Ghost-ARC

by John Ringo

  GHOST

  John Ringo

  Advance Reader Copy

  Unproofed

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2005 by John Ringo

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN-13: 978-14165-0905-9

  ISBN-10: 1-4165-0905-4

  Cover art by Mitch Faust

  First printing, October 2005

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  TK

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Production & design by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Baen Books by John Ringo

  Ghost

  Princess of Wands (forthcoming)

  A Hymn Before Battle

  Gust Front

  When the Devil Dances

  Hell's Faire

  The Hero (with Michael Z. Williamson)

  Cally's War (with Julie Cochrane)

  Watch on the Rhine (with Tom Kratman)

  There Will Be Dragons

  Emerald Sea

  Against the Tide

  Into the Looking Glass

  The Road to Damascus (with Linda Evans)

  The Prince Roger Saga with David Weber:

  March Upcountry

  March to the Sea

  March to the Stars

  We Few

  BOOK ONE

  Prologue

  Jamid Halal stepped passed the two teenage mujahideen, pushed aside a flap of rotting canvas and ducked to enter the low doorway. The room beyond was small, no more than three meters on a side, dark and dirty with a litter-strewn, packed-clay floor and granite walls covered in Arabic graffiti. The only light was from the doorway, blocked by the canvas and his body, and a small paneless window on the south wall. Despite the size, five heavily armed mujahideen were packed along the sides leaving only a narrow spot in the middle. In this narrow spot a tall, spare, figure squatted behind a low table, typing on a laptop computer.

  "Great One," Halal said, dropping to both knees and bowing his head. "It is good to see that you truly survive!"

  "Did you believe that Allah would permit the forces of the Great Satan to kill his most valiant leader?" the man said, soberly, his piercing eyes meeting those of Jalal with a real question behind them.

  Halal recognized what the question implied. Only true belief could bring about the Final Jihad and the destruction of the Dar Al Harb. Questioning the survival of the Great One, surely Allah's most important sword in the battle against the Dar Al Harb, implied a lack of faith in Allah Himself. And the slightest trace of lack of belief, in this place, in this man's presence, could lead to immediate martyrdom. Halal bowed his head and nodded in submission.

  "Great One, my faith has been tried by the events of the last two years," the mujahideen commander admitted. "We battle the Great Satan daily and yet our numbers dwindle. Again and again the mujahideen fearlessly attack them as we are instructed in the Words of the Prophet. To put aside fear of death and think only of the Will of Allah. Of the Glory of Paradise and the spread of the Dar Al Islam. And, again and again, we are not only defeated, but destroyed. Their technology, their training . . . their faith in their false Gods, seems to be beyond even the Will of Allah to defeat. But, your presence fills me with renewed hope. If you can survive when all their forces search for you, anything is possible. Forgive me my trial of faith and look upon my actions. I have sought battle without fail. As Allah is Merciful, have mercy upon his true servant."

  "Very pretty," the tall man said. "And very common. Everywhere I go, the faith of the mujahideen is tried. And, everywhere I go, they profess renewed faith. It is with these weak tools that Allah's Will must be worked. But, Halal, the Jihad has need of you. You have skills that are needed in a great mission. We still can bring the Great Satan to its knees and teach the Lesser Satans of Europe and Asia that Allah's Will is great and powerful beyond even that of Satan. And you will be the tool that shall show that will. In one stroke, we will break the will of the Dar Al Harb, which is divided even in the lands of the Great Satan, and bring the banners of Islam, once again, to the lost Da Al Islam. And all the jihad needs is your skills."

  "I live in submission to Allah," Halal said, nodding. "What is the mission, Great One?"

  "We shall strike at the Satan's greatest weakness," the tall man said, his eyes lidding heavily. "The love of its whores."

  Chapter One

  Mike Harmon stuck his laptop in his jump bag and tossed the latter over one shoulder, standing up and stretching his back. He had been sitting in the coffee shop for nearly three hours and he wasn't as young as he used to be. Fifteen years in the teams had left him with degenerative damage in half the major joints in his body and a back that was compacted enough for a fifty-year-old.

  As he wandered out of the shop, he glanced at his image in the plate glass window and grimaced. Brown hair, brown eyes, a "regular" face, neither handsome nor ugly, shoulders a bit wider than the norm, middle beginning to bulge a bit despite regular exercise. Not the most prepossessing figure and certainly not, by any stretch of the imagination, a big man on campus.

  He'd thought that going back to college would be a cinch. With both his career and his marriage foundered on the rocks, time to go find some time in the sun. After years of eighteen-hour days, how hard could homework be? And then there were the lovely young coeds, long legs flashing by, skirts swirling and flirting, practically begging to be snapped up by a not particularly bad looking former SEAL.

  Well, the homework wasn't actually that bad, or it wouldn't be if it weren't for the classes he had to take. History. How bad could it be? Greeks and Romans and Persians and the Renaissance. Egyptians and feudal lords and maybe memorizing a bunch of dead guys' names.

  Little did he know. That was "old history." His current major course was "An Introduction to African Pre-Colonial History." As far as he'd been able to determine, his definition of what constituted "history" and the definition used by the University of Georgia History Department didn't come from the same dictionary. Sure, the old time historians made stuff up. Livy read like something written by Tom Clancy and Julius Caesar's Gallic Wars was written with political image in mind with only brief touches on reality, something like a Democratic stump speech. But it had brief touches on reality and it was at least written. Prior to the "colonization" period, Africa had no writing and, apparently, no problems worth discussing. His professor attributed every ill of Africa to the colonialism of the White Man, ignoring the ongoing tribal wars that dated back thousands of years, not to mention the Arab slave traders that benefited from them. He'd had to see the first episode of the mini-series Roots and had been loudly shushed when he started laughing in the first fifteen minutes. Slave traders didn't get off their boats and go chase bush-bunnies around. They bought them from Arabs, not fucking "Islamics," Ay-rabs. And the Arabs bought them from the tribes, who were constantly at war with each other.

  Sometimes it was all Mike could do to not stand up and punch the stupid bastard, especially when he got started on "modern colonialism," by which he meant the War on Terrorism. Mike wanted to scream "Have you ever been in Mogadishu you ignorant son-of-a-bitch?" Hell, the conditions in Africa were better when the English and the Germans and even the French and the Belgians had been in cha
rge. He'd read Conrad's Heart of Darkness a couple of times during down time on the teams. And he'd been in Congo, not that there was any trace of it going in or out. And Congo now was "Heart of Darkness" on fucking steroids. The only thing worse than having the Belgians in charge was having the fucking gomers handling things.

  But, of course, the problem with the gomers wasn't that they were totally fucked up gomers. Oh, no, the problem with the gomers were all the fault of colonialism and "western military adventures." Well, he'd been on one "western military adventure" in Congo and as far as he was concerned the best thing to do was spray the whole damned place with anthrax, including the fucking gorillas, shoot anyone that tried to leave and start over.

  Attitudes like this, of course, didn't sit very well with his professors. It also didn't fit very well with the pretty little airheads that were being fed a steady diet of leftist propaganda bullshit. And no matter how he tried, he'd always end up opening up his mouth and pointing out that it was leftist propaganda bullshit. That the problem with the gomers was their fucking culture, which was totally fucked up and had been before colonialization and was going to stay that way until somebody beat some sense into their heads. At which point terms like "militarist" and "baby-killer" and, with the real intellectuals, "myrmidon" would start getting tossed around.

  What was funny was that some of the most leftist, ball-busting, bitches seemed to get off on his being a former team guy. There was one little brunette wearing a beret just like that fucking terrorist Che that he swore was getting ready to go down on him right in the middle of the damned argument. But he'd blown her off instead. The hell if he'd get told he was a mindless myrmidon and then fuck the little bitch.

  Sooner or later, something was going to give. His really bad side was starting to peek out and that was something he feared more than failure. It violated the warrior code. Courage in Battle, Loyalty to the King, Protection of the Innocent. Sometimes it seemed it was the only thing he had left. He was not going to become a fucking rapist.

  He'd always managed to restrain that side of himself, even with the Philipino B girls and the Thailand whores, when it didn't matter what you did, as long as you paid the mamasan. One of the reasons he'd just left the little bitch in the beret hanging was if he'd taken her home it would have been a grudge fuck, with emphasis on "grudge." And she'd have gone home sorry and sore. Which was all well and good if it was lined out in advance and agreed to by both parties. But that wasn't where that particular relationship was going.

  So his right forearm got over developed, his anger got hotter and hotter and there didn't seem to be any release in sight. He very much needed to kill someone. Just about anyone would do, but one of the little airhead bitches was getting even farther up the list than his professors.

  Thoughts like that had carried him, unthinking, to the areas by the library and the English department buildings. His path wasn't even vaguely in the direction of his apartment; in fact it was in the opposite direction. But there were quiet pathways where occasional young ladies wandered by, most of them so totally fucking oblivious they wouldn't have noticed if he threw a rock in their direction. It was a sick addiction with a very specific name: "stalking." He'd pick a dark spot, stand still as if he were simply drinking in the night and wait. Sooner or later some brainless bitch would walk past, totally defenseless.

  Sometimes, just to get a rise out of them, he'd cough. And they'd notice the dark figure in the shadows, their eyes would get wide and they'd hurry past. He never looked at them then, he'd totally ignore them, but he could tell by their hurried steps, quite often clicking away in their high heels, how much he'd frightened them. Sick, but oh so very fun. And he considered it to be instructional for the little idiots. It might teach them to keep some situational awareness.

  He also considered it keeping in training. There were plenty of non-idiots among the girls on campus, girls who knew damned well that college campuses had the highest rate of rape in the U.S. And, nine times out of ten, even with the ones who were alert, he could avoid being seen even standing in plain sight. His team name was "Ghost" and it had been hard earned. It was an ability he'd had even before he was on the teams and one that he'd raised to a high pitch in various third world shitholes. He could just . . . blend.

  If he put on local clothes and spent some time watching local moves, he could move among the populace of half the world unnoticed. A little heavy-set, jaw a little square, shoulders a little broad, but nobody seemed to take that into account. Grow a little stubble, cover his haircut and he was anything from an Arab to an Afghan. As long as he didn't open his mouth: he'd never had language training and his Arab extended to "where's the bathroom" and "lie on the floor and put your hands on your head."

  The spot he'd chosen overlooked Baldwin Street, which ran between the English building, Park Hall, and the Military Science Building. He'd thought about going ROTC and maybe bucking for an Army commission. But even with his background his physical damage—he was paid for being "50% disabled" and might go as high as 100% in time—made it unlikely that even the Army would give him a commission. And if he did get one, at his age, he'd probably end up in supply or civil affairs or some such bullshit. Better to eat the shit at the college, get his history degree and go looking for a teaching job. Coach track or swimming, teach history and just . . . veg.

  He stopped vegging as he spotted a nice young quarry, blonde, nice tits in a midriff top, ruffled miniskirt revealing long, shapely legs and black high heels clicking along on the sidewalk heading west on Baldwin. The fashions had come together nicely in the last year with just about everything a heterosexual male wanted to see women wearing being the "in" thing. It was like some over-sexed ancient Greek god had told fashion designers exactly what he wanted them to push. She was probably coming back from some of the clubs over on Broad—she was "club" dressed—headed down to the dorms along Lumpkin. And too stupid to stay to the more traveled and lighted ways. Probably a freshman, he thought.

  It was as professional a snatch as he'd ever seen. The custom van slowed down, the door opened, a man stepped out in a trot, the bag went over the blonde's head, she was lifted into the van before she could even start kicking, the door closed and the van started to accelerate. It took no more than a couple of seconds. As far as Mike could tell there was no one in sight of the snatch, certainly no one in easy view and if you hadn't been looking right at the girl you probably wouldn't have been able to process it. Whoosh. The girl was just . . . gone.

  Except the van had to stop at the west end of Park Street, where it intersected Lumpkin, and Mike realized he was already down the hill in a sprint, off the low wall by the sidewalk, his jump bag banging on his back as he accelerated down the middle of the road, no cars in sight and it kept him out of the view, mostly, of the driver. The van started to pull out onto Lumpkin and Mike leapt upwards, landing lightly on the ladder at the back of the van, crouched. If he lost track of the van the girl was going to disappear, probably into an unmarked grave.

  He knew that, at heart, he was a rapist. And that meant he hated rapists more than any "normal" human being. They purely pissed him off. He'd spent his entire sexually adult life fighting the urge to use his not inconsiderable strength to possess and take instead of woo and cajole. He'd fought his demons to a standstill again and again when it would have been so easy to give in. He'd had one truly screwed up bitch get completely naked, with him naked and erect between her legs, and she still couldn't say "yes." And he'd just said: "that's okay" and walked away with an amazing case of blueballs. When men gave in to that dark side, it made him even more angry than listening to leftist bitches scream about "western civilization" and how it was so fucked up.

  The van was an older modern custom van like Mexicans tended to drive and from inside he could hear the struggle going on and the muffled cries of the girl followed by slaps. While it made one side of him angry as hell, another side was so turned on he could barely stand it. But the good news was unless some
body saw him on the back of the van and vectored in the police, he stood a good chance of being able to kill someone and not go to jail. This was probably a bunch of fucking illegales who'd decided they wanted to party with a coed. And they were going to be seriously fucked up, armed or not, as soon as this damned van stopped. He might even get laid out of it, if not by the blonde, who was going to be pretty fucked up from this experience, then by some girly who'd take pity on the poor hero.

  The van headed south on Lumpkin through the university area and towards the south side of town. It was late and if anyone saw him he couldn't tell. There weren't even any cars behind the van or he'd have waved at them or something. He wanted to get his mad out by killing some of the bastards in the van, they were ripping cloth now, but he figured at least trying to be the "good citizen" instead of the "vigilante" would be a good idea. He couldn't bring in the police himself, he'd left his cell phone charging by his bed before going to class and hadn't been home to pick it up. And unless someone saw him soon, the van would get into darker, and less populated, areas where he might never get spotted.

  He kept hanging on to the ladder, swinging through turns, crouched down to stay out of sight, half hoping some cop cruiser would pull up behind them and half hoping it wouldn't. Most of the cops stayed up towards the center of Athens on Friday and Saturday, closer to the action. And, proverbially, there was never a cop around when you needed them. This time, especially. Not even any fucking cars. The van had gotten off of Lumpkin and into neighborhoods that were mostly dark this time of night. Neighborhoods with speed bumps that were a real bitch to hang on through. The route appeared to be planned and he started wondering if he was really dealing with a group of Mexes. The snatch looked professional, to his trained eye, and the egress also looked professional. Which either made it a group of long term serial rapists, even funner to kill, or . . . something else.