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 into 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.