Hal stuffed the entire bundle in his helmet, slipped his boot on and opened the cab door. “One moment.” He left and once the door closed, the cabby muttered the correct translation to himself. Over exaggerating the French accent.
“Un moment!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DESERT LAKES
High-pitched chirps sounded from a security alarm. Weng’s eyes flicked awake to see the flashing light of the security monitor next to a laptop on the table. His looked up to the window and the dark and starry sky beyond the motion detector alarm. “Someone’s coming!” Weng said in Chinese, rustling the other two awake.
The three MSS spies sprung from their narrow bunkhouse beds and took their stations. Matt stirred a laptop awake from sleep mode, viewing a grid of night vision surveillance cameras hidden around the property. Charlie fired up another laptop with a view from the spy satellite orbiting above in space. Weng peered through the night vision scope at the Holloman runway. It was as quiet as the night around it.
“Southern quadrant,” Matt said in Chinese. He enlarged that square to full screen on the monitor. A truck blazed a trail of dust on the way to the ranch house. “The rancher?”
“Show the driveway,” Weng ordered. Matt enlarged the view overlooking the front of the house and driveway. Both Barrett vehicles were parked beneath a wooden carport resembling horse stables. Whoever drove onto the property and triggered the alarms wasn’t either of the Barrett’s. “The barn.”
Matt showed the view from the pinhole camera they drilled through the wall of the bunkhouse. The truck arrived at the barn and its own cloud of dust caught up to it, engulfing it as it came to a stop. The dust cleared, revealing the flat gray color. “Air Force,” Weng said.
A lone man stepped from the driver side in civvies. They zoomed the camera to him, but couldn’t verify his identity from this distance. “Pull up time lapse on the runway,” Weng ordered Matt. “Starting at 10 p.m. and fast forward.”
“Yes, sir.”
Video sped backwards on Matt’s laptop screen through several hours of recording, well past 10 p.m., then advanced in fast motion, scanning the footage for any take-offs or landings. A blur moved across the runway and he played at normal speed. A pair of F-22s took off on patrol. Matt sped the footage forward, nearly missing a black streak that quickly passed by. He reversed the footage and played in normal speed. The Aurora took off with the stealth AOD attached to the fuselage.
“Go forward until she lands,” Weng said, eyeing his watch. Realizing at 3 a.m. there was a good chance she had already landed.
Matt skimmed the footage. Only F-22s and a pair of F-16s. Nothing else, all the way up to the present time.
Weng studied the surveillance feed from outside the barn. The Air Force truck was alone in the dark in front of closed barn doors with no light emanating from within. “Something’s gone wrong,” Weng said, pulling a dark hoodie on and reaching under the bed, tugging a black bag out. He unzipped it, removing dark camo grease paint. Lathering it on his face, arms and neck. “I’m getting a closer look. Charlie, cover me. Matt, stay here.” Weng collapsed the tripod of the night vision scope, taking it with him.
“I said a men’s tracksuit,” Hal told a young bellhop standing in the door of his l’hotel. Disappointed as he held up a neon green and blue track suit. Wearing only a bath robe — the only thing he had to wear that wasn’t a high-tech stealth suit.
The bellhop replied with attitude in broken English. “It is a men’s tracksuit, monsieur.”
“I also said bring me something to blend in, and you deliver a glow-in-the-dark Halloween costume.”
“Very popular!!” the Frenchman defended his apparel choice. “Futbol tracksuit BHWYFC Survetement. You weel blend in, monsieur!”
Hal didn’t have time to argue. Beggars can’t be choosers. “How much?”
The bellhop pondered. Calculating his own mark-up on the €45 tracksuit, charging Hal extra for his unpleasant demeanor. “Eh, seventy-five euro.”
Hal fished out a wad of bills from this robe pocket and peeled off a hundred Euro bill, handing it to the bellhop. “Keep the change.”
Hal’s generosity humbled the Frenchman and he felt guilty for overcharging. “Merci beaucoup! You are too generous, monsieur. Is there anything more I can assist you with?”
“Yes,” Hal said, appreciative that the bellhop had dropped the snobbery. “I need a cell phone… a suitcase, and to go to a department store. I need more clothes. Can you tell me where to go?”
“Oui, monsieur. I will do even more. I will escort you there myself.”
“A map and a taxi will be fine. Thank you.”
“Right away, monsieur. Thank you, sir.”
“Where is he?” Trest angrily asked from inside the dimly lit box in the barn.
“We don’t know, sir,” McCreary answered. Baldo and Douglas kept their eyes glued to their respective monitors.
“What are you doing about it?”
“The MQ is circling, trying to pick up his tracker, but it’s not showing up. When he powered down the suit, it cut the power to the tracker. If he powers it up again, the tracker will appear and we can spot him.”
“So, he could be anywhere?” Trest asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“How did he know? How did he awaken?”
McCreary shrugged his shoulders, not able to answer.
“He must have known for a while,” Trest speculated. “Maybe even before the training. But who told him about the suit?”
“Who else knows about it, sir?” McCreary asked.
“Only the fabricator,” Trest said. “We have to get the designs and any prototypes… After we clear out of here. Get the AOD on the carrier and call the Aurora back.”
“Yes, sir,” McCreary replied.
“Call up Ghost Two. Send him to the home of Henry Banks.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Weng zoomed the night vision scope through a sagebrush concealing him. Aiming it on the barn doors less than a hundred feet away. A faint light bloomed at the base of the door and through gaps in the siding. Weng lowered the scope and whispered to Charlie, who crouched down the thick brush beside him. “I’m going for a closer look. Cover me.” Charlie raised his QBZ-95 assault rifle with suppressor and night vision scope, locking and loading, then peered through. Following Weng as he paused at the grey Air Force truck for cover, and stealthily stalked toward the barn.
Weng reached the face of the barn. Hugging the old lumber siding, inching his way toward the doors. He spotted an empty knothole in one of the boards and peered through it. Spotting three airmen inside — stuffing their gear into the box in haste and disconnecting an array of cables snaking out of it. Weng spotted the major, now in civilian clothes. Deducing he got dressed in a hurry, wearing only jeans and a flannel shirt, which confirmed his suspicion: Something went catastrophically wrong with the mission. But what? Weng raised the scope to the knot hole, focusing on the major. Snapping pictures with the digital camera. Taking other pics of the box and airmen bustling around.
The major turned — heading to the barn doors. Weng scampered back. Scurrying along the face of the barn and ducking out of sight around the corner, just as the major threw the barn doors open. He marched to the truck, fired it up and waited…..An airman dashed from the barn, running awkwardly at full attention. He jumped in the passenger side. “Sorry, major,” Douglas said, apologizing.