McCreary strapped the backpack onto Hal and Baldo fitted the helmet and visor on. WHOOSH! The helmet locked in an air-tight seal to a carbon-fiber ring around the collar of the suit.
McCreary and Baldo pulled stealth gloves over Hal’s hands, sealing o-rings on the wrists to the sleeves, like an astronaut’s suit. One by one, McCreary handed the remaining gear to Baldo — the weaponry. He ensured the 9mm magazine was full and snapped it into the Glock 19, securing it into Hal’s holster. Baldo stuck the magnetic-backed MP10 submachine gun to a metal plate on the chest armor built to tote the rifle. The SCIROC material also coated the MP10, making it blend in with the suit fabric. Baldo wrapped a belt made of the same fabric around Hal. Its pockets contained concealed flash-bangs, grenades and chemlights.
McCreary stuffed several magazines into the belt, packed with specialized 9mm and 4.6 x 30mm cartridges using low-flash gunpowder — limiting muzzle flare that could give a ghost away in combat.
“Stand up,” McCreary commanded and the ominous stealth-warrior rose. “Lift your left arm.” Hal obeyed, raising his arm to shoulder level. Baldo pulled a Velcro flap of stealth fabric back from Hal’s forearm, pressing buttons on a flexible membrane touchpad. The suit puffed out slightly.
“Suit pressurized,” Baldo said. “Rebreather engaged.”
Hal noticed his breathing changed. It took more effort to inhale air, drawing it from his sealed face plate connected to a hose within his suit, running down to the rebreather on his back.
“Follow me,” McCreary said, exiting the small room into the hangar. Hal followed. McCreary keyed his headset, issuing a command to his men, “Lower AOD doors.”
“Roger that,” Douglas said in a crackle over the radio, remotely operating the MQ-10S drone from the box back at the barn. “Doors lowering.”
A bright chill prickled up Hal’s spine as he saw the stealth drone attached to the belly of the Aurora. He had never seen such a magnificent flying machine. The meds suddenly took effect, making him drowsy and weak-kneed. Unexpected flashes fired through his mind. His steps stuttered and he shuffled across the concrete. He was certain he blew his cover. The meds made him apathetic about it. He wanted to drop right there and fall asleep.
“His sleep meds are kicking in,” McCreary said to Baldo. “Let’s go.” They grabbed Hal by the arms, guiding him to the MJ-1E lift truck parked under the nose of the Aurora. It had a flat plate on the end of the long hydraulic arm for lifting missiles. McCreary and Baldo helped the ghost onto the plate. McCreary spoke a soft command, “Lie down.”
Hal’s world was a spinning blur. He felt out of control and at the same time could hear everything. He lay on his back on top of the hard metal plate. McCreary looped a belt around his chest and nodded to Baldo, who was at the controls. He hoisted Hal slow and easy, guiding him to the open AOD bomb bay doors. Hal’s legs dangling over the end of the plate. McCreary gave Baldo hand signals as the hydraulic lift extended, then he made a quick sharp fist. Baldo stopped the lift truck and scurried around the arm to help McCreary.
Hal’s face was inches from the fuselage of the AOD. McCreary and Baldo lifted his legs, tucking them into hardpoint releases custom-built into the AOD’s frame. A floodgate of anxiety and panic broke through Hal’s mind. The claustrophobic panic attack snapped his mind awake from the sedative meds.
McCreary released the seat belt around Hal and pulled two wide bands under him, attached to the bomb bay interior. McCreary secured the hammock-like bands on the opposite side and ratcheted them down tight, while Baldo helped raise Hal up into the bomb bay. The bands supported Hal’s full weight.
“Raise port door,” McCreary commanded over the radio.
Hal’s spinning head added to his anxiety as he was being stuffed into an area with less space than a coffin. He fought the urge to scream. Pleading in his mind for them to keep the doors open.
A static reply came over the radio from Douglas, “Roger that, raising doors.”
The bomb bay doors rose. They were lined with thick molded foam that when brought together became a comfortable bed for the ghost inside. The doors closed and a mechanical latch sounded, locking them. Entombing Hal, sealing him in darkness.
The sheer blackness disturbed Hal. He wondered why they couldn’t have installed a light. He tried to move his arms, but they only went up a few inches before hitting the metal ceiling. His legs were also barricaded in with only a couple inches of wiggle room to the ceiling. Hal couldn’t even roll to his side if he wanted to. It reminded him of an MRI he received a decade before from a concussion. Back then, it was in a casket-like MRI machine. The technician forgot about Hal while he took his lunch break, leaving him in the cramped tube for over an hour. Or that’s what he said. Hal thought the civilian tech was anti-war and wanted to give a vet a taste of Enhanced Interrogation Techniques like the kind the CIA employed — stuffing terrorists into a six-foot long wooden box not much wider than their head. Hal blamed the MRI incident for his claustrophobia, having never experienced it before.
Hal felt a single bead of sweat roll from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. It was like Chinese water torture. He gave his head a shake, dislodging the sweat, where it rolled into his eye with a sting. Hal’s anxiety increased. He could imagine his heart rate and blood pressure surging. How long is this flight? He thought. Wondering how he could ever make a several hour trip like this to the Middle East, or wherever the Aurora was going. Hal prayed for the sedative to kick in. And then he felt the rumble of the Aurora’s jets firing up. The rattling woke him even more, and made him more anxious. Oh fuuuuuck! He thought.
Hal wasn’t a deeply religious man. He was an altar boy as a kid and went to church every week up until he joined the Air Force, and slowly became a C&E Catholic — only attending Mass on Christmas and Easter. He didn’t have much of a prayer life, but prayed before his PJ missions and in life-threatening situations. This situation qualified. He closed his eyes and prayed. Then commanded his own mind to calm himself. Repeating the command over and over like a mantra. He felt the Aurora move, taxiing from the hangar. His eyes snapped open. Another bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and the high-tech suit miraculously whirred to life. Sending cool air through the veins of the suit. He felt it spread like icy water, from his chest to his waist and up to his shoulders, then to his legs, arms and hands, and up into his helmet. Alleluia!
Hal felt the Aurora turn in an arc and straighten on the runway. He knew where they were on the airfield from the turns. The engines ramped up, sending a rumble of shallow waves through the AOD and into Hal’s bones. The Aurora surged forward, speeding up. Moving faster and faster. The nose lifted off the runway and the Aurora ascended in a steep climb. For this, Hal was also grateful as it moved chilled air to the back of his suit and increased his blood flow. It all had a calming effect. As the Aurora leveled out, the full force of the sedation kicked in and Hal fell peacefully asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
MASQUERADE
Hal dreamt he was falling. Back-flopping through a peaceful blue sky and round puffy clouds. He was tranquil and aware, falling at half speed with no wind resistance, and no ground below for miles. He enjoyed the view of the white clouds and dark blue sky above. Even more, he relished the feeling of being unbound and free. No longer a victim of claustrophobia. A whisper eased into his mind from the distance and grew closer. Reaching up from the depths of his subconscious to the here-and-now. It was a warning. “Roll over! Beacon to Ghost One, roll over! Assume drop posture.”