She pulled up and froze. Releasing his grip. “I can’t go. They’ll know it’s my car and that I fled.”
“Right.” Hal pondered a solution.
“So, who were they?” She asked.
“Guoanbu.”
“Who?”
“MSS. The Chinese CIA.
“How do you know?”
“They were speaking Mandarin and that rifle was a QCW05. A Chinese special forces submachine gun.”
“What are they doing here?”
“I don’t know. Probably trying to find the same answers we—” —A fire truck horn interrupted, blasting from the distance, followed by the sound of faint sirens on arrival. “Tell them you were in a head-on hit and run,” Hal said. “They drifted into your lane and swerved out, but it was too late. Just one driver. White guy. Brown hair. You didn’t get a good look. He fled into the desert. She nodded. Understanding.
“Will they come back?”
“No. They weren’t trying to kill us.”
“What?! They’ve been trying to kill us the whole time!”
“They were trying to capture us. I saw the laser dot on your forehead and they hesitated. Firing into the car. It was a warning shot to scare us. He said they knew me and asked me about a suit. What does that mean to you?”
“Nothing. This is all new to me,” she said.
Hal saw the fire engines getting closer. “I gotta’ go. Dirty yourself up. If they ask why you don’t have powder burns from the air bag say you wiped your face.”
“Where are you going?” she asked. “What will you do?”
“Nothing yet. Just keep doing your job like nothing happened. I’ll do the same. When things calm down, I’ll find you.”
“How?!”
“I memorized your address on your base ID. Sorry about the credit cards. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s not a busy street. They’re probably still there.”
With that, he took off. Ducking low and scurrying through the dry threadgrass, sagebrush, and buffalo juniper shrub.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
STAKEOUT
Hal opened the door to Alamogordo Lanes, engulfed in a wave of cool air that smelled of diver bar and wood oil from the freshly polished lanes. Pins crashed at the far end of the alley — the only lanes occupied in the late afternoon. He spotted a payphone by the vending machine and strode over, lifting the receiver — realizing he had no change. He returned five minutes later with a handful of change and a brand new bowling ball at his feet. Hal lifted the receiver and dialed. Pretending to slur his words in the phone in a drunken stupor. “Hey, buddy. How are you? I’m down at the lanes and I’ve had a little bit too much to drrrink. Bartender cut me off too. Think I can trouble you for a ride?” There was a pause as he listened to an understanding voice on the other end. “Thank you, kindleey! I’ll just be here waitin’ out front.”
Night fell by the time the 1992 Chevy pickup pulled into the bowling alley parking lot. Hal dropped the bowling ball in the back of the truck in a thud, then got in the truck. Shotgun. “Uncle Hank! It’s good to see you! Thank you for the ride!” Hal said in his faux drunken voice.
“It’s okay. Just don’t get sick—”
“—Is that Trace Adkins?” Hal asked, slapping the dashboard in excitement. “I like this one. Turn that shit up!” He reached the dial himself and cranked it up, blasting the country music.
“Alright…” Henry reached for the dial. Hal gently stopped his arm, and motioned him to be quiet. Henry realized he was completely sober. Hal spoke in a low voice that Henry could hear under the loud music…
“Your truck may be bugged. I snuck off the base…” Hal proceeded to tell Henry all the events of the day on their drive back to Holloman. He held back nothing — telling him about meeting Jennifer and her involvement in Project Cloudcroft — being attacked by MSS agents — and how he was a pawn in some kind of experimental sleepwalking mind control. Hal told Henry there was still a lot unanswered and asked his help in getting to the bottom of it. Uncle Hank was only happy to oblige.
The old truck reached the main gate on First Street at Holloman. Hal continued the drunk routine, fumbling his Air Force ID when he handed it to the gate guard. The guard gave the truck a once-over with a flashlight, briefly pausing on the bowling ball in the back. The guard thanked Henry for taking care of his drunk buddy, and bid the two airmen a good night, opening the gate for them.
Baldo leaned toward the bank of monitors, his eyes jumping from screen to screen. Frantically studying each one — feeling the weight of having lost the defense department’s new toy and one of its most powerful weapons. The phone rang and Baldo snatched up the receiver. He heard the gate guard’s voice on the other end.
“You told me to call if Airman Sheridan entered or left the base.”
“Yes, sir. And?”
“He just came back. Drunk as a skunk. His friend gave him a ride, in from town I assume.” Baldo searched the base cameras. He put the feed of Hal’s driveway onto the main screen.
“Who was his friend?”
“Specialist Henry A. Banks, sir.” Baldo searched his name in the Holloman database. His image, title and address immediately popped up. “Is that all, sir?” The guard asked. Baldo had forgotten the guard was still there.
“Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me know.”
Baldo hung up and saw the main monitor bloom bright white from headlights in a driveway. A truck pulled up and the camera iris adjusted, revealing Henry’s truck in Hal’s driveway. Hal got out. Grabbed his ball from the back and walked rubbery legged around the truck, giving a woozy wave to Uncle Hank.
Baldo switched monitors, putting Hal’s living room on the big screen. Hal’s keys scratching at the lock on the front door until he got it right and entered. He made a wavering path to the nearest bathroom. Turned on the light, then backtracked a few steps to the hall, opened a closet door and tossed the bowling ball in with no regard for the smashing sound inside. Baldo picked up his phone. “Sheridan’s back.”
“Where?” Trest’s voice sounded on the other line.
“Home. Safe and sound. Well, a little drunk, but he’s back.”
“Where was he?”
“Seems he went bowling in town.”
“By himself?”
“Negative. He was with Specialist Henry A. Banks.”
“Hank?!”
“I don’t know, sir. I don’t know the specialist.”
“Well, add him to the surveil. I’ll arrange eyes and ears.”
“Yes, sir,” Baldo said, hoping that would be the end of it. He wasn’t so lucky.
“How did Sheridan slip past your watch?”
“I don’t know, sir. We lost him traveling between cameras, from his office to the front corridor. And then he never returned after lunch. His truck never left the lot either, sir. We just missed him.”
“We didn’t miss him.”
“Yes, sir. I missed him, sir. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” Baldo cautiously inquired, “One more thing, sir. If he meant to dodge the cameras, do you think he’s on to us?”
“We’ll know tomorrow,” Trest said. “If he comes in for training and obeys commands like usual, he’s not onto us.”
Several nights later, Jennifer arrived home, pulling into the garage. The automatic door closed and she went around to the trunk. Hoisting out two armfuls of groceries. Then struggling to unlock the door to the house. She got it open and darted toward the dining room. She rounded the corner to the kitchen, reached for the light switch on the wall and felt a warm hand on it. She screamed. Nearly dropping the groceries. Moonlight from the window raked across Hal’s face in her kitchen. He gestured to be quiet and helped her with the groceries, setting them on the counter. Hal made the talking-on-a-phone gesture, and mouthed, Give me your phone. She handed it over and she expected him to tear the battery out again, but he promptly put in the microwave, shutting the door. “It blocks the signal.” He said.