Ghost Force

by Patrick Robinson

  Diana, of course, had no idea that five years previous her husband had led one of the most daring, bloody operations ever mounted by U.S. Special Forces when he had smashed his way into a Chinese jail on a remote island off Hainan and liberated an entire U.S. submarine crew. And she certainly had no idea how closely he had worked with the British SAS on that one.

  Rick Hunter knew all about the SAS, their skill, their brutal training, and the absolutely ruthless quality of their work. And he smiled up at his wife, hoping to see a ray of humor cross her very beautiful, very worried face. But there was no such reaction. She just collapsed into floods of tears and kept saying over and over, “He can’t be dead, he can’t be dead. Please, please tell me he can’t be dead.”

  “Oh, I can tell you that okay. If Douglas was dead, Twenty-two SAS would know he was dead. They might not know if Douglas and his guys had killed a couple dozen Argies, which is a lot more likely. But they’d know if one of their commanders was dead. Hot damn, you can’t kill those SAS guys, not if you don’t have an atomic bomb handy. You can trust me on that.”

  Diana stopped crying, and said quietly, “I just hate the phrase ‘missing in action.’ It reminds me of all those poor guys who never came home from the Somme, World War One, just blown to pieces.”

  Rick raised himself on one elbow and took her hand. “Listen,” he said, “you haven’t followed this war probably as close as I have. And so far the Brits have not admitted they even had Special Forces in the islands. Which means they had the guys in there real early, checking the place out, especially the enemy defenses.

  “Ninety percent of the casualties were in the Royal Navy’s warships. The rest on the landing beach. Now we know Douglas was not in those ships. You don’t take Special Forces eight thousand miles and then leave ’em on some kind of a cruise. You get ’em in there, into the islands.

  “And Douglas would not have been on the beaches. The Brits leave all that amphibious work to the Special Boat Service, not the SAS. So wherever Dougy was, he was not on the beach. It’s much more likely he and his guys are on the loose somewhere, and do not want to surrender, despite the political situation.

  “But they’ll be armed to the teeth, and they’re trained to live off the land, and from what I read, there’s several million sheep there. If I had to guess, I’d say Captain Jarvis was right now sitting with his feet up, in some cave in the mountains, eating roast lamb and reading the Penguin News or whatever the hell they call their local paper.”

  Diana smiled through her tears. She loved her brother dearly, but this six-feet-three-inch ex–U.S. Navy SEAL had completely taken over her life since the day she first met him, when he was casually leaning on a balustrade watching the yearlings being auctioned at one of the big sales in Kentucky.

  At the time she was watching a superbly bred chestnut colt, sired by a local stallion, walking gingerly around the ring, tossing his head, trying to stop, glaring through an unmistakable white-rimmed eye, and displaying front legs which, if they ever got him to a racecourse, would represent an equine Miracle at Lourdes, or at least Charles Town, West Virginia.

  After a few minutes, the colt was knocked down to an agent from the East Coast for $154,000. Diana shook her head, and the big man standing next to her muttered laconically, “Sold to the man with the white stick, guide dog, and very dark glasses.”

  She could not help herself laughing. And she turned to the towering American and offered a cheerful conspiratorial glance, which racehorse people do when they have witnessed another practitioner of their craft make a blunder well on the absurd side of dumb.

  “That was hard to believe,” said the master of Hunter Valley Farms quietly. “Sonofabitch could hardly walk, never mind run.”

  “I suppose they thought he might straighten up and run a halfway decent mile for some trainer when he’s three or something,” said Diana. “He’s bred to run.”

  “Since he won’t walk around the goddamned sales ring for his owner, beats me why anyone thinks he might run a mile for someone else. Still, guess he might make up into a useful nine-year-old…pulling a very light plow.”

  Again, Diana Jarvis burst into laughter. And she stared up into the smiling face of the former Commander Rick Hunter, who grinned his lopsided grin and inquired, “English?”

  “Yes,” she said, holding out her hand. “Diana Jarvis.”

  “Any relation to the immortal Sir Jack?”

  “He was my great-great-uncle,” she said. “But don’t think I’m important. I have about two thousand Jarvis relatives in Newmarket alone. We didn’t just breed horses, you know.”

  Rick had chuckled, and said, “I’m just going out to take a look at a filly my dad likes. Well, he likes the pedigree. We had a couple of very nice broodmares from the same family. This filly’s by an English-raced stallion standing in Ireland, but the bottom line’s all American, same family as Alydar.”

  “Yes,” said Diana, “I’d like to come—where’s she stabled…does your dad breed right here in Kentucky?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he’d replied. “Kinda forgetting my manners…Rick Hunter, we own Hunter Valley Farms out along the Versailles Pike…”

  “Hunter Valley! That’s your family’s place?”

  “Sure is. My daddy’s really retired now. That’s why he’s not here. I run the place with my good buddy Dan Headley, third-generation stallion man. We’re selling tomorrow, but we’re usually on the lookout for one new filly, good pedigree and might make a broodmare later.”

  “Well, I’m very glad to meet you,” said Diana Jarvis. “Might even buy one of your yearlings for my French owner.”

  “You mean he owns you…or a racehorse operation, or both?”

  Diana laughed. “Not me, mostly because he’s seventy-six years old and has been married four times. But he has some very nice horses in training in Chantilly. And he’d like to start a breeding farm.”

  “And he’s hired a very beautiful young Jarvis to carry him forward,” smiled Rick. “Come on, let’s go see that filly…”

  And so they had strolled out to see the baby racehorse, and then gone for a cup of coffee, then, later, lunch, then much later, dinner. They talked on the phone and met at the autumn sales in England and Ireland.

  They never did announce an engagement. They just decided to get married. Diana was thirty, Rick thirty-eight. And they were both completely in tune with the rhythms and the ebb and the flow of the thoroughbred racing season. They were students of the form book, experts on pedigrees, both with a keen eye for the conformation of both young and mature horses.

  Rick Hunter could scarcely have wished for a more perfect wife. Diana was relatively wealthy, very beautiful, and vastly well-connected in Ireland, especially at the world’s most important racehorse breeding empire of Coolmore in County Tipperary, where her family had been sending mares for thirty years. In turn, as chatelaine of Hunter Valley Farms, no horsewoman could have filled that role better than Diana Jarvis.

  Rick did not often see her upset. And he hated to see it now. But he understood how close she and Douglas had been, and he knew how unnerving it was to be uncertain whether a close relative was dead or alive.

  He climbed out of bed, and took her in his arms. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll make a couple of calls and see what I can find out. I’m coming downstairs in a minute. Let’s have a cup of coffee…give me ten.”

  When he reached the kitchen, he could see she was still hugely upset. She poured the coffee and managed to spill some of it on the table, just as Dan Headley poked his head around the door, saying, “Hi, Rick. That Stor
m Cat mare just foaled, thank Christ. Colt, dark bay, white blaze like his dad. He’s standing…hey, Di, what’s up? He been beating you up again?”

  All three of them laughed at this. Rick, the iron-man gentle giant, who had been known to weep at the death of a favorite Labrador, said, “Di’s just a bit upset because her brother’s been posted missing in action in the Falklands. But no one’s saying he’s been killed or wounded, which normally means he hasn’t.”

  “That’s Doug, right? The SAS Captain?”

  “That’s him, Dan. Tell her he’s probably okay.”

  “Well, Di, those Special Forces Regiments keep very strong tabs on their guys. I’d say if anything had happened they’d sure as hell know. How many guys are with him?”

  “Seven troopers, all veterans. None of them on the POW lists, or the killed and wounded lists.”

  “SAS?” said Dan Headley. “They’re on the run. And now that the Brits have surrendered, I wouldn’t worry yourself. Chances are the Argentinians won’t catch ’em anyway. Hey…remember that Special Forces helicopter that crashed on the Magellan Strait in the last Falklands War? There were six or eight SAS guys in there, and they all just vanished. But every one of ’em got back to Hereford. Christ knows how. I just read a book about it.”

  Diana was marginally consoled, and she felt better speaking to these two former U.S. Navy warriors. But she still asked her husband to make a phone call to anyone who might be able to reach Douglas.

  0830, SAME DAY

  SPECWARCOM HQ

  CORONADO, SAN DIEGO

  It was a pressure day for Rear Admiral John Bergstrom, Commander Special War Command—Emperor SEAL, that is—lord of the most feared fighting force in all the U.S. armed services.

  His old friend Admiral Arnold Morgan had been on the line at 0700 checking if he was able to fly immediately to Washington. His new wife, Louisa-May, wanted him to attend a performance by the Bolshoi Ballet in Los Angeles this evening, and there was a general buzz around the SEALs’ California base that the U.S. government was likely to intervene in the Great Britain–Argentina negotiations over the Falkland Islands.

  At 0845, his private line rang again. Arnold Morgan was calling from the White House, where he was ensconced with the President.

  “I don’t know why the hell they don’t just make you President and have done with it,” said the SEAL boss.

  “Out of the question,” replied Arnold. “I’m just helping out. Remember, I’m officially retired.”

  “Sounds like it,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “Peaceful days in your twilight years. This is your second call this morning. I guess you’re planning to start a war somewhere.”

  “Well, only in the most limited possible way.”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s the Falklands, right? The U.S. government cannot afford to let this bunch of Argentinian cowboys rampage all over someone else’s legal territory.”

  “Well,” said Arnold, disliking the concept of being second-guessed by the suave and shortly-to-retire SEAL chief, “I’ll just say you’re kinda on the right lines.”

  “And what would you and the President like me to do? Send in a couple dozen guys and chase ’em back to Buenos Aires or wherever the hell they live?”

  “Again, John, I’d say you were on the right lines. But both the President and I would like you to come in and have a private visit with us here in the Oval Office.”

  “Tomorrow okay?”

  “Tomorrow!” roared Arnold. “This afternoon would be pretty damn late…”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll leave now. Take off in one hour, which will get me into Andrews at 1750.”

  “Thanks, John. We’ll have the helo waiting at Andrews. See you at 1800.”

  “Bye, Arnold.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Rear Admiral Bergstrom, picking up the phone to dial his soon-to-be-furious new wife. But before he could do so, his private line rang again, and not many people had that number. So he always answered.

  “Admiral, this is a voice from the past, Rick Hunter from Lexington, Kentucky.”

  “Hey, Commander Hunter!” John Bergstrom was genuinely pleased to be talking to the best Team Leader he ever had, a combat SEAL who had carried out three awe-inspiring demolition missions—one in the heart of Russia, another way behind the lines in Red China, and one in the middle of a brand-new Chinese naval operational base in the steamy jungles of southeastern Burma, or Myanmar, or whatever the damn place was now called.

  “Now this is an unexpected pleasure,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “I often think about you, Ricky. For a lot of years I believed it would probably be you taking over the helm when I finally vacated this chair.”

  “Can’t say I haven’t missed it. Just guess I didn’t feel quite the same after they court-martialed Dan Headley.”

  “No, I understood then, and like a lot of other people, I still understand. It was a source of the greatest regret to me that Lt. Commander Headley was driven out, and you went with him…”

  “Sure. But life goes on. Dan’s fine now. He and I run my family’s thoroughbred farm, Hunter Valley, out in the Blue Grass. We still have some fun.”

  “Fun like you had when you worked for me?”

  “Nossir. Not that much.”

  John Bergstrom chuckled. “Ever thought about coming back?”

  “Not more than about twice a day.”

  “Well, let me ask you this—if that damned court-martial four years ago had never happened, how long would you have wanted to stay a Navy SEAL?”

  “’Bout a thousand years.”

  Both men were silent as the tragedy of the past seemed to sweep over them. “You were the best, Ricky. The best I ever saw…”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Now, perhaps you better tell me what you wanted from me?”

  “Sir, a year ago I married an English girl, Diana Jarvis. Her brother Douglas is a Captain in Twenty-two SAS. I’ve only met him twice, but he’s a real good guy, an ex-para, won a Military Cross in Iraq.

  “And right now he’s somehow trapped on the Falkland Islands with his troop. Listed as missing in action. I was wondering whether you could find out anything for us…Diana was very close to him and she’s completely distraught. Thinks he might be dead.”

  “Jesus, Rick. I’m leaving for Washington in the next five minutes. But I’ll do what I can, and I’ll get back to you tomorrow…I know the CO at Hereford pretty well…Captain Douglas Jarvis, right? Gimme your number…”

  Ten minutes later, with the words of another distraught wife still ringing in his ears, Admiral Bergstrom was on his way out of the office, having escaped the rigors of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake .

  Thirty minutes after that he was hurtling down the NAS runway on North Island, San Diego, headed east in a U.S. Navy Lockheed EP-3E Aries, nonstop to Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland. He had dismissed Louisa-May and Pyotr Tchaikovsky temporarily from his mind.

  But the memory of Rick Hunter lingered in the mind of the Coronado boss: he was the toughest, strongest, steadiest SEAL leader I ever knew. Brilliant marksman, deadly, and fearless in both armed and unarmed combat, could probably swim the Pacific, and expert with high explosive. He must be nearly forty now, but I never met one that good in all my years with the SEALs. Shame about his brother-in-law.

  They rustled up a couple of ham-and-cheese sandwiches during the flight, and there was coffee supplied by one
of his assistants, Petty Officer Riff “Rattlesnake” Davies, assault team machine gunner by trade, wounded with Commander Hunter on that last mission in Burma.

  The five-hour journey dragged by. The Admiral and Rattlesnake swapped yarns, mostly about the newly topical Commander Hunter. “I guess you’ll never know how brave he was,” said Davies. “Jesus, when we came under fire in that boat from those Chinese helicopters, I thought we’d never get out alive.

  “And there was Commander Hunter, almost unconscious in the boat, blood pumping from a major wound in his thigh, still blasting away with a machine gun, yelling orders at the rest of us…I never saw courage like that…”

  “I know, Riff. Don’t think I don’t know.”

  They landed on time, and the U.S. Marine helicopter flew them directly to the White House lawn. Three minutes later, Admiral Bergstrom entered the Oval Office and shook hands with the President and Admiral Morgan, who glanced at his watch and observed it was two minutes and thirty seconds past 1800, which made the SEAL chief from California very marginally late. Nonetheless, Arnold couldn’t understand what was happening around here. Nearly three minutes late for the last dog watch! Jesus, standards were sure as hell slipping.

  All three of the men in the Oval Office had served in the U.S. Navy, and Arnold’s insistence on charting the time of day in strictly naval warship terms unfailingly made the President laugh. Which was just as well. Right now he did not have a whole lot to laugh about, since the top execs at ExxonMobil were growing angrier by the day that “these goddamned gauchos had somehow run off with about two billion dollars’ worth of our oil and gas, and no one seems to be doing a damn thing about it.”

  President Bedford could see their point. And it was a source of immense relief to him that his two guests were probably the only two men in all of the United States who could do a damn thing about it. And, better yet, they were apparently ready to do so.