“What are you talking about?”
“I’m here to find out why.” Hal said. “Please. Lower the gun. I think the people staying with you had something to do with it.”
Dale lowered the shotgun. “Hal, right?”
Hal nodded, and shook his hand.
“I’m sorry about this,” Dale said, flicking the safety on his shotgun.
“It’s alright — I am trespassing, and you exercised restraint. I didn’t call ahead because I didn’t want to involve you and your wife in this, or tip off anyone who may be tapping your phone.”
Dale nodded to the weeds. “Go ahead. Get your piece.”
Hal picked up the Glock from the weeds, stuffing it under the back of his belt.
“Who’s staying in your bunkhouse, Dale? Can I look around?”
Dale unlocked the front door of the bunkhouse, swinging it open for Hal. He stepped inside, taking in the kitchenette and tiny dining room that appeared unused.
“Some outta’ towners,” Dale said. “Three guys. Said they’re here to build houses for Habit of Humanity or something. Nice guys. They’ve all been real polite. Good to the Misses and always lend a hand on the ranch when we need it.”
“What did they look like? Do you know their names?”
“One was Matt, uh Charlie and I forget the other guy’s name — the oriental. Matt’s white or a mix, Charlie black, they’re all American. From Oregon or Washington.”
Hal saw the ladder-like stairs leading up to the loft. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself.” Dale set the shotgun down and followed Hal up the ladder.
Hal reached the top and paused. Looking around in disbelief. He saw the lights from the motion sensors going haywire and heard the beeping electronic alarms. Hal stepped closer to look at the laptop with a grid of security camera feeds from the ranch. His eyes followed a cable to the pinhole camera in the wall. Hal took a closer look at the laptop keyboard and text on the screen. All in Chinese.
“What is it?” Dale asked.
“See the monitor and computer keys? It’s Chinese. The guys bunking here are Chinese spies. From an agency like the CIA called the MSS. Ministry of State Security. They’re recording video of the runway at Holloman, watching every aircraft that takes off and lands.”
Dale shook his head in disbelief.
Hal rummaged through the small room, pulling rugged black crates from under the beds, popping them open for Dale to see. “Night vision goggles and scopes…” Hal said, giving him an inventory of each crate… “Sniper rifle — Chinese made… Submachine gun… 9mm firearms and ammo… Comms — portable satellite communications.” He looked up at Dale. “High-tech spy gear.”
Hal moved to the tables with the laptops. Opening the closed laptop in a military-grade shell. He fired it up. A gateway screen appeared in Chinese, requesting a password. “This one is probably comms to Chinese headquarters, or a feed to their intel resources… Spy planes, satellites. Who knows? What time do they come back?”
“Varies. Usually around six. Sometimes they drop in for lunch.”
“Can I borrow your truck?”
“Keys are in it.”
“I want you and your wife to go stay at a hotel for a couple days. Alamogordo Inn. Off of White Sands and Indian Wells. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”
Dale nodded. “You never told me what happened to Henry. Why wasn’t it in the news?”
“He was strangled. He knew too much about a—” Hal searched for the words. He didn’t even know what to call it. “Clandestine operation. Hank put up a good fight, but he was up against a professional.”
“What did he know?”
“It’s better that you don’t know, Dale. For your own safety. The airmen you leased your barn to are tied up in it. You and your wife should stay away from them too. Avoid all contact with anyone.” Dale nodded, understanding. “We have to move. Pack up you and your wife and head out before the MSS guys get here.”
“What will you do?” Dale asked.
“I’ll be okay. I’ve got a little surprise for them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PASSWORD
“Consider this a CYA mission,” Trest said to the handful of men stuffed in the box at its new desert location. It was the usual crew, plus the two Force Recon Marines he contracted to track Hal on his hog hunt. “Let’s get these doors opened! It’s like a can of Filipino hookers in here.” Baldo leapt to his feet and unlatched the wide double doors, swinging the entire back wall of the box open. Revealing vast desert and star-filled sky. “That’s better.” Trest stepped out of the box and the Force Recon Marines backed up a step too. “The President has tasked us to an eyes only mission that is known just to himself and nine men, including the six here tonight. We have to make the China problem go away. POTUS said he doesn’t care how, when or where we do it, but if the President of China takes the floor at the UN and spills about our op, it’s world war three.”
The airmen and Marines felt the gravity of mission in Trest’s tone. He nodded to a pallet of stacked wooden crates outside. “These are Taiwanese munitions. We’ll use them. Nothing American-made.” Trest nodded to McCreary.
Baldo hit a button on the keyboard and the main screen lit up with a PowerPoint presentation of their mission strategy.
“The box is HQ,” McCreary said. “This…” He pointed to the Hilton New York Grand Central Hotel, two blocks southwest of UN Headquarters. “…is base camp. Ghost Two will be the point…”
“You ladies smell wonderful!” Weng said in Chinese as he drove the loner ‘82 GMC pickup down the dusty road toward the ranch. Dirt caked his face, and sweat soaked through his ranch style long-sleeved shirt. Charlie and Matt looked equally weathered after a long construction build in the blistering sun. Charlie fished a pebble out of his work boot while Matt tried to extract a shovel-splinter from his hand. Not an easy task as the truck jostled around on the dirt road to the ranch.
Weng pulled up to the bunkhouse with only one thing on his mind: a hot shower. The bunkhouse amenities were far from luxurious, but one comfort they enjoyed was piping-hot water. The three entered the bunkhouse, kicking their shoes off at the door. The soles of Matt’s socks were charcoal black — better off thrown away than washed again.
Weng forced his aching bones up the loft stairs, on his way to a clean towel and fresh change of clothes. He froze in his tracks at the top of the stairs. “Get up here!” He shouted to the other MSS spies. They dropped everything and rustled up the ladder-stairs. The tone in Weng’s voice told them it was bad. Weng was already in the bedroom, flipping over tables and shoving a bunk bed away from the wall, looking for any shred of their gear. The room was completely stripped.
Charlie dropped to his hands and knees, peering under the other bed. Hoping to grab hold of a rugged shipping case, but only saw the back wall.
“They took everything,” Matt said. Putting a finger into the hole they drilled for the pinhole camera.
Weng threw open the old cupboard doors, revealing stacks of folded clothes. Relieved the thief left them a shred of dignity. He pulled down fresh clothes and a towel.
“What are you doing?” Matt asked.
“Taking a shower. Then I’m going to call for an immediate extraction. We’re useless without our gear.” Weng was grateful he took his encrypted cell phone to the Habitat build — to even have the option of calling for extraction.
Weng sauntered down the stairs and pulled the bunkhouse door open on his way to the bathroom and shower around back. He stopped cold — looking down the barrel of his own QBZ-95 fully automatic assault rifle. Its targeting laser pointed at his heart.