by Tom Clancy
"We lost Ramirez!" cried Beasley, his words nearly drowned out by the chopper off their port side, the gunner there now dead, the pilot wheeling off hard to the right.
SAND SPIT
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
SEAL Chief Tanner lay on his belly near the last cluster of trees before the long, sandy beach washing out behind them. Phillips was at his side.
The six sailors from the Chinese patrol boat who had launched in the Zodiac must have either spotted them or decided that the infiltrators had used the spit for their exfiltration, because all six of them, armed with pistols and rifles, had come ashore and were combing the forest.
Tanner imagined what must be on their minds. They had just witnessed the destruction of their beloved patrol boat. They had watched their comrades die. Their hearts were hard and aching for revenge.
And damn, Tanner wished he didn't have to confront them, but he and Phillips had no choice. Tanner had thought that they could don their Draegers and simply hide in the waves while these men searched the spit, but if Mitchell was going to double back and bring the fishing boat around to the east side of the spit to pick them up and take them past the gap (well beyond their own swimming capabilities), then these Chinese sailors needed to die here and now; otherwise Mitchell would have yet another firefight on his hands.
Of course, given the radio transmissions Tanner had been monitoring, there was a good chance that Mitchell and his Ghosts would not make it, stranding the two SEALs.
At that point, the best Tanner could hope for was to kill the Chinese sailors, don their gear, and swim out till they ran out of oxygen.
Higher's insistence that nothing be left behind to indicate this was an American operation worked in their favor. However, Captain Gummerson would still ultimately decide whether a security breach was worth risking his crew and his multimillion-dollar submarine.
Phillips lifted his chin, then gave Tanner a hand signal: movement ahead.
Tanner tensed as two Chinese sailors eased forward, not a meter apart, just three trees away.
Tanner gave Phillips another hand signal.
Phillips nodded slowly and raised his pistol.
Taking in a long breath and holding it, Tanner rolled away from his tree, aimed at the sailor on the left, and fired.
FISHING BOAT
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
"Jenkins, turn around!" screamed Mitchell. "We're going back for Ramirez."
Even as Jenkins rolled the wheel, throwing all of them to the rail, Beasley and Smith shifted their fire to the smoking chopper, whose pilot was still trying to regain control.
Suddenly, a new trail of smoke unfurled from the chopper's tail rotor, and a fire appeared there as Beasley and Smith whooped and reloaded.
"Get him!" cried Mitchell as they came back toward Ramirez.
Jenkins released the wheel, turning it over to Mitchell, then dove into the water as Mitchell killed the throttle.
Meanwhile, the now-burning chopper began spinning and wobbling away from the boat, and Hume cursed that he didn't have a rocket to finish her off. But it didn't matter. The chopper rolled hard onto its side, the main rotor now perpendicular to the water as Mitchell brought the fishing boat around once more, trying to slow up near Jenkins and Ramirez.
The chopper's rotors began slicing into the water, and it suddenly turned once more as it made impact, the rotors snapping like twigs, the cabin slapping hard, waves of white water cascading up around the craft.
"Got that one, sir!" shouted Smith.
At the same time, the remaining chopper and its single gunner came back around for another pass, and that pilot had all the time in the world to get his gunner on target. Now their searchlight swept up, across Mitchell's wake, and found the two men in the water.
"Jenkins, come on!" cried Mitchell.
THIRTY-FOUR
SAND SPIT PIER
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
The moment the second sailor collapsed with a bullet lodged in his head, SEAL Chief Tanner and his partner wove back through the woods, heading west to circle around and come in from behind the remaining men.
Tanner and Phillips now held their pistols in one hand, their SOG SEAL knives in the other, the seven-inch blades powder-coated to conceal glare.
They darted to the edge of a slight clearing and crouched in the brush.
Just ahead, one sailor shouted to another, giving up his position--his last mistake.
With their predator's instincts finely tuned on the forest ahead, Tanner and Phillips moved in for the kill.
FISHING BOAT
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Diaz sat cross-legged on the deck and propped one elbow on the gunwale, sighting the oncoming chopper pilot. He roared down at a forty-five-degree angle, lining up on their stern and interrogating them with his searchlight.
Mitchell hollered as the rotor wash finally hit the boat, whipping up a mist that, in the next few seconds, would ruin Diaz's shot.
The chopper's gunner opened fire, and it was Brown who, despite his head injury, held a steady bead on the bird with his light machine gun. He quickly adjusted fire, and the gunner slumped after firing a salvo that stitched across the deck, missing Diaz by an arm's length.
Brown glanced back at her. "You're clear, Alicia! Take him out!"
It was the least she could do for the man she had almost killed.
Diaz froze and tuned out every noise, jostle, and vibration of the boat. She ignored the cuts, stiff joints, and bruises, and even the searchlight's pulsating glare.
Carlos and Tomas were strangely silent, as though she'd finally convinced them that she was their equal. Oh, that was hardly the case, but maybe they, too, were wondering in rigid silence if she could really pull this off.
Her crosshairs lined up, and just like that, she took a shot, squeezing off a second before thinking about it.
Both rounds punched through the canopy and struck the pilot in the chest and shoulder, respectively, blood darkening the side window as the man fell back, then slumped forward.
To her left, Beasley and Mitchell hauled a bleeding Ramirez back into the boat, and Jenkins climbed aboard himself while the chopper continued to descend.
"Oh my God," Diaz whispered, lowering her rifle as the enemy bird pitched even more, engine and slicing rotors blaring, speed increasing.
The deafening noise stole everyone's attention, Diaz knew, and it was Mitchell who vocalized their thoughts: "It's going to hit! Everybody out of the boat!"
SAND SPIT PIER
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Tanner had holstered his pistol when he'd realized he'd had the perfect kill. He called, "Over here," in Mandarin and got the sailor to turn around and come toward him. As the young man passed the tree behind which Tanner huddled, Tanner came around, covered the kid's mouth with one hand while punching his blade into the man's aorta.
The sailor would not die instantly, Tanner knew, so he'd kept his hand over the guy's mouth and withdrew the blade. He drove the sailor forward and came down with a second strike to the spinal cord.
That finished him.
Tanner carefully lowered the body to the ground and stood upright to catch his breath and wipe off the blade on his thigh.
Phillips, who'd slipped off to their right to take out the dead man's partner, called to say his guy was down, but his transmission broke off at the sound of gunfire.
"Phillips?"
He didn't answer. A hollow pang seized Tanner's gut. He cursed and bolted toward his partner's position.
FISHING BOAT
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
They had just finished hauling Ramirez into the boat when Mitchell grabbed him and threw himself and the assistant team leader back over the side.
He wrapped an arm under Ramirez's chin and swam as hard as he could until the hor
rible sound of the chopper's rotors slashing through the fishing boat made him cry, "Joey, hold your breath!"
Mitchell dragged them underwater as a fireball swept over the water and lit up the waves with a surreal, flickering light, as though he were staring at a fireplace through warped glass.
For a moment, time slowed, and nearly all of Mitchell's senses shut down, but then the muffled cries of his Ghosts and the reverberating chomp, chomp of the rotors as they snapped off wrenched him back to reality and drove him to paddle deeper.
His thoughts reached out to the others, to what would happen to them now as his legs burned with exertion and his wounded arm twinged.
Ramirez began to struggle. He could no longer hold his breath, and Mitchell turned and kicked harder, heading back up.
They broke the surface just a few meters outside a large pool of burning fuel that had leaked from the chopper and boat as both had begun to sink.
Mitchell's earpiece/monocle was still attached to his head, and although the device was waterproof, he only got static.
He spotted Diaz treading water off to his right. "Alicia?"
"I'm all right," she answered. "I see Marcus, John, and Alex. They're okay."
Something thumped into Mitchell's head. He shifted around, saw Boy Scout's body floating facedown. Just a few meters off lay Buddha, faceup.
Mitchell wanted to shake his fists at the universe. They'd been so damned close--and now the ultimate failure. Operation War Wraith would be pinned on the United States because he and his Ghosts had failed to exfiltrate. They would be captured, tortured, paraded in front of the media, then spend the rest of their lives rotting away in a Chinese prison. It was hard to suppress those thoughts while floating in the harbor beside a pool of fire.
Beasley and Smith kicked toward him, clinging to a long piece of the fishing boat's hull. Beasley grabbed Ramirez, who was still conscious but barely moving, and pulled him up, onto the wood.
"Got nothing on the Cross-Com," Mitchell told them.
"Me neither," said Beasley.
SAND SPIT PIER
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Tanner returned fire, nicking the corner of a tree trunk. One of the sailors behind the tree kept rolling out and firing, while the other was on the ground, wailing over his wounded thigh.
Phillips had shot that man, but not before taking a round in his neck, another to the chest. Now he just lay on his back, breathing slowly.
Tanner crawled to his side. SEAL or no SEAL, it took incredible force of will for Tanner to remain composed with his partner and friend lying there, dying.
A pale orange shimmer out in the harbor caught his attention, and he fished out his binoculars. He gasped over floating wreckage, a wall of fire lifting from the black water, and the Ghosts floating at the edge of it all.
Tanner steeled himself. "We're getting out of here, buddy. Time for plan B."
Phillips nodded. "I'm ready."
A round blasted dirt in Tanner's eyes, and he rolled, faced that tree trunk, and returned fire. His second shot was echoed by a groan.
With that, he rose, hauled Phillips into a seated position, then, with the inhuman strength fueled by a massive adrenaline rush, he lifted the stocky SEAL over his shoulder, turned, and double-timed off, back toward the pier.
Only ten steps into their escape it dawned on Tanner that they'd shot five sailors. The sixth was still out there, and that fact sent a chill coiling up his spine.
USS MONTANA (SSN-823)
SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT
SOUTH CHINA SEA
APRIL 2012
Gummerson stood in the control room, flinching as every new piece of information came in.
The XO came over, his expression souring. "Captain, SEAL Chief Tanner reports that SEAL Chief Phillips is seriously wounded. Tanner also says he's lost contact with the Ghost Team. We just got some streaming vid from the harbor. The two choppers are down, but the Ghosts are in the water near burning fuel. They've lost their boat."
Gummerson frowned, then studied the images and map overlays on the screen before him and shook his head. "They're still too close. We can't risk surfacing there."
"Agreed, but, sir, how will they get out of the harbor?"
"I want to talk to SEAL Chief Tanner. I bet he's already got a plan."
FISHING BOAT WRECKAGE
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Mitchell clung to another piece of the hull, along with Diaz and Smith. All of them floated there, coughing and spitting salt water as the fires began to die. Beasley had made sure that the bodies of the CIA agents were secured to another piece of wood in the event that some miracle happened and Captain Gummerson decided to risk it all and bring his boat into the harbor and surface.
Hijacking a rickshaw and heading west seemed a real possibility and a not-so-amusing quip now.
All right. The team was looking to him for orders, perhaps his final order as a Ghost Team leader. He would instruct them to paddle toward the piers along Haicang. Xiamen Island to the east was twice as far away. They had no other choice.
He took a deep breath. "Everyone, listen up."
"Captain, wait," said Diaz, staring through her binoculars. "Got a small boat coming from the sand spit. Looks like that Zodiac launched by the patrol boat. One guy on board."
"Who?"
"Can't see him well enough yet."
"Beasley? Jenkins? Target that boat. Get ready to fire."
"Roger that," said Beasley, trying to balance his rifle atop the shattered piece of hull he was lying across.
"Diaz?" called Mitchell.
"He's turned again, coming right at us. Wait. I see him now, but something's wrong. Aw, no."
THIRTY-FIVE
ZODIAC
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Tanner began to lose consciousness as he piloted the Zodiac toward the Ghost Team across the harbor. The puddles of burning fuel blurred into a sheet of darkness painted with shimmering stars.
At the moment, the outboard's vibration was the only thing keeping him awake--that and the idea that he was the only guy left who could get the team home. He had to hang on for a little longer. He turned slightly, saw one of the Ghosts watching him through a pair of binoculars.
Behind them, the night sky was already washing down from mottled black to purple and pink. They were nearly out of time.
Tanner came within a hundred meters of the group and cut the throttle.
Only five minutes prior he'd loaded Phillips onto the Zodiac. His friend was already dead, and just as Tanner had fired up the outboard, that last Chinese sailor, the one he'd been concerned about, ran onto the beach and began shooting.
Tanner had taken a round in the back but was able to whirl fast enough to tag the sailor before he fired again.
Grimacing in pain and barely able to move, Tanner had levered himself into the Zodiac and had launched.
Now, as he drifted toward them, he tried to raise his hand and wave but instead swam forward into the darkness.
FISHING BOAT WRECKAGE
XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA
APRIL 2012
"It's Tanner!" cried Diaz, pushing free from the section of hull she'd been clinging to and swimming out to meet the Zodiac.
Mitchell had, over the years, voiced his criticism of SEALs, Force Recon Marines, and air force combat controllers. Army Special Forces were, in his not-so-humble opinion, the most accomplished warriors in the world.
But as he watched the Zodiac drift forward, he choked up with a newfound respect for Tanner and all his SEAL brothers. Tanner's escape from the sand spit was an act of sheer will, determination, and courage in the face of utter defeat, and Mitchell knew all too well what it took to find that courage when all seemed lost.
He spat again, smacked his lips, and rattled off his orders: "All right, Nolan, get in there, see how he is. Beasley, tie up the bodies to the sides, then we help the wounded into th
e boat. Everyone else hangs off the side. Smith, you take the outboard!"
"Roger that!" he cried. "But you're wounded, too, Captain. Up in the boat."
Within two minutes they were sputtering across the harbor, unable to gain any real speed because of their added weight and friction. The Zodiac had been designed for six, not nine Ghosts, two SEALs, and two CIA agents.
