Two handlers cautiously approached the shirtless man. Like approaching a king cobra. One quickly raised an injection pistol to the man’s neck and fired a tranquilizer into his jugular. The man started to faint. Both the handlers caught him, easing him down to the padded floor.
Baldo rattled away at a computer keypad in the box. “Mapping sim is up and ready for brief, sir.”
“Alright,” Trest replied, “Move him to the clinic, have the doc look him over and we’ll start the mapping sim debrief in a half hour.”
The handlers removed the man’s virtual reality headgear, revealing the face of Hal beneath.
Hal seemed unconscious, but looked straight forward. His eyes didn’t flinch — as if he were asleep with eyes wide open. McCreary guided him back to a reclining position in what appeared to be a contemporary dental chair. A metal tray attached to the chair, but that’s where the friendly-neighborhood-dentist similarities ended. A curved flat screen was a foot in front of Hal’s face, wide enough to fill his peripheral vision. A map appeared on the screen with rapidly changing locations. They flickered in the reflection of Hal’s eyes as he seemed to be absorbing it all. McCreary stood next to Hal in the small dark room while Baldo typed at a laptop nearby. Its screen showed the same images as Hal’s monitor. Both screens went black and the room was completely dark. “Mapping sim complete,” McCreary said. “Starting targeting program.”
Baldo rattled at the keyboard, pulling up an image of an ominous Mexican with long hair and handlebar mustache. Bold flashing letters appeared over his image, reading TARGET.
McCreary spoke calm and clear, directly into Hal’s ear. In the same voice he used in radio communication to Ghost One. “Target,” he said. “El Lobo. Alfredo Vincente Garcia.”
Other images of Garcia appeared. Some from further away and some profile angles. Each had the same TARGET label over them. An artificial 3D rendering of El Lobo slowly rotated. The reflection appeared in Hal’s eyes. He didn’t blink at all. Retaining everything.
“Secondary targets,” Baldo said, loading new images of armed men onto the screen. Henchmen of El Lobo. Bold letters appeared over each one.
SECONDARY TARGETS
“Running aggression sim,” Baldo said.
Thermal images of human forms appeared on Hal’s screen. They flashed AGGRESSOR TARGETS in red.
“Aggressor targets,” McCreary said to Hal. “Watch for red flashes. Heart rate spikes in sensors.” One flashed on the thermal sensor of a man.
“Kill red flashes,” McCreary said. Ordering Hal to kill anyone who approached with the label of aggressor and spiking heart rate — the sign of a would-be attacker.
“Sims completed.” McCreary said. “Let’s get him home.”
CHAPTER FIVE
EL LOBO
Moonlight gleamed off the sharp edges of the Aurora as she flew above the clouds over the Sonoran Desert — an arid expanse sprawling from Arizona through Southern California and down to northwestern Mexico. The Aurora seemed from another world. The MQ-10S fit snug to her belly, inside long panels attached to the Aurora fuselage, which cut the wind resistance and radar signature of the drone.
“Nightwing to Beacon” the Aurora pilot sounded over the radio. “Crossing the border now. Preparing for AOD release.”
“Roger that,” McCreary replied. “Release on your go.”
Metal brackets opened like jaws beneath the Aurora. Releasing the stealth drone.
“The angel is under my control,” Douglas sounded over the radio. “Powering up AOD motor in three, two, one… power up.”
Once the stealth drone cleared the Aurora, its propeller fired up. Turning it from a glider into a powered aircraft. The Aurora peeled off and the pilot radioed his return to base.
In the box at Holloman, Baldo watched a satellite feed with an overlay of a map of Mexico. A flashing light labeled AOD represented the stealth drone. It flew southwest toward the Baja coastal town of Kino Nuevo. About a hundred miles west of Hermosillo.
“ETA to target — five minutes,” Baldo said. He looked behind him, expecting to see Trest peering over his shoulder, but there was no sign of him. He lowered his headset microphone and asked, “Where’s the Major?”
“Off base,” McCreary replied. “Monitoring remotely.”
“I can’t believe he’s not here,” Baldo said.
“You’re complaining?” McCreary asked.
“Give me a target, Baldo,” Douglas said. Piloting the drone in the general direction of the Baja coast.
“Roger.” Baldo rattled on the keyboard and a perimeter outline appeared on his map of the coast. Labeled “El Lobo Estate.”
“El Lobo!? Are you kidding me?” Douglas asked, his back straightening in the chair, alert. The other two stared straight ahead. For a Project Cloudcroft insider, Douglas was on the outside. Not intimately involved in all the details of the missions or their targets. His only duties were to fly the drone, blow things up and not ask questions. All three of them were more at ease without Trest breathing down their backs. “El Lobo. The wolf. The most notorious drug cartel kingpin in Mexico.” Douglas continued. “This shit’s gonna’ be good.”
“Alright,” McCreary said. “Keep your head in the mission. How long until drop?”
“Just another minute. Let me circle the perimeter and find a good DZ.”
The night vision feed from the drone showed a palatial Spanish-style villa on a cliff overlooking the ocean. A ten foot stucco wall surrounded the estate. The property included an expansive yard facing the ocean with a swimming pool, vineyard and horse corral. The backyard facing the hill was much smaller, with a perimeter wall hugging the villa.
Baldo watched a feed from the MISTY spy satellite. “It’s heavily guarded,” he said.
“As expected. And there’s fog on the DZ. Look for an alternate,” McCreary said. They scanned the monitors with the drone and satellite feed. “There—” McCreary pointed to a bare patch a hundred yards from the side of the estate. “He can land hillside here. It’s not a steep incline. No fog and he can access the back entrance. This is your new DZ.”
“Roger that,” Douglas said. “Circling to set up for drop.” The bomb bay doors opened, revealing an armed warrior in matte black combat fatigues. Ghost One. “Dropping now.” He dropped like a bomb. His parachute released. Ballooning open in the wind. Programmed to open at two thousand feet.
The familiar voice sounded over Ghost One’s bone phone. “Beacon to Ghost One, locate DZ.”
A flat screen before Baldo showed the view from Ghost One’s helmet cam. It panned as Ghost One turned his head toward a digital target marked as his drop zone.
His ultra-light chute limited mobility. There were no toggles or brakes. Ghost One leaned his weight in the direction of the target to steer, then landed hard in a tumbling roll. Baldo cringed.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Trest’s voice shouted over speakers in the box. Confirming to the others that he was paying close attention from his remote location.
Douglas looked panicked. McCreary put his mind at ease, speaking to Trest over his headset. “It’s okay, sir. We’ve trained for this.”
Ghost One rose to his feet. Standing motionless. Looking straight ahead like a mannequin.
“Retrieving chute,” Baldo said. Typing a command that instantly reeled the parachute into Ghost One’s backpack. The slender backpack was midnight black, built into his suit with a hardened armor shell, coated in composite. The spectral jump suit was covered in a light, flexible armor that was a hybrid of body armor and matte black fabric. It had a rough texture that resembled pebbled skin, with the rounded peaks sheared off. The valleys of the sheared pebbles contained a flexible metallic material. This same material covered Ghost One head to toe. His helmet seemed dipped in it, and his face shield was made of a similar transparent substance. Ghost One’s suit top rose to a neck sleeve with no skin exposed. The alien substance even coated his MP10 submachine gun, suppressor and magazines.