“Here,” Baldo said, pointing to a location on the map. “This might work.” McCreary looked closely. Nodding his head in approval, giving Baldo a brisk slap on the back.
The undercover MSS agents hungrily dove into a stack of steaming flapjacks, sunny-side-up eggs and thick bacon strips. All whipped up and served by Mrs. Barrett, the rancher’s wife. The three MSS agents sat around a square dining room table with a checkered tablecloth. The quaint country kitchen decor included wall hangings of chickens, hens, a barn and other animals. Aromas of sizzling bacon, fresh maple syrup and pancakes right off the griddle filled the entire home. The morning sun cast bold rays through a large square window over the kitchen table, looking out to the Barrett Ranch driveway. Weng spotted a snaking dust cloud in the distance, trailing a vehicle like a missile plume — heading for the ranch. The table seat under the window sill was vacant. A sparkling clean plate, neatly arranged silverware and empty coffee cup awaited the man of the house. “Where is Mr. Barrett this morning?” Weng asked.
“Oh, he’ll be in shortly,” the charming rancher’s wife answered. “Had to repair a fence in the horse corral. Those ponies just about figured out how to get through it.”
The other MSS agents didn’t seem concerned about Barrett’s absence. Both their heads were down, mowin’ into the fine grub. Weng eyed the vehicle as it approached, finally close enough to distinguish— a plain Air Force service SUV. Painted in the same flat dull gray as an F-16 fighter. Weng looked to the other agents, neither of whom noticed the vehicle.
Barrett rounded the corner of the house from the direction of the horse stalls. Taking off his cowboy hat to dry the sweat of his brow with the arm of a long-sleeved shirt. Weng watched Barrett freeze in the driveway, waiting for the SUV with curiosity.
Mrs. Barrett topped off Weng’s coffee and saw what he was looking at. “I wonder what this is all about.”
Charlie and Matt finally looked up from their breakfast. They all watched an officer step down from the passenger side of the cab. Dressed in his Air Force Battle Uniform or ABU, the non-combat work duty uniform. Weng saw the golden oak leaf patch on his arm that identified the airman a Major. Barrett and Trest exchanged a friendly handshake and seemed to make light conversation. Barrett gestured back to the house, and the major appeared to look right at the undercover MSS agents eating their morning breakfast.
Weng noticed Matt tightly grip a steak knife by his plate as Charlie eased an arm inside his jacket. Undoubtedly reaching for a concealed sidearm. Weng made a subtle gesture to both of them — shaking his head. They backed down. Returning to their meals.
“That was an excellent breakfast, Mrs. Barrett,” Charlie said.
“Why, thank you,” she replied.
Weng glanced outside to see the rancher shake hands again with the major, who returned to his truck. Mr. Barrett opened the door and trod into the living room with such glee, he forgot to close the door behind him.
“The door! And your boots!” his wife said.
“Hush about that for now, Missus,” he said. “The kind major has honored us by ‘requestin’ the rental of our barn for official government business.”
“He what?” she asked.
“We’re rentin’ out the barn to the United States Air Force. Makin’ a pretty penny too!” He turned to the tenants of his bunkhouse. “If it’s not too much to ask, you fellas mind helping clean out the barn for ‘em? We’ll have it emptied out in no time with all hands on deck!”
“We’ll be happy to help,” Weng answered for the group.
Barrett rushed over and gave his wife a peck on the cheek. “Keep mine in the oven, will ya’? We’ll be back in a jiffy.”
An hour later, the bunkhouse crew and Barrett were still at it. Dragging saw horses, plows, and bales of hay out of the large wooden barn, making room for who-knows-what the Air Force had in mind for it. It was a classic old barn, just like the kind Mrs. Barrett had as a wall hanging in the country kitchen — red with wide double doors, and a sturdy wooden ladder inside ascending to a hayloft. Barrett even topped the barn’s spire with a rooster weathervane.
The last big item was an old rusty tractor from the 1950s. Rancher Barrett tried to turn her over but she wouldn’t start again in his lifetime. He put it in neutral and steered as the bunkhouse boys pushed it out of the barn. They made a tight turn and parked her around the side of the barn, out of the way. While heading back in, they saw a massive dust cloud trailing an eighteen-wheeler, storming toward the ranch. On the flatbed was a rectangular metal shipping crate. Weng immediately recognized it as an RPA Ground Command Station. He stood in disbelief as the clandestine phantom operation delivered its command and control headquarters right to his doorstep. It had to be from the black op, he thought. There was no other explanation to hide an RPA crate off an Air Force base less than a mile away.
Douglas drove the big rig and Baldo jumped out the passenger side. The same gray SUV from earlier pulled up alongside it with Major Trest riding shotgun and McCreary driving.
Baldo shook hands with Barrett and each of the bunkhouse boys. “We’ll take it from here,” Baldo said. “Thank you for your service to your country.”
Barrett led the undercover MSS agents back to the house while the airmen sprang to work. Project Cloudcroft would soon be up and running once again.
Back in the bunkhouse loft, Matt drilled a small hole in the wall and fitted a pinhole camera inside. He ran the cord to a laptop and plugged it in, revealing a wide angle view of the ranch. He adjusted the iris, reducing the glare and the barn came into sharp focus. Only the side and front of the barn were visible from this angle, but it was enough to see anyone entering or leaving.
The airmen were busy in the barn. One stepped out, searching the side of the barn for something — and then found it. A circuit box. McCreary opened the rusty panel, flipped switches and snapped the old box closed.
“Whatever they’re doing requires a lot of power,” Weng said. “It’s likely they have the phantom suit inside too.”
“Do you think we could take them?” Charlie asked.
“Three on four? And no idea what weaponry they have? Taking it by force isn’t an option,” Weng said. “We also don’t know if the phantom is inside or nearby. Are you linked to YG?”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie answered.
“Set it to watch the barn. Record all sensors around the clock. Notify MSS that an RPA box is inside and the phantom suit and operator may be here also.”
“Yes, sir.”
Inside the barn, Baldo, McCreary and Douglas hustled to set up the box. Each performing pre-assigned duties. Baldo dragged the VR OmniTrainer gear out from the box, staging it in a corner of the barn. Setting up all the components. McCreary focused on the box’s wiring and electrical, patching them to the barn’s dusty and antiquated outlets. Douglas was up on the hayloft, kicking loose straw out of the way to lower the tripod legs down supporting a mobile communications disc. He aimed the disk out the hay door toward the radio tower of Holloman. Douglas plugged a cable into the disk and tossed the other end down to McCreary, who connected them to the box.
Hal strolled down the long, windowed corridor toward his office, drinking a hot cup of coffee. He spotted a blinking surveillance camera in the corner of the hallway and for the first time in a long time, felt relaxed. Calm. He knew he was being watched, but at least he now knew why.
Hal gazed through the rows of rectangular windows of the corridor. Nicely framing the legacy aircraft on display outside. They were supported by iron posts, jutting up from the trimmed green grass that separated the building and parking lot. One of the prominent fighters on display was a faded F-117A. The Iron Ball paint had been sand blasted off and replaced with a flat black paint, which had oxidized over the years to an ashy hue. Beside it was a light gray F-16 and next to it a darker gray, Vietnam-era F-4 Phantom.