“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 action. 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!”
Baldo quickly typed the command on the computer.
“Thermal self-destruct activated, sir.”
The men standing over the ghost heard a flush of fluids circulating through the suit. The suit began to glow a dull orange, heating quickly. Becoming a red hot magma. The men stepped back in fear. The suit melted in a burst of smoke and flames. A chemical combination released white-hot plasma through the suit. Engulfing the helmet, mask and entire form of the man. It burned rapidly, and when the smoke cleared only a charred patch of leaves and grass remained on the rain forest floor. The rebels stabbed at the scorch-mark grave with the barrels of their AKs, wondering where the man, his suit and remains went.
McCreary pulled up the image of an African American CCT SF operative on the computer. His call sign — Ghost Three. McCreary typed KIA over a field marked STATUS. “Ghost Three, KIA,” McCreary said.
“Now, we’re down to two?” Baldo asked. “What about China? Are we postponing it?”
“Negative,” Trest answered, “Fuzhou goes forward.”
“Who should we call up?” McCreary asked.
Trest responded without hesitation. “Ghost One.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHARKIE
Hal rubbed his eyes and peered down at his G-shock wristwatch. 1 a.m. He sat in the dark — his face illuminated by the laptop on his small computer desk at the foot of his bed. He scrolled through an article on BBC’s website about a bombing in Kabul, Afghanistan. The pictures looked straight out of his flashes and dreams. Hal clicked on an image and it filled the screen. It was a wide-angle view of the demolished hut and other mud huts around it. The article called it a drone strike, but didn’t specify the exact location in Kabul. It appeared to be a village on the outskirts of town.
Hal searched Kabul on Google Maps and clicked satellite view. Scanning the outer areas of Kabul, but finding nothing familiar. He glanced at the bottle of meds on his desk that Dr. Elm prescribed. He popped the cap and swallowed a couple.
Hal’s phone rang the next morning. He groggily woke to answer it, realizing it was ringing along with his alarm clock. The dull annoying tone had been blasting for the last half hour. “I’m on my way. Yeah. Overslept.” He was more relieved that he woke up nightmare-and-headache free, than worried about being late for work.
The day passed without any flashes or daydreams. Hal could hardly believe it as he looked up at the clock. Five o’clock and not a single symptom. The meds must be working. A hard slap on the shoulder from Yarbo jolted the thought away.
“You back in class tonight, buddy?”
Hal nodded. “I’ll be there.”
Yarbo led the Muay Thai class of a dozen men and women of varying skill levels. The class used two thick wrestling mats, butted up next to each other as their floor. Yarbo demonstrated advanced combinations of attacks and defenses. “This defense works well against an empty hand or a knife lunge.” Yarbo nodded to a volunteer, who threw a punch half-speed at Yarbo’s jaw. “When you block, it’s more of an angled deflection. Don’t try to push the attacker’s arm away from you because you don’t know how strong they’re going to be. A deflection neutralizes their strength without much effort on your part. Try to match the angle of deflection with their angle of attack. The right angle of deflection allows you to maintain your core balance while knocking the attacking strike off course. Once you deflect it, execute a counter strike!” He deflected the attacker’s slow-motion punch and then jabbed him with a counter strike, stopping inches short of the man’s face. “Now, try it with your partner.”
The class paired up, but Hal was odd man out. “I got you, Sheridan,” Yarbo said. “Ready?” Hal nodded. Yarbo threw a three-quarter strength punch. Hal deflected it, returning fire with a counter strike that stopped short before contact. “Good,” Yarbo complimented. “Now you.”
Hal threw a punch, which Yarbo easily deflected and counter struck. Stopping short. “Now, opposite arm!” Yarbo yelled to the whole class, and they switched attack and defense arms. Hal and Yarbo practiced the techniques, each taking a turn.
“Good,” Yarbo said to the class. “Now, full speed!” He kept an eye on the class, making sure they were safely performing the techniques. “Nice work.” He lowered the elbow of one participant, making his form correct then turned back to Hal. “Ready?” Hal nodded. Yarbo threw a full speed punch, and Hal deflected it, countering with a full speed right, stopping an inch short of his chin. “That was close.”