Ghost Recon gr-1

by Tom Clancy

  Tanner and Ramirez were both stabilized, their blood replaced by volunteer crew members with matching or universal blood types. Montana then sailed at maximum speed in the open South China Sea. Captain Gummerson called ahead to have doctors choppered out to meet them once they were in international waters.

  As they headed out toward that rendezvous point, the captain came to sick bay to see Mitchell and shake hands with every Ghost, save for Ramirez, who was sedated. "Congratulations, Captain."

  "Thank you, sir. I'm sorry about SEAL Chief Phillips."

  "We all are."

  "Chief Tanner saved us all. I hope I get a chance to thank him before I leave."

  Gummerson nodded. "Glad I got my chance to thank you. Outstanding job, Captain." He frowned over a thought. "And what was that stunt you pulled with the Predator?"

  "My marksman came up with that one, although she said one of the pilots inspired her."

  "Ah, that would be Lieutenant Moch, whom I would not describe as inspirational, but I'll accept that." Gummerson offered his hand. "It was an honor, Captain."

  "Thank you, sir. Good luck with your promotion."

  Gummerson glanced fondly at the bulkheads and overhead, then pursed his lips and headed out.

  KEATING RESIDENCE

  NEAR MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE

  TAMPA, FLORIDA

  MAY 2012

  Two weeks after the operation in China, Mitchell was invited over to the general's house for a Sunday dinner hosted by Mrs. Keating (who didn't actually do the preparations; her housekeeper from Venezuela was an excellent cook, according to the general).

  They sat on Keating's second-story back porch, overlooking the kidney-shaped swimming pool with adjoining spa and rock waterfall. The mosquitoes were kept at bay by a colossal screen room behind which stood a towering wall of palm trees sashaying in the breeze.

  Keating leaned back in his ornate patio chair, puffing on his Cuban cigar. Mitchell, who didn't smoke, sat beside him, clutching the drink the general had thrust into his hand after pouring two.

  "You know, sometimes this job lets me slip home to a quiet dinner, then I sneak out here for a drink: Glenfiddich single malt Scotch whisky, to be exact."

  "I've never had it."

  "Then you haven't lived."

  Mitchell breathed in the Scotch, took a gulp, then savored the intense burn until he embarrassed himself and coughed.

  Keating chuckled under his breath.

  "It's good, sir," Mitchell said, holding back tears.

  The general removed his cigar and grinned. "So Congress failed to ratify that sub deal with Taiwan."

  "Money talks. We can't afford war right now."

  "Me, I would've made it happen. Force the issue in the Pacific, play it out. But then again I'm army. The navy sees things differently."

  "Yes, sir. And, sir, I've been wanting to thank you. I understand you caught hell for our noisy exit out of China."

  "Damned right I did. But I told the president that regardless of the noise or body count, if who done it remains a mystery, then the mission is a success. The Chinese have already done an excellent job trying to cover it up; there're no answers forthcoming when you're in the right pew but the wrong church."

  "Yeah, I saw the story about the patrol boat accident. Haven't heard a word about the castle."

  "And you won't. They've already gone in, cleaned out the whole place. Witnesses there are saying the secret police did it, not Americans."

  "Good."

  "Yeah, but it's not all good. That intel you brought back from the Tigers suggests they had a lot more going on than just taking Taiwan. There's a North Korean connection and a number of links to cybernetic and neuro-science research facilities all over the world."

  "Taiwan was just the beginning for them…"

  "And Defense Intelligence isn't telling us the whole story either, but we do know that DIA mole was killed in an apparent robbery. Gorbatova said he was a good kid."

  "He was good to us."

  After an uncomfortable moment, Mitchell hazarded another sip of Scotch, then added, "Well, thanks again for the invite. It's not every day us lowly captains get to hang out with generals."

  "You can't play that card forever, Mitchell. You need to take that promotion. And by the time you're my age, you'll be dining with lowly captains."

  "With all due respect, I prefer to wait."

  "Don't wait too long. There's talk of restructuring, and people like you can advance faster than anyone else who's ever come through the military."

  "That's good to know. I'm just not ready to leave the field."

  "Neither was I."

  "All right, boys, come on down," called a female voice from behind them.

  "Yes, dear," answered Keating. He cocked a brow at Mitchell. "On your feet, soldier. Chow time."

  MITCHELL RESIDENCE

  FIFTH AVENUE

  YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

  MAY 2012

  Mitchell stood in his father's workshop, breathing in the heavenly scent of sawdust and longing to get back to some of his own woodworking projects. At the same time, though, he couldn't wait to get out of there because Dad had insisted upon showing him his recently finished coffin, which was propped up on a pair of saw-horses, its waxed surfaces gleaming in the light.

  Dad lifted the smaller, left-side door. "She's a beauty, eh, Scott? I used both mahogany and cherry. Look at these inlays."

  Mitchell shook his head and sighed. "Dad, I think we should talk about this. I mean, are you all right?"

  "I feel great."

  "You know what I mean. Jenn told me about all those new appointments. One of my men just lost his father."

  It was Dad's turn to sigh. Then a thought took hold, and he grinned and wiggled his brows. "Let's just say I wouldn't trade that secret for all the tea in China."

  Mitchell stiffened. "That's an interesting choice of words."

  "They had a special on CNN last night about all those Chinese big shots who got whacked."

  "Here we go again. You think I had something to do with that?"

  He shrugged. "I'm just saying I can keep secrets, too, if I want."

  "But if you're sick, we have a right to know."

  "It ain't the big C word, if that's what you're thinking. C'mon, you're taking me out to lunch."

  Mitchell frowned. "You're a stubborn old bastard."

  "And this is news?" He threw his arm over Mitchell's shoulder and led him out of the workshop.

  THE LIBERATOR SPORTS BAR AND GRILLE

  NEAR FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA

  MAY 2012

  Major Harry Hogan was a former Special Forces operator from Boston, Massachusetts, who had been running the Liberator for over twenty years. The bar's name was inspired by the Special Forces motto: to liberate the oppressed, but by no small coincidence back in 1831 another Bostonian by the name of William Lloyd Garrison founded an abolitionist newspaper aptly titled the Liberator.

  With clusters of plasma TVs suspended from the ceiling and sports and military memorabilia adorning the walls, the place was a requisite hangout for those who fought hard and played even harder. Interestingly enough, near the front doors stood two mannequins in full combat gear and armed with rubber rifles. They often startled newcomers.

  Consequently, Mitchell watched with a grin as SEAL Chief Tanner stepped anxiously into the bar and raised his brows at the sentries who never got tired, hungry, or thirsty.

  "Hey, over here," called Mitchell, rising from one of the benches in the waiting area.

  "What's up, Captain?" said Tanner, offering his hand.

  They shook firmly. "Thanks for coming."

  "You sure I'll survive?" Tanner eyed all the army personnel clustered around the bar.

  "Well, we've only had a handful of SEALs drop in over the years, but like I tell the young pups, we all belong to the same brotherhood of stars and stripes. We senior guys get it. Takes them a little longer to learn."

  Tanner chuckled. "Roger
that."

  Mitchell tipped his head over to the circular bar constructed of oak and adorned with sandbags, like a massive machine gunner's nest. His Ghosts stood with beers, and as they drew closer, Mitchell recoiled over a night-marish site: Bo Jenkins stood there, shirtless, wearing a bra whose black straps dug deeply into his shoulders.

  "All right, pipe down, he's here!" cried Mitchell, gaining their attention. "But before I make my little speech, Bo, I have to ask…"

  Jenkins blushed. "Uh, sir, I've been trying to find something to enhance my full-figured beauty."

  With that, the entire group burst out laughing, and money immediately changed hands. Jenkins had obviously lost a bet, and others had bet upon whether he would go through with the prank.

  "All right, give it back," hollered Diaz. "And don't get the wrong idea! It's just a loaner."

  "Makes you wish you hadn't saved us, huh?" Mitchell said in Tanner's ear.

  At the same time, Smith shoved a tall glass of draft beer into the SEAL chief 's hand and another into Mitchell's.

  "Okay, quiet down, you dirty apes. I'm making a toast." Mitchell raised his glass, and the group suddenly fell silent.

  In fact, a hush fell over the rest of the bar, and one of the waitresses cut off the sound from the TVs.

  Mitchell went on, "So we all know the army-navy rivalry will live on in infamy, especially on the gridiron. But that doesn't mean we can't give credit where credit is due. Tonight we raise our glasses to all those SEALs who serve and all who gave their lives to protect our great country, especially SEAL Chief Phillips. And we're honored to say thank you to SEAL Chief Tanner, who's with us today." Mitchell beamed at the man. "Welcome to our bar. It's your party, Chief. Do you have any orders?"

  "As a matter of fact I do, Captain," said Tanner, lifting his voice and his glass. "Bottoms up!"

  MCDANIEL HOME

  NEAR FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA

  MAY 2012

  The morning after Tanner's party, Mitchell drove to Rutang's place to find out why his friend hadn't come.

  Mandy answered the door, and her face looked more drawn than usual, her long black hair wired with new strands of gray. She gave Mitchell a hug, then said, "He's in the office."

  Before Mitchell could move, Mandy grabbed his wrist. "Scott, this is it. You know?" She was shaking, and the tears came quickly. "He was good for a while, but now nothing's working. I have two kids. It's just too hard. I don't know if there's anything we can do. Like I told you, when you guys went to the Philippines, he never came home."

  "I know."

  She released him, then shuffled off into the kitchen, wiping her eyes.

  Mitchell started tentatively into their home office and found Rutang in his chair, checkbook out and paying some bills. "Yo, Tang. What's going on?"

  "Hey, Scott." Rutang barely looked up.

  "Why didn't you come last night?"

  "I don't know."

  "You've been sick a lot."

  "Yeah."

  "I'm worried about you, buddy."

  Rutang shrugged. "I'm up and down, Scott. I can't do the medication anymore. Mandy's already talking to a lawyer."

  "You can't let her go."

  "I don't blame her. I'm just another screwed-up soldier, a freaking medic who can't save himself."

  "So you've just given up? Going to sit here and feel sorry for yourself?"

  "Scott, what do you want? You pissed off because I didn't come to your little party? Hey, man, it ain't all missions and glory for some people, you know? I don't sleep. I still don't sleep! What part of that do you not understand!"

  Mandy appeared in the doorway. "If you're going to start screaming, then get out. Just get out." She stormed off.

  "Get up," Mitchell ordered. "We're going outside."

  Rutang threw up his hands and rose.

  Mitchell led him out onto the driveway, and they leaned against Mitchell's Hummer, basking in the warm morning light. "It's going to be a great day."

  Rutang laughed bitterly.

  "What happened to us wasn't our fault, right?" asked Mitchell.

  "Right."

  "But you still feel guilty about it."

  "How do you not? I can't tell you how many people have looked me straight in the eye and said, 'Get over it. Get a life, you loser.' But they weren't there. They have no idea. No idea!"

  Mitchell nodded. "I used to feel like they died for nothing. I used to think that there wasn't any justice in it, and the guy I wanted to blame just walked away."

  "Captain Fang," Rutang said through gritted teeth.

  Mitchell crossed around to the passenger's side, opened the door, and lifted the sword cane from the seat. He brought it back to Rutang, whose eyes widened in shock and perhaps even a tinge of horror.

  Rutang swallowed. "Where did you get that?"

  Mitchell unsheathed the sword, tugged up his shirt, and showed Rutang his scar alongside the blade tip to confirm the match. "It's his, see?"

  "Scott…" Rutang's lip quivered.

  Mitchell returned the sword to its sheath and handed it to his friend. "I want you to hang on to this. It's ours now. That bastard can't hurt us anymore. But listen to me. Revenge doesn't help. It's having the courage to get past what happened, man. That's what we're doing now. We're making a pact. We're blood brothers. We all need you. All right?"

  Rutang took the sword cane in trembling hands. He turned away and wiped a tear from his eye. "Scott, I don't know why I've been this way."

  "But not anymore. We own the sword. We own him. We own the situation. Okay, we can't change what happened. But we can change what'll happen to us."

  "You're right."

  Mitchell rested a palm on Rutang's shoulder and spoke more softly. "Tang, we can sleep now. We're home. Mission complete."

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