by Tom Clancy
"You're pretty friendly."
"Uh, well, it's my party. You're alone?"
"Yes. And I've been waiting to talk to you."
Mitchell grinned and turned back to his friends still on the dance floor. "Oh, man, oh, man. Those guys put you up to this?"
"I'm not a prostitute — if that's what you think."
"No, no, no, I meant—"
"What did you mean?"
He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I bothered you."
She snorted. "I said I wanted to talk to you. Have a seat."
"Uh, okay."
He sat and tried to keep his gaze from her cleavage. Mission failed.
"I'm here at the request of Lieutenant Colonel and General Keating."
"Excuse me?"
She offered her hand. "I'm Captain Susan Grey."
He took her hand. "Lieutenant, I mean Captain Scott Mitchell."
She made a face. "I know."
"I drank a little too much. Sorry."
"We've been watching you for a while, and we like what we see."
He wanted to answer, So do I, but instead said, "Who are you? And why have you crashed my promotion party?"
"Sorry about that. My schedule is incredibly tight, and this was the only opportunity I could find before I ship out tomorrow."
"Where you headed?"
"Classified."
"Sounds… pretty classified."
"You're cute, Captain, but only half as witty. I'll cut right to the chase before your mouth gets you in any more trouble. You're a captain now, getting ready to lead an ODA team. Well, we've got something else in mind."
"Again, who are you?"
"I'm sure you've never heard of us, and we prefer to keep it that way. We're D Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group."
"So you're just another company."
"Mitchell, I think you'd be surprised over the differences between us and the average ODA team."
"Oh, really? You guys saying you're better than us?"
"I already did."
Mitchell grinned crookedly. "Prove it."
Grey stood, reached into her purse, and withdrew an envelope. "We will. In here you'll find everything you need."
"Are you making me an offer?"
"Enjoy the rest of your party. See you soon." She wiggled her brows, then quickly left.
"Who was that?" asked Rutang, arriving at Mitchell's side.
"The most conceited woman I've ever met."
"You get her number?"
Mitchell glanced down at the envelope. "Sort of."
EIGHT
OLYMPIC VILLAGE
BEIJING, CHINA
JULY 2008
People's Liberation Army Captain Xu Dingfa dropped his duffel bag in the apartment's entrance foyer, didn't bother closing the door, and collapsed onto one of the beds. He rubbed his eyes and ran fingers through his crew cut.
The elevator had been so crowded that Xu opted to hike up all six flights of stairs to the top floor of his building. As an Olympic gymnast and specialist on the rings and pommel horse, he possessed considerable upper body strength, but he had also worked hard to improve his legs, turning them into sinuous sticks of solid rock. Consequently, all those stairs should not have posed a problem. Yet even he was exhausted, in part from all the adrenaline and anticipation.
Xu was billeted in one of twenty such apartments constructed in the western part of the village dubbed the Residential Quarter, where another twenty buildings rose to nine floors. More than sixteen thousand athletes and officials were staying there, and Xu had encountered at least a half dozen languages within the first ten minutes of arrival.
In two weeks the opening ceremonies would commence, and until then all of the athletes could spend time training and familiarizing themselves with their new quarters — and their new roommates.
Xu's roommate had yet to arrive. The man was from Taiwan and competing on their shooting team, but that was all Xu knew about him.
Taiwan… Of all the countries his roommate could have been from…
Xu's first thought had been to seek a new room or at least swap rooms with one of his teammates, but in the spirit of the Olympic Games, he thought he would at least give the man a chance. Perhaps they could engage in some interesting political debates.
However, just mentioning Taiwan made Xu's breath grow shallow and his chest tighten. He would never forget the bitterness of his father and the lament of his mother as they spoke of the land they only referred to as Formosa.
He rose from the bed, went to the window, gazed down at the forest that stretched out between the buildings. Hundreds of people milled about down there, with knots of athletes and reporters conducting interviews on nearly every corner.
"Hello," came a voice from the doorway.
"Oh, hello."
A muscular man with short black hair and a fiery gaze stood in the doorway. He would have resembled any other Taiwanese man, were it not for those eyes.
Xu shifted to the man and offered a light handshake. "You are Fang Zhi?"
"Yes, and you're Xu Dingfa."
He nodded. "This is our apartment."
"Yes."
Their exchange was cold, formal, and Xu hoped it might remain that way. Perhaps the less they said to each other, the better.
Fang shifted inside, noted the wrinkles on the bed Xu had chosen, then carefully moved to the other bed. "I will sleep here?"
"Yes."
"So you are in the army? So was I."
Xu frowned. Why had Fang's tone lightened? First those eyes, which suggested he would be anything but friendly, and now an attempt at casual conversation?
"Fang. I must be honest. I was not happy to learn that I would be sharing a room with someone from—"
"I understand. But on the contrary, I was happy to learn I would be sharing a room with you."
"You were?"
"Yes, you are a military officer for whom I have the utmost respect."
Xu drew back his head in disbelief. "I have only known you five minutes, and already you are an interesting man, full of surprises."
Fang's eyes widened. "Yes."
For the next two weeks, Xu trained hard with his team and spent most of his free time with them. However, in the late evenings, when he returned to his room, he would find Fang sitting up in bed, reading Sun Tzu's The Art of War or a biography about Confucius. Fang spent little time socializing with his teammates, it seemed.
On the eve before the opening ceremonies, when Xu came home after a night of drinking a little too much, he found Fang, once again, sitting up and reading.
"Tomorrow the games begin — and you have done nothing to celebrate?"
Fang glanced up from his book. "My celebration will come afterward."
"You are that confident of a medal? The Taiwanese team has no reputation for victory. But the Chinese, well, we have done quite well for ourselves in the shooting events."
"I was not referring to the games." Fang set his book on his lap. "Tell me something, Xu. You tolerate me, yes. But there is something more there. Hatred. Why is that?"
Xu took a seat on his bed. "Do you know why I joined the army? The real reason? To liberate your country."
"Why does that matter so much to you?"
"It simply does."
"Would you be shocked to learn that I feel as you do?"
"As I said, you are full of surprises. But I am confused, hearing this from a former army officer such as yourself."
"I did not resign from the military."
"I see. And now you are angry with your country."
"You have no idea."
"Well, I am angry with your country, too."
Yes, the alcohol, which he had been forbidden to drink by his coaches, had taken effect, and Xu felt quite loose with his tongue, so he decided to share the story.
"You see, Fang, my parents once lived in Taipei with my two sisters and one brother. They were outspoken Chinese sympathizers, and one night, du
ring a massive sweep by the military, they were arrested and deported to China with no chance to take my sisters and brother with them."
"So what happened?"
"My sisters and brother had to live with my uncles and aunts. My parents were forced to find work and live here in China, where I was born. For my entire life I have heard this story, and I have never met my siblings. But that is not as important as reuniting my parents with them. They are getting old now, and they want more than anything to be with their children — before they die."
"And you thought joining the army would help? You are a dreamer! A fool!"
Xu bolted from the bed and seized Fang by the neck, tightening his grip. "It will happen!"
"No, it never will. The Americans will always be in the way."
Realizing what he was doing, Xu released Fang and tried to catch his breath. "There will come a day. I promise you."
Fang rubbed his neck a moment, then said, "Maybe I am wrong, Xu. Maybe your parents will see their children again. And maybe… I can help you."
Xu cocked a brow. "Why?"
"As repayment for the help you will give me."
"What help?"
Fang leaned in closer and lowered his voice, as though they were being watched. "After the games, I am not going back to Taiwan."
Xu's mouth opened. "I see."
"If you help me, I will do everything in my power to help you and your parents. You have my word."
Xu took a deep breath. Perhaps it would not take much to help Fang. Perhaps if he did, Fang would become an ally for life, a fiercely loyal friend who would, indeed, help Xu attain his goal. How he would do that was not yet clear, but harnessing Fang's energy made Xu feel less like a victim and more like a warrior.
"Fang, I will have to think about this."
"I understand. But it does seem we share a common goal."
"Maybe. But I still do not trust you. Tell me what happened to you in the army."
Fang closed his eyes and bared his teeth. "We were working with the Filipino and American Special Forces teams. The Americans came up with a plan and marched us into the jungle to be slaughtered. I would not allow that to happen. And, for saving my men, for doing the honorable thing of rejecting an unconscionable order, I was rewarded with disgrace and discharge. My family name has been ruined. The news made my mother ill. She is near death. And now there is only one thing left to do."
"Yes," Xu answered slowly. "I understand now. You are right. We do share a common goal."
More than just firsthand knowledge, Fang had direct experience with American and allied Special Forces operations and tactics. This news excited Xu. Fang would be an easy sell to Xu's superiors, and Xu's aiding and abetting Fang's defection would be looked upon as a great deal, an asset to the cause. Perhaps Xu could even help Fang get a commission in the army.
Fang's audacious military cunning, fueled by unbridled hatred and an unquenchable thirst for revenge, would be welcomed by Xu's inner circle of friends, men who thought like him that they must "inspire" the government and military to act more swiftly, more aggressively.
"Yes," Xu confided to Fang. "A select group of my peers has need of a man with your knowledge and talents. You will not be leaving China."
NINE
NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN
AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER
JANUARY 2009
Captain Scott Mitchell, Ghost Team leader, lay prone on a ridgeline approximately fifty meters south of three mud-brick houses standing in sharp relief against a frozen hilltop. Smoke wafted from stone chimneys and fluttered like pennons before dissolving into the night air.
Somewhere in the valley below, within the snow-covered alleys between dozens more homes, a dog howled and firelight flickered from more windows. Then… it grew eerily quiet.
Up ahead, Staff Sergeant Joe Ramirez and Sergeant Marcus Brown shifted furtively toward the houses, following a gully that ran up near a lone, leafless tree.
Sergeant Alicia Diaz, the team's marksman, had darted off west toward the opposite hill overlooking the houses to select her sniper's perch.
Mitchell cleared his throat and tapped a button on his earpiece with integrated camera and microphone. "Cross-Com activated."
Attached to that same earpiece was a monocle that curved forward and glowed with screens displaying his uplink and downlink channels, icons representing his support elements, and his rifle's targeting reticle, among other bits of data. While the three-dimensional images seemed to appear in his head-up display (HUD), they were actually being produced by a low-intensity laser projecting them through his pupil and onto his retina. The laser scanned vertically and horizontally at high speed using a coherent beam of light, and all data was refreshed every second to continually update him.
In order to accomplish that task, the Cross-Com system connected via satellite to the entire military's local and wide area networks (LAN/WAN) so that in effect the commander in chief could see exactly what he was doing and speak to him directly on the battlefield. That level of network-centric warfare — all part of Mitchell's Integrated Warfighter System (IWS Beta Version) — was as significant as it was unnerving. No mistake ever escaped his superior's attention.
He thumbed a button on the wireless controller in his hand and switched his HUD to a view captured by the UAV3 Cypher drone hovering two hundred feet over the houses. The ring-shaped drone with central rotor and multiple cameras and imaging systems was small, barely two meters, and newly rigged to operate much more quietly than earlier models.
With his gloved finger, Mitchell shifted the controller's joystick, steering the drone toward the target while switching between infrared and thermal modes in an attempt to identify how many occupants were in each house.
Mitchell grinned in awe.
During the past eighteen months he had fielded some mind-blowing gear while serving in the countries of Georgia and Eritrea, and he never ceased being impressed. Now, not only was he on a mission of utmost importance, but he had been chosen to field-test an early beta version of the Cross-Com system, a program whose funding was already in jeopardy. Despite that, he had made the stern argument that every operator on his team should be fitted with the devices, cost be damned. He thought it invaluable to have all Ghosts equipped with the best technology to have total situational awareness, not just the team leader. He'd won his argument.
Indeed, Susan Grey had been right about the Ghosts. They got what they wanted because they produced results.
Originally formed in 1994, the Ghosts were better funded, better trained, and better equipped than all other Special Forces companies because they had to be. They were the spearhead of all American Special Forces, a quick-response team, first in and last out. While the cliche "the best of the best" made Mitchell wince, it was undeniably true. Every operator had been handpicked, and the organization's existence was classified, compartmentalized. The army did a damned good job of keeping that secret, too, disguising them as just another unit. Mitchell had been in the service a long time, and he'd never heard of the Ghosts until Grey had crashed his party.
It had been an eventful and enlightening eighteen months to be sure, yet of all the missions he had run thus far, this one was arguably the most difficult — for multiple reasons.
Earlier in the evening, the wind speeds had been increasing, nearing the limit, and they shouldn't have jumped at all, but Mitchell wouldn't allow weather to stop them. No way.
So they had bailed out of a perfectly good C-130 and had made a hair-raising high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) insertion into the mountains just west of a town called Miranshah, where for the last three years the Taliban had established several bases of operations, including public offices — an act that had continually outraged the locals. The team had been given full drone support; otherwise, they were on their own until they rallied back on the pickup point one kilometer due east of their current position. They were dressed and armed like Taliban insurgents, save for the suppressors on their AK
-47 rifles. Even Diaz was toting along a Dragunov sniper rifle instead of a silenced SR-25 or some of the other rifles she preferred.
For his part, Mitchell had offered his people the requisite sarcastic welcome to the tribal lands of Waziristan, the most hostile part of the entire country, a wild west ruled by local leaders or maliks (kings) who had either made deals allowing the Taliban to live and train within their territory or who had been coerced into making deals. Over the years, over two hundred maliks had been slaughtered trying to stand up to the Taliban.
Despite that legacy of death, Mitchell had no reservations about taking on the mission, especially when he'd learned about who was involved.
He maneuvered the drone to the farthest house, descended a few meters, centered the reticle and grid overlay, and whispered to himself, "Come on. Be there."
The drone hummed quietly. Mitchell's breath steamed. He sniffled, tensed, waited.
Abruptly, three brilliant green diamonds flashed in his HUD, along with three familiar names and their blood types. The diamonds zoomed in on the locations of each man in the house.
He'd found them! And he repressed the desire to shake a fist in the air.
Signals coming back from specially modified "Green" Force Tracker Chips under the skin of each man had allowed the computer to discern them as friendlies.
The GFTCs were part of a sophisticated and fine-tuned Identification, Friend or Foe (IFF) system that functioned much faster and more accurately than laser-based predecessors. Implanted chips were less cumbersome and more secure than external, radio-like identifiers. Additionally, the GFTCs were equipped with two security systems: (1) a DNA identifier so that the chips couldn't be used by enemies and still function, and (2) rolling encrypted signals to avoid enemy interception. Mitchell also had the command authority to update those rolling codes at his discretion.
The drone was beginning to get too close to the house, blowing snow from its roof, and Mitchell swore and guided it back to gain altitude.
The other individuals inside, four in all, were located via thermal infrared imagers and designated as "soldiers" with red numbered diamonds that also flashed and zoomed in on their positions. Mitchell could change those designations with a voice command override, should an enemy turn out to be a friendly or a civilian. "Target Three is Green," he might say.
