

  A GBU-12 Paveway II bomb dropped
from the wing of the drone. The five-hundred-pound laser-guided bomb plummeted fast.

  Douglas counted down... “Five, four, three, two, one..,” The monitor whited-out from the brilliant explosion.

  “SPLASH!” Baldo said. “Direct hit on target.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Four-hundred miles above, MISTY, a school bus-sized spy satellite captured the explosion. What made MISTY more elusive than other satellites was its camouflage space shield. A cone-shaped inflatable balloon would deploy if sensors detected radiation waves. The Mylar balloon deflected lasers and incoming microwave radiation—tools of detection used by the Russians and Chinese to hunt enemy spy satellites. MISTY relayed encrypted information to and from the command center of Project Cloudcroft.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  On the other side of the planet at Holloman AFB were two rows of arch-roofed aircraft hangars, separated by a runway. Stealth Canyon. The hangars were home to the family of stealth aircraft stationed at the 49th Fighter Wing. The “barns,” as the airmen called them, were hollow metal shells providing shelter for the most cunning weapons ever devised by man.

  Hangar 302 stood out from the others by the number of Security Forces guarding its perimeter. Clad in AF battle camouflage, the Security Forces were the Air Force’s version of Military Police.

  To Air Force personnel passing by, a glimpse into Hangar 302 may have revealed two of the most advanced stealth aircraft in the world. The Aurora, code named Nightwing, and the new MQ-10S Angel of Death (AOD) stealth drone. The Aurora achieved mythical status with unheard of speed and maneuvering ability. Developed by Skunk Works at Groom Lake (Area 51), the Aurora was an hypersonic stealth aircraft capable of speeds over Mach 6 (4,500 mph). She could fly to any spot on the globe in under three hours.

  The inside of Hangar 302 looked like a common aircraft hangar, but had features unlike any other hangar. Protective lead panels lined the walls—blocking infrared, T-ray and thermal spy technologies—limiting Russia and Chinese satellites from seeing inside. Banks of fluorescence in the ceiling provided the only interior light. Another peculiarity of Hangar 302 was the sandy brown ground control station inside. The box was off to the side, out of the way of the aircraft. The double doors that ran the length of its back were open for easy entry inside the box.