Ghost Recon (2008)

by Clancy, Tom - Ghost Recon 01

  Warris swallowed, and Mitchell knew that every decision the captain had just made would weigh heavily on his mind. He was already wondering if his career was in jeopardy.

  So Mitchell let him off the hook and added, "I know that one second could make the difference between living and dying, but you need to take that second and think, okay, I got a guy running at the truck. He's stopped the truck--which was what the claymore was supposed to do. We got no smoke, but the G-chief has all their attention. Let me get my marksmen on target. And yes, I know you need to make that assessment in one second. But we're not out in the woods because we're afraid of challenges. And for what it's worth, I did the same thing you did--just put tons of steel on target. I never sent the medic. The guerrillas turned it around and blamed me for his death. It took me a long time to win back their trust."

  Warris considered that, muttered a "Whoa," then added, "Captain, I appreciate your honesty."

  Mitchell offered his hand. "Lessons learned. So now that I'm dead, you need to figure out if you can still negotiate with my Gs and who's in charge--and sometimes even that can be a real headache. And oh, yeah, the Gs are going to loot those bodies, then after that, they might want to chop off their heads and put them on poles. How do you feel about that?"

  Warris's eyes grew wide.

  Mitchell gave a short nod to Captain Harruck, who began barking new instructions to the group as up ahead, an HMMWV came rolling forward and stopped. "Hi, I'm looking for Captain Mitchell," said the young PFC at the wheel.

  Mitchell drew his head back. "Really, because I've been looking for you, Private"--he read the woman's patch--"Morgan."

  "Sir?"

  "Yeah, I haven't had a hot shower in two weeks. Can you take me to the nearest hotel?"

  The private grimaced. "I'm sorry, sir."

  "Yeah, I smell. You'll get over it. Just get me to a shower."

  "I mean, I'm sorry, sir, they sent me up here to get you. I've been waiting back at your FOB all morning. Just got cleared to come up. I have orders to drive you back to Bragg--no detours."

  Mitchell frowned. "Great." He climbed into the Hummer and collapsed into the seat, mud and paint splashing all over the floorboard. "Sorry about the mess."

  "That's okay, sir."

  He closed his eyes, hating that his driver, the pretty young PFC Morgan, could be Kristen's twin.

  When they reached Bragg, Lieutenant Colonel Gordon and Major Grey were waiting. Gordon said they had the general breathing down their necks. Apparently, misery loved company. They ushered Mitchell directly into the nondescript Ghost offices and practically shoved him in front of the video monitor.

  On the screen was General Joshua Keating calling from USSOCOM. The general's conservative haircut and tinted glasses belied his history as a Special Forces operator back in Vietnam and during the first Gulf War, where he'd earned drawers full of medals. He had degrees in history and business and had already penned a successful book about the history of Special Forces operations. He was even a graduate of the Harvard Executive Education Program's National and International Security Managers Course, and for the past decade had served in more command positions than even he could probably remember. Earlier in the year he had finally taken over as commander of USSOCOM, his dream post, Mitchell knew.

  While some loathed and feared Keating, Mitchell got along with him just fine, in part because the general was a hands-on officer who understood the unique nature of Special Forces operations and considered it his duty to keep in close contact with his men on the ground. Sure, he was an impatient taskmaster, but he was also a straight shooter who never held back a punch. Mitchell found that refreshing.

  Keating leaned forward, his breast full of ribbons standing in sharp relief against his starched and pressed class As, the new blue army class uniform having replaced the old green in 2011. "Mitchell, you look like crap."

  He pawed self-consciously at the mud on his face. "Thank you, sir. I had another word in mind."

  To Keating's right hung dozens of screens displaying maps, intelligence reports, satellite imagery, and live video streams from operators in the field, all of it coming together in a pixilated mosaic fluctuating with a life of its own. Over the general's left shoulder loomed a four-meter-tall, three-dimensional map of the Chinese coast and Taiwan, with green overlays and flashing grid coordinates drawing Mitchell's attention to several locations.

  "Don't be a wise guy, Mitchell. I dragged you back from Robin Sage because we got a situation."

  "Sir, I've been out in the woods for a couple of weeks. Haven't been online or seen a newspaper . . . but my fortune cookie tells me it's got something to do with that submarine sale to Taiwan."

  "You bet it does."

  "I see you got China on the big map."

  Keating glanced over his shoulder. "Damned right I do, because our little standoff in the Pacific is about to go south real fast."

  The general shifted his position to allow a smartly dressed woman in dark blue to appear on the screen. She was in her late forties, with brown hair streaked with gray and a pair of green-framed glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose.

  Keating went on: "Mitchell, this is Dr. Gail Gorbatova of the DIA."

  "Hello, Captain."

  "Ma'am."

  "The general wanted me to brief you on an intelligence report we recently received from one of our operatives inside the Chinese government. It concerns an operation called Pouncing Dragon."

  "I haven't heard that name in a long time."

  "Not since Waziristan, I presume?"

  "Yeah."

  "We've been tracking that lead for over three years now, and its finally borne fruit."

  General Keating, already out of patience, jumped back in: "Mitchell, the DIA's mole has uncovered a group of Chinese commanders calling themselves the Spring Tigers. They got itchy fingers and their sights set on Taiwan. Our intel indicates they'll use this standoff to launch their own attack."

  Mitchell shrugged. "Call China. Tip off their president."

  "We can't trust them to handle this," said Gorbatova. "The deputy director of the political department is a silent partner. And the Chinese could allow it to happen, then simply blame it on this cabal of renegades. We can't give the Chinese that opportunity."

  "Let me ask you something, Doctor. How reliable is your intel?"

  "Our operative was recruited years ago. He's one of the best we have inside."

  "Well that's good, because I assume when this conversation is over that I'll be staking my life on the accuracy of the information he's given you."

  "We have no reason to believe otherwise."

  The general jumped back in. "Mitchell, we have a list of every Spring Tiger. We also know they've scheduled a final planning meeting exactly nine days from now--and we have the time and location of that meeting."

  Mitchell knew where this was going. "What's the dress? Casual? Or do I have to wear a tie?"

  "Oh, it's a formal affair, son. Black tie only. You'll crash that party . . . and Mitchell, we need a clean, surgical strike. No prisoners. Do you read me, soldier?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "All right, pick a team, get an outload manifest ready, and get to Subic Bay ASAP. We'll have an ISOFAC set up, and by then your target intel package should be updated and ready."

  When the general said "black tie," he meant black operation sans paper or electronic trials. They would literally wear black and carry nothing that could identify them as U.S. soldiers. No one would claim responsibility for their actions. Who could? The Ghosts did not exist.

  Their Isolation Facility or ISOFAC would allow them to engage in the planning phase of their mission without interruption.

  Finally, their target intelligence package, or TIP, would contain timely, detailed, tailored, and fused multisource information describing a host of elements related to the mission.

  However, Mitchell didn't need to review their TIP regarding the infiltration phase. Their Black Hawk pilots wou
ld be sitting this one out. Mitchell and his people were going to Subic Bay to board a submarine, because that's the only way they could infiltrate the Chinese coast while armed for bear, or in this case, tigers.

  Gorbatova's tone turned grave. "Captain Mitchell, I want to remind you that our operative took a huge risk to retrieve this data."

  "What's he get in return? You helping him defect?"

  "As a matter of fact, we are. I just hope you and your people can make it all worthwhile."

  Mitchell nodded, then regarded Keating. "General, I'm wondering why you don't want SEALs on this one? With a sub infiltration, this sounds like a job for them."

  "Are you kidding me, son? You don't want the job?"

  Mitchell stiffened. "Sir, I didn't say that."

  "You implying that I might be biased? That I picked an army unit to prevent World War III because I'm an SF operator myself?"

  "Sir--"

  "Well, you're damned right I did. You'll have two SEALs to assist with infil and exfil, and a couple of CIA agents to help you get closer to the target; otherwise, it's your show, Mitchell. And do me a favor--don't you get yourself killed on my watch. Are we clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then why are you sitting there? Get cleaned up and get the hell on a jet! I'll update you once you're in the Philippines."

  Mitchell bolted from his chair and saluted the general. "On my way, sir!"

  The screen switched to the computer's desktop, and Mitchell glanced wearily at Gordon and Grey. "Call the president. Tell him to hold up on World War III until after I've had a shower."

  Grey smiled. "Speaking of calls, as soon as you have your list, send it over. A lot of operators are out on R & R, and we'll need time to get them back."

  Mitchell nodded. "You got a pen? I already know who I want."

  NINETEEN

  TOWN OF BIG VALLEY

  MODOC COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  APRIL 2012

  Sergeant First Class Paul Smith, Ghost Team rifleman, was home in rural Northern California for a few weeks, and it was not two days into his R & R that his boyhood friend Hernando Alameda called to say that he could use a hand loading about two hundred bales of alfalfa hay onto some flatbed trucks. Hernando had taken over the farm from his recently deceased father, and Smith knew that he was shorthanded, so he couldn't say no to his old buddy.

  Hernando was twenty-seven, a few years older than Smith, and he'd been complaining all morning about the difficulties of finding good help. He worked out his frustration on the bales of hay, loading twice as fast as Smith did, both of them sweating profusely. Soon the conversation turned to women, as it always did, and Smith asked about Hernando's longtime girlfriend, Vicki, who had sweet-talked him into financing a brand-new pair of boobs.

  "She just dumped me last week," Hernando said between breaths.

  "How many times is that?"

  "Three."

  "You don't need her."

  "Nope."

  "But you'll be calling later."

  "Yup. I'm calling in the loan."

  Smith grinned. "Damn that woman."

  "Hey, your dad told me he's retiring next year."

  "Yeah, I can't believe it. He's been sheriff of this Podunk county for thirty years."

  "You ought to take over."

  Smith laughed. "I joined the army to get away from all this horse dung."

  "You hate us that much?"

  "No, but come on, bro, you know my parents. Dad wanted me to be a rocket scientist. And they're both still mad about the whole college thing. But I have my own life now."

  "And the army's that much better? You never thought about quitting?"

  Smith shrugged. There had been a time, near the end of his fourth year as an infantryman. The service hadn't been as glamorous or challenging as he'd thought. He'd spent the better part of his life outdoors, hunting and fishing. He was a bushman at heart, and a lot of guys from the city used to say he had a sixth sense. They always put him on point, like a bloodhound. And that was great, but he'd grown bored.

  "There was a time when I wasn't going to re-up," he told Hernando. "But then I met this Special Forces officer, and things changed."

  "He gave you the sales pitch."

  "No, he just came in to do some combatives and martial arts training. The guy was amazing. He told it like it was, and to this day I still remember his training philosophy."

  "Which was?"

  "Well, he thought the mental advantage was just as important as firepower. He told us our training should always be mission-specific. It had to be short, and it shouldn't require us to be flexible like gymnasts. And even though he was shorter and lighter, he dropped me like a bad transmission every time. He was the most professional soldier I'd ever met."

  "No kidding. You never told me this story. I thought you just did it. But I was right. He convinced you to re-up."

  Smith nodded. "After working with me, he said I was Special Forces material. What he didn't tell me was how the Q-Course would kick my ass, especially Robin Sage at the end. I thought I would die out there."

  "What was the guy's name?"

  "Captain Scott Mitchell." Smith's cell phone began to ring. He set down his next bale of hay and checked the screen. "Sorry, buddy, I need to take this."

  7-ELEVEN CONVENIENCE STORE

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  APRIL 2012

  Deciding to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, Master Sergeant Matt Beasley, proudly sporting his dark blue Pistons jacket, climbed off his Harley Sportster and started across the rain-slick pavement.

  It had been two years since he'd visited the old neighborhood, and he remembered hanging out at this very store, keeping tabs on the motley crew of characters with nicknames like Old Man Freddy, Busted Head Bob, and Wayne the Wimp.

  Beasley had been a latchkey kid with decent grades, though he spent most of his time on the streets, just watching people, occasionally tipping off the police when he saw something that shouldn't be happening in his neighborhood. There had been plenty of opportunities to get involved with drugs and gangs, but Beasley had avoided those invitations. He'd seen too many of those punks get their faces shoved down onto the hoods of police cars. Those same punks often referred to him as the weird guy who never talked. That was fine with him. He was a student of human nature.

  Beasley grinned as he locked gazes with a freckle-faced kid about sixteen or seventeen seated on the window ledge, hands jammed into the pockets of his dirty pull-over, black ski cap pulled down over his ears. His long, reddish brown hair wandered down past that cap, and he repeatedly backhanded his runny nose.

  He was Beasley, half a lifetime ago.

  The kid just looked at him, then averted his gaze. Beasley stepped inside, announced by the store's familiar ding-dong, and went to the coffee machine.

  An elderly African-American couple stood at the counter, bickering with the heavyset clerk over their expired coupon for milk; otherwise, the store was empty.

  Beasley finished making his coffee, grabbed his paper, and by the time he reached the counter, the old folks were gone. The clerk rang him up, and he left the store.

  The kid was still there, watching. Beasley thought of asking why he wasn't in school but decided not to hassle him. Beasley had been on the other end of that conversation way too many times. Nearly slipping on the wet pavement, he crossed to his bike.

  And just as he tucked his newspaper under his arm and was about to fish out his keys, something thudded against the back of his head. He glanced ever so slightly over his shoulder, saw the kid standing there, his arm extended.

  "This ain't no toy gun. Your keys! Now!" The kid shoved his pistol harder into Beasley's skull.

  "Easy, buddy. I was just pulling them out."

  "You hand them to me. And you don't turn around."

  "Okay."

  Beasley drew in a long, slow breath to calm himself. He reached into his pocket, felt the keys, but he didn't grab them. He visualized his move .
. . then made it.

  Whirling and wrenching his hand from his coat, Beasley struck the kid's forearm with his own, then slid his hand down and ripped the gun from the kid's grip.

  Dumbfounded, the kid gasped and stepped back, turned, about to run, then slipped in a puddle.

  Beasley shook his head in disgust. "Better stay down, buddy."

  Breathless, the kid rolled to face Beasley, tears forming in his eyes.

  Beasley gritted his teeth. "What are you doing?"