by Tom Clancy
Maybe one day, when he slowed down, but not now. Not when his blood coursed like a million volts through his veins.
While Diaz coaxed the SUV through torrents of rain and mud, Mitchell sat beside her, about to check his HUD to home in on Fang's current location.
However, his downlink channel screen crackled to life with an image of General Keating in the command center. "Mitchell, great work out there, son. Now it's time to come home. But we have a problem. Either your infiltration at the coast went south and you were spotted or that power outage has really spooked them."
The image on screen shifted from Keating to a three-dimensional, rotating graphic of a Chinese patrol boat with accompanying identification label and detailed specs: Type 62C Shanghai-II-class gun patrol boat. Length: 38.78 meters. Top speed: 28.5 knots. Crew: 36. Armament: two twin-barrel 37 mm antiaircraft artillery (AAA) guns and two twin-barrel 25 mm AAA guns.
The general continued: "Two of these Shanghai-class patrol boats are en route to Xiamen Harbor. Most of the newer gunboats of the East Sea Fleet are up in Ningde, but apparently, the older 62Cs were being transferred to other seaports, which accounts for this pair."
"Sir, you trying to make me feel better by saying they're older boats? Their guns are big, and I bet they work just fine."
"You're right. But hang in there, son. We're working some angles from our end."
"Sir, I've got four wounded. Getting back to the sub will be hard enough without those patrol boats breathing down our necks. I need them gone."
"I hear you, Mitchell. Just stand by."
Fang Zhi rumbled down the winding mountain road, spinning out in the mud as he cut curves too sharply. He had no choice but to keep the headlights on and squint through the heavy rain pelting his windshield. His thoughts continued to leap out ahead of the truck, to his destination — his future.
When they discovered all the bodies, and the investigations began in the morning, it wouldn't take long before they located him, questioned him, tortured him into saying what they wanted. Someone would have to take the fall for this. The rage filled his gut and finally erupted from his mouth.
He screamed at the droning wipers. He screamed at the Spring Tigers for failing him.
Yes, it was their fault. There had been a huge breach in security, and if they had placed more faith in him, given him responsibilities at the strategic level, he might have discovered it. One of his guards had called to say that he'd heard the attackers speaking English with American accents.
Fang beat his fist on the steering wheel. How many of his lives could the Americans ruin? And where was he going, except away? He couldn't stay in China. He would never return to Taiwan.
Maybe he could get to the Philippines. He knew two men who could help him do that. They smuggled out women for the sex trade. He could pay them for help. That was it. He would go back to the base, gather all of his belongings, and be gone before daylight. His life would come full circle. He would return to the place where all his trouble had begun.
As he rounded the next corner, the road grew considerably wider, the forest drifting back another twenty meters from the embankment. Suddenly, a single headlight came out of nowhere and raced toward him. He narrowed his gaze and reached over for his pistol, sitting beside the QBZ-95 assault rifle on his seat.
Calm down, he ordered himself. It was probably some old farmer with one busted headlight or some punk on a scooter or motorcycle. He accelerated and kept to the right, but the headlight veered and came straight at him.
UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND
MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE
TAMPA, FLORIDA
APRIL 2012
General Joshua Keating had just finished sharing the good news with the President of the United States. Targets terminated. Ghost Team exfiltrating. Keating had carefully omitted the news of the Chinese patrol boats. No need to worry the president just yet. Keating ended the video call and was about to reach for his bottle of water when Dr. Gorbatova stepped over to his desk.
"General, our mole has just arrived at his office, but I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding. He was under the impression he was flying out now. We instructed him that he had one more task to complete, but he is very nervous."
"Poor boy. Maybe if he was out there with my Ghosts, he'd have something to be nervous about."
"General, I'm unsure if we can count on him. I don't think he trusts us anymore."
"I don't want excuses, Doctor. I've got wounded men out there. You've got two dead. You tell your boy lives are depending upon him."
CENTRAL MILITARY COMMISSION (CMC)
MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND
BEIJING, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Captain Zuo Junping had rushed past the building's perimeter guards, telling them there was trouble in Xiamen and that they should prepare for more arrivals.
He had used his key to enter Deputy Director Wang Ya's office. Now he sat at the director's desk in the dim LED light of Wang's computer screen. He needed to send off the proper e-mails, then he would make the calls. The DIA had charged him with ensuring that the military response was focused inland, and so Zuo, acting as the deputy director, would send those requests up through the CMC. Moreover, there were two patrol boats headed toward Xiamen Harbor, and Zuo had been ordered to send them ten miles north to investigate smuggling activity at the Gaoji Seawall.
Zuo had given away or sold off everything he owned. Back at his apartment were a blanket, a pillow, and two packed suitcases.
After his fellow agent Lo Kuo-hui had left with the good news that the DIA had honored their deal with him, Zuo had finally believed that the agency would help him, too. But this last-minute mission left him sweaty and breathless.
He hit the Return key, reached for the phone.
The door swung open, the lights switched on, and in rushed the deputy director himself, bald pate gleaming, eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. Behind him came two security guards, their rifles trained on Zuo, whose hand went for the pistol holstered at his waist.
"Hands on the desk," barked Wang, as the guards moved in closer.
Zuo raised his palms and gently returned them to the keyboard.
"I am deeply hurt," Wang continued. "I know you used my phone to call Geneva. Who are you working for? The Ministry of Public Security or State Security?"
Zuo swallowed, tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come at first. At least Wang didn't know he was spying for the Americans. He assumed he'd been betrayed, a breakdown in guanxi, in connections. Wang was involved in something even bigger than the Spring Tiger Group's plan, but Zuo wasn't sure what. There'd been no answer in Geneva, but he had passed on that number to the Americans.
Wang shook his head in disappointment. "I haven't slept in two days. I was thinking about meeting you at the academy, about how you've become my son. I have grown sick. Is this what a son does to his father?"
Zuo averted his gaze. "No."
"Then what shall I do with you?"
"Please, sir. I am not working for anyone. I was just curious. Stupid."
Wang crossed around the desk. "Stand up!"
Zuo complied.
Wang reached down, removed Zuo's pistol, and handed it to one of the guards. Then he shook his head and abruptly smacked Zuo across the face. "I have no tolerance or forgiveness or mercy for spies."
With his cheek on fire, Zuo lowered his head and flexed his fingers. This was it. Wang would have him die in a robbery or an accident — nothing to arouse further investigation by State Security. There would be no new life back in America. No freedom. All of the spying he had done for the Americans had been for nothing.
Nothing!
Slowly, he raised his head, looked Wang straight in the eye, then he threw himself forward, wrapping his fingers around the director's throat. He drove the man onto the floor and began digging his fingers into warm, flabby flesh, just as the guards seized his arms and wrenched him off.
&nbs
p; One guard reared back and punched Zuo in the temple. He rolled back, across the floor, the room spinning.
"Get him out of here," Wang cried. "Back down to my car. Hurry now!"
They hauled Zuo to his feet, dragged him out the door as he struggled to remain conscious.
LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
The vehicle with the single headlight barreled toward Fang, its engine growing louder and issuing a strange and rhythmic whine. He thrust out his hand, firing his pistol until the magazine was empty.
But the thing kept coming.
He reached over, seized his rifle, propped the barrel on the side-view mirror, and unloaded the ten bullets left in the magazine. He let the rifle fall away, just as he cut the wheel to the right, veering sharply off the road.
With a violent jostle that threw him up from the seat, he hit the embankment, and the truck suddenly dropped a meter and began rolling onto its side.
His gaze flicked up to his left, and he couldn't believe what came roaring by.
THIRTY
USS MONTANA (SSN-823)
SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT
SOUTH CHINA SEA
APRIL 2012
Captain Gummerson approached the two naval aviators just as Lieutenant Moch shook his fist and muttered, "Yeah."
They were in the control room, and Moch and his copilot, Lieutenant Justin Schumaker, had been a study in sheer determination as they'd piloted the Predator over the twisting mountain road. Once they'd located a swath of ground wide enough to permit the Predator's wingspan of 14.8 meters, they had descended hard and fast through the rainstorm, putting the bird on a direct intercept course with Mitchell's fleeing guard.
Gummerson had listened to the initial request, which had raised a few brows on Montana.
"Predator support, this is Diaz," called one of Mitchell's Ghosts.
"Hey, Alicia. Go ahead."
"Jeff, remember that story you told me? Well, I need you to stop a train."
"Are you kidding me?"
"No. It's up to you, Mr. Naval Aviator."
"Roger that. Sit back and enjoy the show."
Now Gummerson leaned over Moch and said, "I assume you stopped your train — or is it a truck?"
"Oh, yeah, sir. All he saw was our headlight before we ran him off the road." Moch pointed at one of his monitors with thermal images and pairs of reticles superimposed over several data bars. "Check it out. You see the look on his face?"
"Wow. But he did see the bird."
"True. But he won't be around long enough to tell."
Gummerson nodded and glanced over at Lieutenant Commander Sands, who appeared equally impressed.
Moch's copilot began speaking quickly over his radio as flashing red circles appeared along a three-dimensional rendering of the drone's fuselage.
"What now?" groaned Moch.
"Looks like some hydraulic and engine damage, and a small fuel leak from all that gunfire," said Schumaker. "Sensor operators back home confirm."
"Lieutenant, I need you to take her back over the harbor before you ditch. Can you still do that?" asked Gummerson.
"We'll sweet-talk her into one last pass, sir."
"Focus on the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island. That zone concerns me the most."
Moch gently shifted the joystick controller. "On our way."
Gummerson faced Sands. "XO, are the SEALs ready?"
"Standing by."
"Excellent. Tell 'em it won't be long."
"Aye, aye, sir."
LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Satellite imagery relayed to Mitchell's HUD indicated that Fang was out of his ride, but he had not fled. He was trying to use the truck's forward winch to drag the vehicle from the embankment and, perhaps, tip it upright. If he could utilize a few trees and rig the tow line at the proper angle, he could get back on the road.
They were about five minutes away from his position, and Mitchell knew that if they roared up on him, he'd bolt into the woods.
A pang of guilt woke deep in Mitchell's gut. The mission and his people came first, yes, but this was a chance to slam shut one of the most painful doors of his life. Could he justify taking time out for revenge?
Maybe Fang had seen the Predator. Maybe he'd alert the PLA that the attack had come from Americans.
And didn't General Keating need more time to get those patrol boats away from the harbor?
He could rationalize it all he wanted, but the guilt still clawed at his neck and began robbing him of breath. He turned to the backseat. "Nolan, how're we doing?"
"A whole lot better," replied the medic.
"Hey, sir," said Brown, moving his lips as though tasting something very bad, a symptom of a head wound. "I'm okay."
"Me, too," said Hume.
"Marcus, I'm so sorry," said Diaz.
"Forget it. I know if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't have missed."
"We'll talk more later," she said.
Mitchell tensed. "All right, listen up. We'll be on that last guard in a minute. He's rolled over and is trying to free his truck with a winch. I don't want to leave any loose ends — particularly a military witness like this guy, so I plan to take him out."
"Sounds good to us, sir," said Nolan.
"There's something else, something you have a right to know. That guard's name is Fang Zhi. He's from Taiwan. He was a captain in their army, and I worked with him in the Philippines, doing some joint training back in '02. We got ambushed, and he wouldn't order his team to attack. He said our orders were unconscionable. I lost a lot of good men because of that man."
"Sir, are you serious?" asked Diaz.
"I am. When the drone was deployed, I got a good look at him."
"Whoa, what the hell's he doing here?" asked Hume.
Mitchell sighed. "I heard he got busted out of the army. He must've defected to China. But that doesn't matter. All I'm trying to say is, you guys come first."
"Sir, the rumors have gone around," said Diaz. "He's the guy who gave you that scar, isn't he?"
"Yeah."
"Then, sir, you tell me where to pull over." Diaz's tone darkened. "We'll go down there and take care of business."
"No. I won't risk you guys for that. You give me five minutes. If you don't hear from me, I'm dead. You come down, get my body, and get to the coast. All right, this is close enough."
As Diaz slowed, she shook her head and raised her voice: "Sir, we have no intention of collecting your body. You're going to kill that bastard. And maybe you don't want us with you, but we can still help."
Mitchell climbed out of the SUV, gave her a curt nod. "Okay. Stay in touch."
When Fang's Brave Warrior had slammed onto its side and skidded down into the mud, he'd just sat there, stunned. He'd thought, That drone… it has to belong to the Americans.
After snatching up his rifle and loading his last magazine, he'd slung the weapon over his shoulder and had crawled his way out of the truck through the back door.
Once on the ground, his gaze had swept across the dark sky for the drone. Was that its engine humming lowly in the distance? Maybe. Maybe it was retreating.
He'd surveyed the embankment. The road had become more narrow again, and trees with thick, talonlike limbs rose on a slope just off to his left. He'd draped the heavy tow line over two thick branches and, after hooking it back over itself, he'd run back to the truck and switched on the winch. The truck slid forward, plowing up mud, but the angle was no good. The line simply dragged the truck forward and did not, as Fang had anticipated, lift it upright.
Suddenly, one limb cracked, the tow line fell slack, and the truck stopped. Fang raged aloud and rushed back to the truck to switch off the winch. He would try once more; then he would abandon the truck and take off on foot.
As he leaned forward toward the winch, something nicked his shoulder. He rolled over, felt the sharp stinging, then loo
ked down at his uniform shirt. A small amount of blood had soaked through the fabric.
He desperately reached back for his rifle, came up with it, and began easing forward on elbows and knees, keeping tight to the truck, calculating where that shot had originated. The wound began to throb, the blood beating in his ears.
Where are you?
A shadow shifted up on the slope to his left, near the trees.
Fang swung his rifle around and opened fire, laying down a vicious salvo while screaming through the rattling and pouring rain.
The second he ceased fire, he rose, got around the truck, and charged across the road and into the thicker knots of trees and waist-high shrubs.
Mitchell knew he'd struck Fang, but the perfect head shot had turned into a slight shoulder wound, damn it. Even with the IWS's aiming assistance, he was no Diaz. He'd been shifting toward the next tree when Fang had returned fire. He crawled forward now, checking his HUD. Fang had retreated into the opposite woods.
"Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. We heard the shots. I have your position. Target is heading north, but there's a big rock wall in his way. He probably doesn't see it yet. Follow him in. You can trap him there."
"Roger that," said Mitchell, already jogging away from the slope. He stomped past Fang's truck and splashed across the road, heading toward the forest.
"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. Our ETA is two minutes. You want us to hold back with Diaz?"
"Negative. You guys take point and head on to the coast."
"Roger that, Boss."
Mitchell pushed through the weeds and grass, shifted around the next few trees, then the slope grew rockier, steeper, and he reached the next tree and crouched down as he studied the satellite image in his HUD. Fang was close.
The rain fell harder, sifting through the thick canopy, the heaviest drops tapping on Mitchell's shoulders like a nervous buddy trying to get his attention. That buddy began whispering in his ear: "He's over here. No, he's over there. Check that tree. That bush. No, that one." The gun cam's screen glowed softly, and Mitchell wiped off the rain and used it to peer around the next trunk.
