Ghost

by John Ringo

  "Okay," Linda said, frowning. "I guess I wasn't there and I won't judge."

  "Oh, no, judge," Heather replied. "He's like some icon of everything girls hate about men. Sexist, overbearing, foulmouthed, insensitive to an amazing degree. And as soon as some of us get over what's happened in this room, to Clarissa and some of the rest of us, he's going to get screwed to death. If this is what it takes to keep this," she said, waving at the room, "from happening, then I'm all for it. Male-dominated society? Screw that, this room, this is male-dominated society. America's heaven compared to this room, compared to these people. And if it takes guys like Ghost to keep us safe, then I'm all for it. When I get back I'm going to go to the ROTC department and kiss every single person in the building." She paused and grimaced. "I'm not going to have sex with any of them, because I don't want to see a dick for a long time, but I'm going to kiss them. Even the girls."

  "Heather," Brian said, carefully. "It sounds like you've had, well, a life-changing experience in more than one way."

  "If you mean politically," Heather said, frowning, "you bet your ass. I'm a journalism major and a card-carrying liberal. At least, I was. I spoke out against 'Cliff's War on Terror' and protested and all the rest. The hell with that. This is every decent person's war on terror, every American's war on terror, especially every woman's war on these Islamic motherfuckers. Nuke these fuckers. Nuke every god damned one of them. Fuck the 'religion of peace.' I won't shed a tear. And I'm going to vote Republican the rest of my life!"

  "MR. SECRETARY! MR. SECRETARY!"

  "Calm down!" Brandeis said, waving his hands. "Let me make my statement first. Yes, we were aware that there was an agent in place. We were aware that the girls were being held somewhere in a building we code named Aleppo Four, which was a suspected site of WMD design and possibly construction. We had been in contact with the agent, Codename Ghost. He was to find out where in the facility the girls were being held, because otherwise we suspected they'd be killed while the special operations team was looking for them. We lost contact with him and he apparently determined that the plight of the girls was so severe that he had to take action. He, apparently, sabotaged the WMD facility and somehow made his way into the section housing the girls and rescued them. This is from your news reports; we don't have contact with him at this time. There was a plan to retrieve the girls that was waiting on his report. When we noted the activity at the facility, we put the plan in operation. It is ongoing at this time. That concludes my statement. I will now take salient questions."

  "Mr. Secretary!" one of the reporters shouted. "How long until—"

  "I said salient questions," Brandeis snapped. "That means questions I can answer. I'm not going to give you a timetable because then the Syrians will have it."

  "Mr. Secretary," a female reporter said, waving her hand. "The Syrians have denied responsibility and . . ."

  "Lady, I've been looking at Predator drone footage for the past hour," the secretary said, shaking his head. "The Predator has been watching the whole incident. The call was tracked by technical means to Aleppo Four. NSA has traced the video link to Syria. The girls are in Syria. This is an act of war. We're going to treat it as such. Embeds are going to accompany the relief forces. You'll be able to see for yourself where the girls were being held. So, please, don't bother believing the Syrians, they lie about what they had for breakfast. I'm tired of the news media being enamored of the Baghdad Bobs of the world. When we tell you something, it's the truth or the best we can determine of the truth. Just about everything that you get from our enemies in the Middle East is lies. So would you please quit spreading the lies and maybe spend some time spreading the truth? The truth is, fifty girls were kidnapped by terrorists, not freedom fighters, not militants, terrorists. They were loaded on a plane in the Athens airport, flown to Algeria to refuel, in a section the government has spotty control of, by the way, then flown to an airbase in Syria, transported by truck to Aleppo Four and have been held in an underground room, stripped, tortured, raped and murdered. This is the truth. This is the face of our enemy. This is what the War on Terror seeks to end. And we are going to end this particular battle by pulling the girls out and turning Aleppo Four into a smoking crater. As a WMD facility, a secret one that has been used in an act of war, we could, under our guidelines, do that with nuclear weapons. It would not even count as 'first use.' A biological agent is WMD. Chemical weapons are WMD. Nukes are WMD. We consider all of them equal. Keep that in mind. Keep that in the front of your mind. Nukes equal gas equals germs. One single Sarin round used on our people or our troops means we can destroy anything in the supplying country with nuclear weapons and all our nuclear release procedures are satisfied. Just because we haven't done that in the War on Terror, doesn't mean we won't."

  At that the room went silent until one of the reporters raised his hand.

  "Does that mean the U.S. intends to use nuclear weapons on Syria?" the reporter asked quietly.

  "That means that use of nuclear weapons is fully on the table at this time and is being discussed by such persons as are entrusted to their release by the American people," the secretary replied. "It does not mean the decision has been made. However, the American people are, justly, furious at this action, especially such an action by a member of the UN Security Council. And the President intends to place a war declaration before Congress. When it is passed, and I suspect it will pass with acclaim, our actions are free. We are, thereafter, free to make full war against Syria at a time and place of our choosing."

  "Mr. Secretary, redirect," the same reporter asked. "Does that mean we intend to force a regime change in Syria?"

  "It means that, at a time and place of our choosing, we can engage in any form of war we deem necessary," the secretary said. "The government of Syria had better think about that carefully. They not only supported this action, they maintain control of the Bekaa Valley, which is a hotbed of terrorism. We have solid evidence of links to Al Qaeda, not guesses, not rumors, solid evidence of links at the highest level. Syria is going to have a breather after this to consider what they want to be in the international community. And if they continue, in any way, shape or form, on the course they have laid in the past, then, yes, we will force regime change in Syria by any means we determine necessary. We will not ask the UN. We will not go begging the French and Germans to support us. We will wage war with every weapon, every weapon, in our arsenal. That is the determination of the National Command Authority. And we're not lying, bluffing, kidding or considering. That is the decision of the National Command Authority. They seriously screwed up when they thought they could kidnap young American girls and torture, rape and kill them to force us to withdraw. Nothing, nothing could have been more stupid."

  "Mr. Secretary," the reporter said, frowning. "One of the tenets of fighting unconventional warfare is that the weaker side tries to cause an overreaction from the stronger so as to get sympathy. And Al Qaeda has stated that they are trying to cause an overreaction from the West in order to bring about the Great Jihad. Wouldn't the use of nuclear weapons be an overreaction?"

  The secretary considered the reporter for a moment and then smiled, evilly.

  "Tell that to the Mongols." There was a stirring amongst the group and he waved a hand and walked out.

  "What did that mean?" a female reporter asked her more experienced colleague.

  "When the Mongols invaded the Persian Empire," the guy said, frowning slightly, "which stretched through most of the Middle East, they killed four out of five inhabitants in the region. Laid waste to cities, destroyed wells and irrigation so that civilization could not exist. They killed every single resident of Baghdad, for example. The term was 'they made a desert and called it peace.' What he just said was that the President is furious enough to nuke the entire region."

  The female reporter thought about that for a moment, thought about the few seconds, all she could watch, of the video of Clarissa McCutcheon being raped and tortured. She thought about
beliefs she had held dear, of attitudes she felt were solid in her bones. She thought about what it would be like to be a woman in that room and nodded.

  "Good." She paused and shrugged. "Do you think they can get them out?"

  "It's going to be tough," the regular Pentagon reporter replied. "I was talking with some sources. Syria's got a tough air defense network so they can't just fly in by helicopter. And whatever they're doing to hold off the Syrians, sooner or later they'll get overrun. Trying to take down the defenses in a normal manner would be a several-day job. I don't know how they're going to get reinforcements into them although my source did say that there was a plan. He didn't know what it was, but he'd heard it was really crazy."

  "Well, whoever's going in to help them," the female reporter said, "I wish I could give them a great big kiss. And I hope they're okay."

  * * *

  "Dude," Roman said over the team link. "This totally sucks. I'm freezing to death. I can tell I'm getting frostbite on my toes. I can barely breathe from this damned ejector. My left arm has gone to sleep from being slammed into this fucking clamp. And I keep thinking what's going to happen if my hookah accidentally drops free."

  The team was suited up in HALO gear, cold weather gear for high altitudes with an air bottle and mask somewhat like a fighter pilot's to provide them with oxygen. But the bottles were small and wouldn't last the entire time of decompression and flight. So to provide oxygen while they were in the bomb bay a large oxygen tank had been installed and tubes run to each of their masks. If the tube accidentally dropped loose, their oxygen bottle would start automatically. But it would only last so long. And there was no way to fix the problem since they were wrapped up like prey in a spider's web.

  The B-2 Spirit bomber used a rotary bomb release system. Bombs were set in a rotary rack, something like a revolver type pistol, instead of being in a general release vertical rack. The beauty of the rotary system was that, instead of having to simply drop the whole stick, specific weapons could be rotated into position for dropping.

  The problem was that the rotary system entirely filled the bomb bay. So the only way to carry the SEALs was in the rotary system. Bombs were raised into the system and then grabber clamps closed on them to hold them in place, until small explosive charges drove rams downwards, forcibly ejecting the payload of each position into the violent slipstream of the high-speed aircraft. In the case of the SEALS, a field expedient wrapper was improvised. After donning all their normal equipment, including a complete tactical loadout of weapons and ammunition, a belly slung payload carrying their ruck of demo, medical and commo and their parachute and reserve, the SEALs normally had all the grace of a pregnant hippo as they waddled to the door. Waddling wouldn't be required this time, since they had first been wrapped in foam rubber and taped to a metal backboard, then lifted into the bomb bay before the bomb clamp was closed on them. As each SEAL was loaded, the rack was rotated and the next was loaded and so forth, just like bombs, but with more protests. So they were held in place, constricted by their equipment, wrapped in foam rubber, taped to a backboard and unable to move, watching their air lines dangling in front of their faces. In this wonderful condition they awaited the moment when the copilot would operate the weapons release, and the ejector mechanism would fire as the clamps released, launching each SEAL.

  "Shut up, Roman," the chief said. "Focus on the mission."

  "I'm trying, Chief," Roman said. "But I keep focusing on this hookah line. I mean, they could have rigger taped it or something."

  "Charlie Platoon," the pilot said over the team net. "In-flight advisory. The agent in place, Codename Ghost, has released the girls and they are now holding a position on the lower level anticipating reinforcement. The enemy forces are attempting to force a door in the south wall, which is now your primary target. We're at altitude and are proceeding to the destination. The Alpha Strike has gone in and are in the process of suppressing defenses. There will be another Spirit up to give you JDAM support on call. They will be monitoring your platoon radio frequency."

  "Thank you, sir," the OIC said. "This is a nice plane, but we'll be happy to get out."

  "So I heard," the pilot said with a chuckle. "We're going EMCON at this time. Do not transmit on your team net again until you are released. There won't be a warning. The doors will open and you'll be launched automatically. I won't get back to you before the doors open, so good luck."

  "You heard what the man said," the chief growled. "Not a word. Chimp down on the radios—full tactical emission control."

  Roman shifted slightly, trying for a decent position, and looked over at the nearest jumper who was one of the new meats. The guy had his eyes closed and Roman suspected he was praying. That was all well and good, but since he couldn't bitch, there was only one thing to do. He hung his head down, closed his eyes and quickly went to sleep.

  "Team," the pilot said a couple of minutes later. "There's an intermittent sound. We need to maintain EMCON; we're entering detection range!"

  "Roman!" the chief snapped. "Wake up! And stay awake! You're snoring!"

  Fuck, Roman thought. I hate being a SEAL.

  Chapter Twelve

  The last rush had included a satchel charge and Babe had had to demonstrate her throwing arm again. But Bambi and Thumper had gotten good at collecting magazines and there was plenty of ammo. Enough that Mike was pretty sure he wasn't going to be able to use it all. Not before he died.

  "Amy," he gasped, slumping down. "Is there any riggers . . . duct tape in that room?"

  "I think so," Amy said. "I think I saw a roll."

  "Get Bambi over here with it," Mike replied, slowly lying down.

  When Bambi crept across to him, Mike gestured with his chin at the dark room to his right.

  "There's road flares by the door. Fire one. I saw some pieces of plasticlike folders in there." He inhaled with difficulty then paused to cough redly. "Get one. Hurry."

  "Okay," Britney said, creeping in the room and fumbling a flare to light. She found the sheet and came back out.

  "Knife in my pocket," Mike gasped. "Cut away my jacket and shirt."

  Britney got it out and cut away the clothing, revealing two wounds in Mike's chest. One of them was bubbling air. She half gagged at the sight of the red wound and bone showing, but kept from completely puking.

  "Sucking chest wound," Mike managed to gasp. "Nature's way of telling you to slow down. Caught it on the last attack. Put the plastic on it, tape it down, leave one edge untapped, so it can drain. You'll have to roll me over to do the back."

  Britney pulled the cloth further away and laid the plastic on the wound. She was amazed to see it suck in automatically. Then she used the duct tape to strap it down. With all the blood, it was hard to find a place where it would hold but she finally got the plastic secure. She tried to roll Mike over, but he groaned so bad she stopped.

  "Thumper," she called softly. "I need help."

  "I thought I was Bringer of Fire," the girl said with a grin, then paused when she saw how bad off "Ghost" was. "Oh, no."

  "Get the other one on," Mike gasped. "Quick."

  Between the two of them they got him rolled over. Just as they did there was a shout from somewhere behind them and then an explosion. Most of the girls let out a shriek and Britney crouched down over Mike, covering his wounded chest as a wave of dust filled the air.

  "I put a charge in the ventilation shaft," Mike gasped. "Get the plastic on."

  The wound on his back was much larger than on his front and he was bleeding profusely, the blood making a large puddle on the floor that Britney's knee kept slipping in. She wiped some of the blood away with a cut off piece of shirt and slapped on the plastic, strapping it down as best she could.

  "We need to get you in the room," she said, helping Thumper to gently roll him over.

  "Fuck that," Mike said, coughing again. "This is my place to stand. Hand me my rifle and then get back in the room."

  "Look, macho man," Bri
tney snapped. "You're bleeding all over the place. There's only so much blood in the human body. You're going to die if we don't get some of it to stay in you."

  "Got any tampons?" Amy asked. "We don't have bandages, we don't have medicine and we don't have anyone else who can shoot. Throw the flare to the far end and then leave him."

  "No, I'm going into this room," Britney said. "That way I can hand him ammunition and stuff."

  "Okay," Mike gasped. "Do it." He laid his head on the AK for a second and then coughed. "Britney?"

  "Yeah?" she asked softly.

  "You're good people," Mike said, coughing. "The reason I did this is I just fucking care too much, okay? I'm a bad guy, I know that, but I care, too. Too much. I'm sorry about what I said."

  "It's okay," Britney replied, tears in her eyes. "I think we sort of knew that. You're going to make it, Ghost. Help's on the way. Fox said that Brandeis said they had forces on the way. I don't know how long, but you stay with us, okay? Please?"

  "Yeah," Mike said, taking a breath. "Hold your head up high, for there is no greater love . . . God, I wish I had a Crüxshadows CD right now."

  "Save your breath, Ghost," Britney said, rubbing him on the shoulder, lightly. There were more wounds there. There was blood pouring out of him . . . everywhere. "Save your strength, hero."

  "Gotta fight the dark," Mike replied. "My way. And in the fury of this darkest hour, we will be your light . . . we shall carry hope within our bloody hands . . ." he continued to sing/whisper, coughing continuously.

  "Movement," Amy snapped, triggering a round at the landing.

  Mike could barely see the landing anymore, his vision was tunneling out. But he shot at the figures, like ghosts, that moved in the red light, as the pain from each recoil racked his broken body, kept firing and firing until he couldn't see anymore.