CHAPTER ELEVEN
GHOST
Major Trest’s office at Holloman was modest, neat and clean. He had a wide, metal standard-issue military desk. Plain chairs faced it and a plaid couch fit snug against the wall. Plaques, awards and framed medal cases were neatly arranged on the walls and dust-free. A bay window offered a panoramic view overlooking the runway and Stealth Canyon, including Hangar 302 off in the distance. The blinds were pulled, blocking the morning sun as Trest strained his eyes, navigating the internet on his desktop computer. He was a hunt and peck typist, taking longer than normal to pull up Dongnan Kuai Bao—Fuzhou’s top online newspaper at dnkb.com.cn. He hit the button to translate to English. The front page featured an aerial photo of the building fire. The headline, Electrical Fire to Blame at Railway Bureau. Trest was halfway into the article that blamed widespread train delays on the fire when his phone rang. He let it ring. Finishing the article. Then finally picked up.
“Sheridan isn’t doing well,” McCreary said on the other line.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been puking his guts out all morning and is a no-show at work.”
“Where is he?”
“Lying on his bathroom floor. Should I call an ambulance?”
“No. He has to call one.”
“Should we bring him in?”
“Negative,” Trest said. “I’ll take care of it.”
About an hour passed. McCreary and Baldo stared at the screen with a feed from the hidden camera in Hal’s bathroom. He was now sitting upright in a robe. Eyes closed. Head swaying. The bathroom wall made a useful backstop, propping him up.
Hal’s eyes opened a crack. As if to test his current degree of spins. The bathroom continued to whip around him. A cacophony of visions bombarded his mind, but none of the intrusions lasting long enough to reveal any detail. He glanced at the toilet before him, sensing an imminent gut-busting hurl. The bathroom light flickered. He gaped at it blankly. Wondering if the flickering was real or if he was indeed hallucinating. His doorbell rang — breaking him out of the stupor.
“Fuck,” he whispered, struggling to hoist himself up. His ascension to his feet was old-man-parkour. He gripped the bathtub ledge first — then the toilet — and transferred his weight to the sink counter — then finally standing upright. Just as the lights flickered — and went out. “Great,” he said. At least I’m not imagining it.
Hal shuffled down the hallway, using the wall as a crutch. The doorbell rang again, sounding warbled as the power fluttered on an off. Hal answered the door to an El Paso Electric worker in a hardhat and orange vest. Hal saw the bucket truck beyond — lifting another electrician up to a transformer box at the top of a telephone pole. “Sorry to bother you,” the electrician said, “but the transformer is out, and I’m gonna’ need you to shut down your breaker. If there’s a surge, it could blow out your appliances.”
Hal nodded. “Give me a minute.” He stepped inside, turning toward the kitchen — the direction of his breaker box in the pantry. The electrician stepped in close behind Hal and injected him with a syringe in the side of neck. Hal instantly collapsed and the “electrician” guided him safely to the ground.
Hal’s eyes opened to paramedics bent over him in a speeding ambulance. “What happened?”
“You’re alright. You passed out and the power crew called us. Your vitals are low and we started an IV.” Hal glanced up at the bag and line running to his arm. “We’re almost there.”
Hal drifted in and out of sleep as they rushed him through a series of double doors on a gurney to the ER. He came to a stop and the wheels locked in place beneath him. A nurse stuck heart-monitor electrodes on his chest. He opened his eyes and saw Dr. Elm, a female nurse and Elm’s male assistant. Hal leaned upward — alarming the doctor and nurses.
“Easy. Just lay down.” Hal could see them clearly now — realizing it wasn’t Dr. Elm and his crew, but the hospital trauma staff. “You’re just dehydrated. Relax. Your levels are coming back up. You’re going to be fine.” Hal’s eyes studied the ER doctor, his brain trying to recall seeing the man before. He hadn’t.
“Don’t be afraid,” a Pakistani man said in Pashto. Speaking in the Middle Eastern language to a trembling woman in a black burka. They sat on a rug in a small, dark, Afghani mud hut. The woman’s coffee-colored eyes darting between the two men seated before her.
“We know your husband was killed in the bombing. We aren’t going to harm you. We just have some questions that we hope you will answer.” She nodded in compliance. “Your house was reported as a bombing, but upon inspection of the— remains, the men inside were shot at close range with these…” He showed her spent 4.6 x 30mm brass shells in a sealed plastic bag.
“These are from an American submachine gun. MP9 most likely. Because the men were shot at close range, the killer had to be someone they knew, or someone who was cleverly hiding.” The woman listened intently. “Witnesses saw you running from the house, moments before the bombing. The drone strike.” The Pakistani said. She started to cry. “Why are you crying, woman? We haven’t done anything.” She dabbed her tears with her gown. “Why did you flee? Could you hear the gunshots? What did you see that made you run?” She shook her head. Not knowing how to answer. The Pakistani leaned closer. Face to face. “Who else was in the house with you?”
“Nobody.”
“Then why did you run from the house?”
She was silent.
“If nobody else was in the house and you ran away from it, a reasonable person could conclude that you are the killer.”
Tears poured from her eyes. She sobbed. Shaking her head no.
“Then tell us. Tell us what you saw. What made you run away in terror?”
She looked directly at him. Their eyes connecting. She then looked to the other man with him.
“What did you see?” The Pakistani repeated.
“یو روح,” She replied in Pashto.
The Pakistani translator looked to the silent man beside him — Intelligence Officer Yuen Weng, dressed in special forces desert camos. The Pakistani translated the woman’s reply to Weng in Chinese, “She saw a spirit — a ghost.”
Hal’s appearance returned to normal. He sat upright in bed as the ER doctor pressed a stethoscope to his chest. Listening. “Any chest pains?”
“No.”
“Nausea?”
“Not since your meds kicked in.”
“And which hand was it? You said it felt sore earlier.”
Hal held up his right hand. The doctor examined it. “Make a fist.” Hal did. “Squeeze hard. Feel any pain?”
Hal nodded. “A little sore.”
“Did you over exert it? Do something you’re not aware of — like pulling the starter on a lawnmower or chainsaw?” Hal shook his head no. “Pull-ups, curls, or wrist hangs at the gym?” When the doctor said “hangs” a muted green image of his arm clinging to the handrail flashed in his mind. “What is it?” The doctor said, noticing that Hal tensed up.
“Nothing. I— uh changed a tire the other day. Just remembered. I must have twisted it wrong or sprained it.” Hal squinted. Focusing. Trying to retrieve the memory of the handrail or anything else.
“You okay?” The doctor asked. Seeing the vacant look in Hal’s eyes.
“Yeah. I’m alright.”
“Well, everything else is okay. Your heart levels are back to normal. You have the ticker of a twenty-five-year old. I’m concerned about you passing out though. We’re going to keep you overnight until I get the results back from your neurology tests…”