The Reaper footage consisted of hours of surveillance in potential target areas. Hal began the arduous task of scrolling through the Dhamār footage while making notes on technical data. He would use the notes to compile a full analysis and then forward it to the Department of Defense, where it typically wound up in the hands of a CIA agent. Hal’s nameplate on his desk revealed his official title at Holloman — AERIAL IMAGERY SPECIALIST.
Yarbo appeared at Hal’s desk holding two cups. “Coffee?” he asked.
“Sure,” Hal said.
Yarbo handed one of the cups over, asking, “How’s Dhamār looking?”
“Sunny and beautiful,” Hal replied. “With naked women running all over. You’re missing out.”
“That’s why I wanted you to have it.” Yarbo replied, patting Hal on the shoulder, “Some people live the life, and some watch it on TV.”
Hal tore open a packet of aspirin and dumped two in his hand.
“Late night?” Yarbo asked.
“Just a headache.”
“Probably from the ass kicking I gave you in Muay Thai last night,” Yarbo said.
“No, that only explains why my fists are sore.” Hal retorted. Smiling. Then changing the subject. “You’ve seen action before. I’m guessing you have dreams of it, but do you ever have flashes from it when you’re wide awake?”
“Daydreams, sometime” Yarbo answered. “Or just thinking about past missions. Not really flashes. What are you seeing?”
“If I told you, you’d give me the boot with a two-sixty-one.”
“Everyone remembers things. It’s part of the job.”
Hal nodded. “The problem is — I don’t remember these.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m getting old and my memory is going. What do you do about yours? Nightmares from combat you can’t shake?”
“They’re never that bad,” Yarbo answered. “Used to take sleeping pills. That was a while ago. Never had ‘em in the day though.” Yarbo paused and added, “Just let me know if you get an itch to bring your rifle to work!” He laughed at his own joke. Hal didn’t. “Try some sleeping pills. If OTCs don’t cut it, the base doc will hook you up with the good stuff.”
Hal nodded. Raising his coffee cup in a gesture of gratitude.
CHAPTER TWO
CLOUDCROFT
A lone pair of combat boots trampled over the sun-scorched ground in a brisk jog. Heavy, echoed breathing filled the chamber of an enclosed mask.
The sun hung low on the horizon, shrouded in dust and urban pollution. Creating a red-orange haze that bloomed over Kabul. A Muslim minaret tower broke the skyline next to a cobalt-blue mosque dome. Crackly, Quranic chants bellowed from rusty loudspeakers perched on the minaret.
A methodical and disciplined voice broke through radio static over the operator’s bone phone speakers, fixed to his cheek bones… “Beacon to Ghost One… Activate.” The bone phone used bone-conductive technology, freeing the operator’s ears to his surroundings.
With an electronic sizzle, Ghost One’s face shield switched to night vision. Vivid details emerged from the darkest shadows. The Afghan landscape became crisp and clear in the artificial green hue. The whisper of a pump sounded in the operator’s ears. He felt instant relief from cold water that circulated through the lining of the special combat suit he wore. A welcomed relief in the hundred-degree desert heat. Electronic numbers and symbols blipped to life in 3D on the helmet-mounted display (HMD) of his face shield. The HMD was a binocular projection, featuring digital information in augmented reality. Beacon’s voice sounded over the bone phone. “Ghost One, prepare to acquire target.” The command appeared in flashing red letters in the lower right of his display.
TARGETING
“Beacon to Ghost One, objective at twelve o’clock. Advance and engage.” Ghost One stood still, zombie-like. “Repeat, advance and engage.” Ghost One proceeded forward. The objective appeared through muted-green night vision — a two-story mud dwelling surrounded by an eight foot wall.
An ISIS operative in olive green camos patrolled the perimeter, carrying an AK-47. Another stood guard at the gate, wearing a shemagh headdress.
Two high-ranking ISIS officers in drab military fatigues spoke in Arabic over a dog-eared map on a metal table in the back yard. The leader wore a long, Arabian headdress. AK-47s and RPG launchers leaned against the mud wall. Nearby, a rotund, lower-level ISIS fighter worked on an old motorcycle. Gingerly installing an improvised explosive device (IED) beneath the seat.
A guard sprang toward the officers, clutching the arm of another jihadi, as if presenting a criminal to a judge. He spoke Arabic in a rushed and tense tone. “I caught him smoking masaal.”
Ghost One’s breathing slowed as he approached the patrolling guard at an archway gate. Arabic voices echoed from the yard beyond. Red letters flashed on the lower corner of his face shield…
SECONDARY TARGET— ELIMINATE
The guard’s eyes flicked to the commotion of his fellow soldiers then back to his post. Ghost One passed in front of the guard completely unseen, like a soft breeze. He made his way toward the voices in the back yard.
Several guards gathered around the metal table — the site of the improvised trial. The only one not there was the jihadi rigging a bomb to the motorcycle. “Is it true?” Ali Abbas, the senior ISIS leader, asked the accused.
The man was silent, peering into his leader’s eyes. Un-intimidated. The other guard presented the evidence — a rolled-leaf cigarette. Hal observed, knowing that in their brand of fanatical Wahhabi Islam, consuming alcohol and tobacco was strictly forbidden.
“He tried to throw it away,” the accuser said.
Abbas lunged to the wrist of the accused. Pulling it to his face — smelling the tobacco smoke on his fingers. He tightened his grip in disgust, forcing three of the man’s fingers closed. Leaving his thumb and forefinger open — the fingers used for smoking.
“You know the penalty,” Abbas said in a condemning tone.
He removed a machete from a sheath on his belt and brushed the map off the metal table.
Ghost One ignored the backyard terrorist trial. Not part of his mission. Focused and disciplined, he glided toward the man by the motorcycle, like a wandering soul in the night. None of the terrorists could see him, even though he was three feet away.
“Accept it as a sacrifice to Allah,” commanded Ali Abbas. Nodding to the other guards, who pinned the accused against the rusty table. Stretching his arm across it as Abbas recited Quran from memory. “‘Man will be evidence against himself… Make not your own hands contribute to your destruction.’”
Abbas raised the machete — its blade glistening in the desert moonlight. Just as he was about to strike downward, a violent choking sound erupted nearby. Abbas turned to the heavy-set man at the motorcycle. He was grasping his throat in pain, struggling to breathe. The other men watched. Silent and transfixed.
The skin of the large man’s neck rippled as though clutched by an unseen force. His crooked back strained, bearing the weight of an invisible attacker.
A depression sunk into his flabby cheeks. Something forced his mouth open. He struggled, trying to break free. A black object appeared in his mouth, and his jaws forced shut, forcing him to swallow. Just as his cohorts arrived to help, the struggle came to an end with the large terrorist on hands and knees, coughing and gagging. Still alive. He rose with a crazed expression, looking for the culprit. Seeking revenge. “Who was it?” He asked the man nearest him in Arabic. “Who jumped me?”