Ghost Recon (2008)

by Tom Clancy

  Jenkins swallowed, took a deep breath, and he could no longer look Mitchell in the eye. "I don't say anything, sir, because the mission is more important. The news can wait."

  Mitchell thought a moment, then slowly nodded. "Bo, I'm not trying to take myself off the hook."

  "I know. I had a dream about him last night. Do you believe in the afterlife?"

  "Haven't made up my mind yet. But for now, we're the only ghosts I believe in."

  "What about fate?"

  "Bo, we have to believe that what we do matters. I don't think it was all figured out for us. I could've stayed home, worked on cars, built furniture, but I decided to change things. I did that. Not fate."

  "Yeah, but maybe there are all these doors in our lives, and we're moving through them. Some close behind us, and some don't. Sometimes we control them. Sometimes not."

  "Who knows, Bo."

  "When I left Alaska, the door closed all the way, and I knew my father was going to die. He was sick for a long time. I'm okay."

  "You're sure."

  "If anything, sir, when I go out there, it'll be for him. I wouldn't be a Ghost if it weren't for him."

  Mitchell slapped his hand on Bo's massive shoulder. "You're a good man, Bo. I'm sorry about your loss."

  "Thank you, sir." He nodded and turned off, heading back to the group.

  Mitchell closed his eyes and sighed, still wondering if he had made the right decision.

  TWENTY-THREE

  USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

  EN ROUTE TO TAIWAN STRAIT

  SOUTH CHINA SEA

  APRIL 2012

  Montana's fly-by-wire system hovered the 377-foot submarine at exactly one hundred feet as Mitchell and his team flooded, exited, reentered, and blew out the lock-out trunk with lights on and in total darkness. The drills were completed within the first six hours after leaving Subic Bay, while still in warm seas.

  It was, admittedly, unnerving to stand in that trunk in total darkness while the water rose. All Mitchell could think about in those last few seconds was an accident and the warnings offered by the two SEALs.

  The twenty-one-hour trip to Xiamen Harbor was otherwise uneventful. Mitchell and his Ghosts listened to stories, shared some of their own, and the lies per nautical mile grew to astronomical proportions.

  As they neared the harbor and the end of their journey, Montana "rigged for ultraquiet," with the sub's interior bathed only in red light. All nonwatchstanders remained in their bunks, and television or other leisure activities were prohibited. Even the galley was closed.

  The captain told Mitchell that they were sweeping the entire harbor, their fathometer and minesweeping sonar actively probing under and around the sub with impunity because of the horrendous day and night noise level of numerous small craft and shipyard construction activity.

  The sun had just set, and under the cover of darkness, the captain extended a photonic mast to photograph and measure laser IR ranges for potential drop-off sites.

  Using those pictures, Mitchell and Gummerson met to determine a location, choosing a spot near the southeast tip of an unnamed and uninhabited sand spit.

  "Looks good," said Mitchell.

  "Yes, and don't worry. I'll get us in within a thousand feet so you won't have far to swim, and I'll still have about two hundred fifty feet of water around me."

  The captain went on to say that hovering with her keel at one hundred feet would still keep the tip of Montana 's sail at forty-eight feet below the surface. He said he hadn't seen any ship in the harbor that drew that much water, fully laden.

  "You must live right, Scott," he finally added. "We're at high tide, and it's a spring tide."

  "So that's good?"

  "It's excellent. Spring tides are really high or low when the sun and moon are lined up, and we get their combined gravitational pull. You get to swim in a little closer to the beach, and I get a few more feet under my keel."

  "Great."

  "And one more thing. Sunrise is at oh five twenty-four. If you're not in the water before then, we'll return every night, same time, until the National Command Authority gives me a direct order to terminate the operation. I'm not in the habit of leaving personnel behind."

  "Neither am I, sir. And I appreciate that. But if you have to bail on us, we'll just highjack a rickshaw and head west."

  The captain grinned. "I'm sure you will. Now I'll have our drop-off point forwarded to your higher, and they'll get it to the agents you'll link up with onshore."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Within fifteen minutes, Mitchell and the other eight members of his team were standing in the cold metal confines of the lock-out trunk. "Everybody good to go?" he asked.

  Eight thumbs lifted.

  They had donned wet suits and goggles and had buckled on their Draeger LAR-Vs, which were worn on their chests.

  The LAR-V was a self-contained breathing device specifically designed for covert operations in shallow water. Mitchell and his Ghosts would breathe 100 percent oxygen, and their exhaled breath would be recirculated in the closed-circuit system through a filter that removed the carbon dioxide. Consequently, the Draegers allowed them to swim without the bubbles produced by conventional scuba gear.

  Each operator also carried an equipment pack, a Px4 Storm SD pistol, and a rifle or two of his or her choosing.

  SEAL Chief Tanner, a blue-eyed being of pure muscle, stood outside the hatch and lifted his thumb. "Remember, Captain, slip that beacon in one of your rebreathers on the beach. Chief Phillips and I'll be about ten minutes behind you to pick up the gear."

  "Roger that, Chief."

  Tanner sealed the hatch and signaled to flood the lock-out trunk.

  The water rose and wasn't too cold at twenty-four degrees Celsius. They slipped the rebreathers into their mouths, and once submerged, the hatch opened, and they swam out into fluctuating curtains of darkness.

  During the brief crossing to the beach, Mitchell remembered Chief Phillips's instructions to spread out, putting about twenty meters between themselves, so that they didn't surface as a group but as individuals. He also said to try to stagger their dashes from the water.

  So they'd given each operator a number, beginning with Jenkins and ending with Mitchell. He slowly lifted his head as his knees scraped bottom and watched as, one by one, his team made it onto the barren shoreline, according to the preplanned sequence.

  Behind them, to the southeast, lay the resort island of Gulangyu, its multicolored lights winking in the haze. Mitchell slid his mask onto his forehead and grimaced over the water's nasty stench. He dragged himself closer and removed his fins, leaving on his wet shoes, and rushed onto the shoreline.

  There, he and the others stripped out of their gear, piled it up for the SEALs, then Mitchell set the beacon and gave the hand signal to move out.

  They hustled off, heading west through a fairly dense forest toward the opposite end of the spit, where a long pier jutted out into the channel between themselves and the mainland.

  A lone wooden fishing boat, lights off, was roped up at the end of the pier and idling loudly, its engine exhaling plumes of black smoke. The boat could barely accommodate six people, let alone nine or ten.

  Mitchell gave another hand signal, and the team bolted from the forest and out, onto the pier, keeping low.

  Once at the boat, a bald, bespectacled Chinese man with a sizable paunch lumbered up to the gunwale. He raised his voice above the coughing inboard, his English surprisingly good: "Everyone come aboard. Quickly now, quickly. And who is Captain Mitchell?"

  "I am," Mitchell answered, climbing over the rail and cramming onto the deck.

  "Hello. They call me Buddha. I'm taking you across the channel to a small pier used only by the fishermen. We have two trucks waiting. You will change in the trucks."

  "Outstanding. And that's a good name you have."

  "I think so." Buddha moved to the wheel, shouted to Nolan and Hume to get the ropes, then he throttled up and steered t
hem away from the pier.

  They sat below the gunwale, out of view, and Mitchell dug out his Cross-Com earpiece/monocle from his pack. He slipped the unit over his left ear, tapped the Power Up button, and issued the voice command: "Cross-Com activated." In three seconds he was on the network.

  The screen glowed to life, and he immediately issued several more voice commands, bringing up his first support asset, that streaming satellite video from the castle itself, and even as the image sharpened from static to an overhead, night-vision-enhanced picture of the four silos and single rectangular building, Mitchell watched as a lone helicopter landed in an adjacent field. "Right on time," he whispered.

  The trip across the channel took but fifteen minutes, and as they neared the fishermen's pier, Buddha cut the throttle way too late. They slammed so hard into the pylons that the rail actually cracked.

  "Sorry," Buddha said. "I'm a lover, not a sailor."

  "Dude, you need some lessons," said Nolan as he helped tie up the boat.

  A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, stood waiting for them by the trucks. The guy ditched his cigarette and cocked a thumb at the tarpaulin-covered flatbeds.

  "Oh, you have to be kidding me," said Brown.

  "Just get in," snapped Mitchell.

  The trucks' engines didn't sound much better than the boat's, and judging from their large fenders and big, round headlights, they were probably built in the '50s or '60s.

  "They couldn't get anything better than these?" Ramirez asked as he passed Mitchell.

  "I don't know. I'll ask."

  As the others piled in, Mitchell pulled Buddha aside and voiced his question.

  "Captain, these old Jiefangs are not uncommon along the mountain roads and more rural areas. The PLA sold a lot of them to the farmers. A brand-new SUV would call much more attention."

  "But will they make it up the hills?"

  "I think so."

  "We can't be late."

  Buddha's eyes widened. "Then why are we talking?"

  Mitchell nodded and started back for the truck, but Buddha called after him, "Captain, if we are stopped, be sure everyone is wearing their masks and that no one talks. We are the secret police. I have all the paperwork. And oh, yes, my partner's name is Boy Scout."

  "All right."

  Mitchell reached the tailgate and hoisted himself inside, where he found Diaz, Nolan, Smith, and Ramirez donning black, nondescript uniforms over their wet suits and black balaclavas to conceal all but their eyes.

  "How're we doing?" he asked.

  "Good, sir," said Diaz. "My uniform actually fits."

  "Excellent. Welcome to China, everybody."

  USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

  SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

  SOUTH CHINA SEA

  APRIL 2012

  Five miles offshore, Captain Gummerson plugged into a secure satellite tactical feed and watched as nine green dots inched across his screen.

  And twelve time zones away, Gummerson imagined the most powerful man in the free world sitting alone, studying those same green dots.

  "Captain, the Predator is ready for launch," said the XO with a slight hint of resignation in his voice.

  "Very well. We need to time this just right so Mitchell and his people can bleed every second out of that bird."

  "Yes, sir. And, sir, I'm still concerned about detection during launch."

  "As well you should be, XO. We've got time to push out another twenty miles. Can't do much to minimize the glare from the Predator's booster propellant, but there's no need to wake the neighbors."

  "You read my mind, sir."

  "We'll both sleep better knowing we got plenty of water around us. Last thing we need is some sharp-eyed merchant's lookout spotting our big ear."

  "Aye, aye, sir. And, sir, for what it's worth, Captain Mitchell was a true professional."

  "Agreed. He would've made an excellent submariner. We can't afford to lose a guy like that."

  "Yes, sir. If they can do their part, we'll do ours. That's a very capable team he has."

  Gummerson narrowed his eyes on the screen. Sometimes being capable was hardly enough.

  HAKKA CASTLE

  XIAMEN, CHINA

  APRIL 2012

  Captain Fang Zhi had just received radio reports from his three-man teams posted outside the north, south, east, and west buildings of the castle. They were in position. No issues to consider, other than one man had been bitten by a dog while trying to assume his post.

  Fang was still waiting to hear from the two-man team inside the central building, where the Spring Tigers were just now gathering to welcome Vice Admiral Cai, the last to arrive. Fang himself was up on the fifth floor of that same building, where he could quickly access the roof to view the entire castle, and he wasn't the only guard with that vantage point.

  Two snipers had been posted in the hills, one along the eastern ridge, the other along the steeper banks to the north. They had been first to communicate with him and would check in every fifteen minutes throughout the night.

  Fang had warned his entire team to sleep as much as they could throughout the prior day, but even he had found it difficult to take his own advice.

  He'd spent most of the day reliving the incident on Basilan, taking himself back through his disgrace, back through the moments when they'd told him he was being discharged, that they had no use for a coward like him. And all of the old wounds were reopened and infected with his rage.

  Now, on the eve of justice, he yawned deeply then finally listened to a report coming in from Sergeant Chung, the fool who'd accused him of being a spy. "This is Tiger Twelve. All clear here."

  Fang was about to speak into the boom mike at his mouth when he turned, nearly knocking into someone.

  "Sorry, Captain, but I came to tell you that they have all gone to the dining room. The meal has been prepared exactly as you'd asked."

  Huang stood there, a man beaten and broken. Perhaps one day his time would come. But this day . . . this day was Fang's.

  "Thank you, Huang."

  "And, sir, not to alarm you, but the power company has been upgrading the transformers for the past two weeks. They will shut down the power sometime within the next few hours, but we will only be in the dark for less than thirty minutes."

  Fang frowned. "Why didn't you tell us about this sooner?"

  "I had not thought it very important."

  Fang sighed through his teeth. "Everything is important. Still, you have served us well. After the meeting tomorrow, I will be leaving behind my truck. It will be yours."

  Huang lowered his head and scampered away.

  Fang wished the man had put up a greater fight, for only then would he truly respect Huang.

  As it was, Fang had no intention of leaving behind his truck--or leaving Huang alive.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  EN ROUTE TO HAKKA CASTLE

  XIAMEN, CHINA

  APRIL 2012

  The old truck made a gurgling noise then began to slow. Mitchell brought up the tactical map in his HUD, studying the tortuous mountain road glowing green and leading up to the castle, marked with the requisite yellow square and the words Primary Objective.

  They had come to a fork in the road, and the truck carrying Bravo Team, driven by the guy named Boy Scout, was veering right for the 1.7 kilometer trek to the transformer station.

  "Ghost Lead, this is Beasley. We're heading up now. I'll contact you once we're set at the secondary objective."

  "Roger that."

  "Captain?"

  Mitchell reached down to the cell phone with walkie talkie function that Buddha had given him. "Go ahead."

  "Good news awaits on the road ahead."

  "You getting philosophical, or do you know something we don't?"

  "I have a little surprise."

  "Really? Bring it on. Just hope it's a good one."

  "I think you will be pleased."

  "You hear that?" Mitchell called to the others. "He's got a surprise
."

  Diaz shook her head. "I hate surprises."

  "Me, too," said Ramirez.

  Mitchell nodded. "When we stop, everyone look sharp."

  Sergeant First Class Bo Jenkins hadn't told the others about his father, and neither had the captain. That was fine by him. No sense in any of them doubting his abilities or feeling awkward around him. He was a professional and well understood the importance of keeping every emotion in check.