Ghost Recon gr-1

by Tom Clancy

  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?"

  "I don't know."

  "What are you doing with your life? Throwing it away trying to jack me?"

  Beasley wanted to tell this punk he was capable of so much more. He wanted to say that he'd sat on that very window ledge, yet he'd gone on to become a Ranger and even a team sergeant with the Ghosts. He wanted to scare this kid straight. But he already sensed his little speech would fall on deaf ears.

  Abruptly, his cell phone beeped with an incoming text message, and the kid exploited the diversion to burst to his feet and take off.

  Beasley was about to start after him, but something told him to check the phone. He took one look at the screen and muttered, "Whoa."

  GOLD'S GYM

  ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

  APRIL 2012

  Sergeant First Class Bo Jenkins had just finished his weight training routine and had decided to take a group cycle class. At six foot five, 280 pounds, he knew he looked a little ridiculous on the bike, but that had never stopped him from joining in the fun.

  In fact, he always turned the class into a party, hooting and hollering as the instructor, Marcy, played her classic rock songs and his fellow riders, mostly middle-aged housewives, released their stress and angst over living in a place that was dark for way too many months a year.

  Marcy was in her late thirties and liked to touch Jenkins's high-and-tight crew cut. He'd once told her that if he applied enough mousse, he could balance a full bottle of water on his hair, and the bottle would never touch his scalp.

  She'd grinned. "You are definitely husband material with talent like that."

  "Hey, you know, women are always looking for skills."

  Now, as he was about to enter the class, his phone rang. It was Aunt Judy.

  "Bo, you'd better meet me at the hospital. They've admitted your dad again."

  His heart sank. "I'm on my way." He raced to the locker room to grab his bag.

  After his parents had gotten divorced when he was fourteen, Jenkins had gone to live with his father in Anchorage, where Dad had become a commercial fisherman. Dad had spent most of his life on boats, and all that hard work and hard drinking had taken their toll. He had liver problems and a host of other issues that were steadily growing worse. And if it weren't for Aunt Judy, who had helped raise Jenkins, he wasn't sure how he'd get through now.

  Watching his father slowly wither away was far more difficult than all those missions in the Philippines, Indonesia, Eritrea, and Cuba. They were nothing compared to standing in that hospital room and holding Dad's hand, remembering that he was the one who'd said, "Bo, I think you should join the army. You need focus. They'll give it to you."

  Jenkins was the most physically imposing member of the Ghosts, joking that he sprinkled brass casings on his cornflakes instead of blueberries, but he wasn't strong enough to handle this. Not this.

  He could barely breathe by the time he left the gym and headed out to his car. The phone rang again. It wasn't Aunt Judy. And Jenkins's heart sank even more. "No, no, no. Not now. Come on, not now!"

  MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY

  CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

  APRIL 2012

  "Alex, I really appreciate this. Just thought it'd be nice to see another life."

  Sergeant First Class Alex Nolan smiled and lifted a thumb to shove his spectacles higher on his nose. It was a nervous habit that occurred every time someone embarrassed him or made him feel awkward. Even a sincere thank-you like the one Hume was offering could trigger the response. "Hey, man, it's cool. And don't feel bad. I didn't get to go here, either."

  Nolan's buddy John Hume was a staff sergeant, anti-tank gunner, and demolitions expert with the Ghosts. He'd been in the Fifth Infantry Brigade in Iraq, had been an engineer sergeant on Special Forces teams, had fought in the Philippines and spoke fluent Tagalog, and was one of the first guys to befriend Nolan when he had been selected for the Ghosts as a senior medical sergeant. They were both a handful of years older than the average Ghost and had become fast friends. Hume had opted to spend the first few days of his R & R with Nolan in Nolan's hometown of Boston.

  Hume had asked if they could visit MIT, and, after walking the campus, they had headed inside the museum to check out the Robots and Beyond exhibit featuring the work done at MIT's Artificial Intelligence Laboratory.

  Despite all the fascinating displays, Hume couldn't hold his attention on anything for very long. His brother Billy had called from San Francisco to say he was upset that Hume hadn't come straight home to see their mother. It seemed that Hume's brother had become the caregiver for their elderly mom. Hume had made a rather terrible faux pas by opting to spend a few days with his buddy first. Nolan could tell his friend was upset and had even let him off the hook by saying it was fine if he had to leave.

  However, Hume needed to see MIT. After high school, he'd been accepted and never been more proud of that, but his father had had a stroke, and he'd been forced to take over the family farm in Salt Lake City and had given up on his dream. But then his father had passed on and, after a few years, he'd met an old buddy from high school who'd joined the army and had presented an entirely different path for Hume to consider.

  Hume raised his chin at the crowd watching a demonstration of a haptic interface that allowed robots to simulate a sense of touch. "Hey, Alex, these robots are going to take over the world. If they replace me with a robot, then you can forget about your certification and residency, forget all about being a hotshot combat doc and saving guys like me. You need to be a robot repairman."

  "No, they'll invent robot medics. You know, we trained with one of those unmanned ground vehicles a few years back. They call them SUVGs. Thing was small but nasty."

  "Yeah, I've seen those. I'd like to blow one up — just to say I did."

  Nolan chuckled. "You were the kid who stuffed fire-crack
ers in the frog's mouth."

  "No, actually, Dad and I put on some world-class fireworks shows. People came from all over to see them." Hume's voice grew thin. "Dad would've loved to have seen this place, too."

  Nolan's phone began to vibrate, just as Hume's began to ring. They checked their screens.

  Hume sighed. "My brother's really going to flip out now."

  "Dude, we have to be in Subic Bay, and they're timing us," said Nolan, already breaking into a jog. "Come on!"

  TWENTY

  USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

  SOUTH CHINA SEA

  THREE HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST OF

  SUBIC BAY, PHILIPPINES

  APRIL 2012

  The crew of USS Montana, a Virginia-class nuclear fast-attack submarine, was bound for Sasebo, Japan, after a week's monitoring of supertanker traffic through the Malacca Strait linking the Indian and Pacific Oceans. Passage through the strait was the shortest sea route for India, China, and Indonesia, and the key choke point in Asia. To bypass the strait added 944 miles to any ship's transit.

  "Emergency deep," ordered Captain Kenneth Gummerson.

  Montana's control team immediately initiated a full-power dive toward a depth of 150 feet — deep enough to avoid collision with the bottom of any modern supertanker yet shallow enough to recover from flooding should a collision ensue.

  "Worked perfectly, Captain," reported the chief petty officer copilot. "Touch screen control all the way, no need to go to minimum electronic mode and joystick control."

  This fourth drill in the last twenty-four hours reassured Gummerson that a computer module swap-out had indeed tweaked the digital interface between the stern plane actuators and the sub's fly-by-wire (FBW) computer.

  Gummerson, a twice-divorced forty-seven-year-old victim of long separations and short reunions, had tacked on silver eagles during this operation, but the promotion meant giving up his command. All hands knew their relief commander would be waiting on the pier in Sasebo. Change of command was a bittersweet event for all concerned.

  "Incoming flash traffic, CO eyes only, Captain," reported the duty radioman.

  Gummerson nodded. "Bring it back to my stateroom after it's logged in."

  Minutes later, in the privacy of his quarters, Gummerson carefully studied his new orders:

  100938ZAPR2012

  FLASH

  FM: COMSUBPAC

  TO: USS MONTANA SSN-823

  INFO: COMPACFLT USSOC

  SUBJ: OPORDER 2012-0410-TS-001 TOP SECRET //BT//

  1. Upon receipt, terminate current ops, proceed Subic Bay. Arrive NLT 1000 local, 120408

  2. On arrival Subic onload dry stores, fresh provisions, thirty (30) day deployment.

  3. Offload Advanced Seal Delivery System (ASDS) and embarked SEAL DET minus two (2) qualified Lock Out instructor/operators.

  4. Inventory/update all nautical charts, aids to navigation, emphasis littoral east coast China, Taiwan Strait, and environs.

  5. Embark US Army SPECOPS team, rig for one (1) female rider.

  6. All traffic FLASH precedence action COMSUBPAC, info COMPACFLT, USSOC.

  7. Advise originator ASAP any/all mission degrading equipment/personnel concerns.

  8. Report ready for sea NLT 0001 local, 150408

  9. Mission details to follow.

  10. Acknowledge receipt this msg via SLOT

  11. Admiral Hendricks sends

  //BT//

  Gummerson reread the message, signed for receipt, then smiled broadly. He hoped his relief had decent accommodations in Sasebo, because the man would be waiting a little longer before he could steal Gummerson's boat.

  GHOST TEAM ISOFAC

  SUBIC BAY FREEPORT ZONE, PHILIPPINES

  APRIL 2012

  When U.S. Naval Base Subic Bay was shut down back in 1992, the area was slowly converted into a tax- and duty-free zone not unlike those in Hong Kong and Singapore. Despite the naval base's closure, American warships continued taking advantage of the deep, natural harbor in order to resupply and provide their crews much-needed shore leave.

  The Freeport Zone was operated by the Subic Bay Metropolitan Authority, and it was with this organization that USSOCOM had negotiated to borrow an old navy office building currently under renovation to become a souvenir shop.

  Captain Scott Mitchell stood near the door of what was once a conference room. Beside him sat piles of lumber, table saws, and sheets of drywall. He gazed out through the dust at the eight other operators who, like him, were hot and exhausted but eager to learn more about Operation War Wraith, the Ghosts' answer to Pouncing Dragon.

  Other than the jet lag, the sore muscles, the blood-shot eyes, and the pounding headache, Mitchell felt great. His people felt likewise and lied about it exactly as he had.

  He and Ramirez (now a master sergeant) had already set up the computer and projector so they could begin discussing the target intelligence package they had downloaded a few hours earlier. He began with the Situation Report.

  SITREP: Chinese cabal about to escalate war in the Pacific.

  Task: Conduct direct action mission to infiltrate into China and terminate Spring Tiger Group at Hakka castle location.

  Purpose: Disrupt Spring Tiger Group attack plan, Pouncing Dragon.

  Method: Infiltrate into China via submarine, link up with CIA operatives of Chinese descent who will help recon and get into position in and around castle where the cabal members plan to meet on 22 April at 0800.

  "Sir, once we're onshore," began Diaz, "how far inland is the target?"

  Mitchell brought up a series of satellite photos of the Hakka castle, with its four silolike buildings and single rectangular structure. "We'll cover all the details of our infil. But for now, have a look. These castles are scattered throughout the region. At least the Tigers picked one that's only a three-hour drive into the mountains. We've got good cover through the outer cordon. High-rising mountains to the west, and some nice hog-backs and saddles to the east. Forests look pretty dense, too."

  Brown raised his hand. "Sir, the photos show lots of civilians."

  Mitchell sighed. "Yeah, they do. The TIP confirms at least a hundred or more individuals living and working in the castle."

  That drew a chorus of groans.

  "There is a chance the Tigers will move out the civilians for their meeting — maybe for security reasons, but frankly, I doubt that."

  "We do have at least one asset to help us deal with collateral damage," said Ramirez. He worked the computer's mouse and brought up a surveillance photograph of a skinny, gray-haired guy with pants hiked up to his belly button. "This is Huang. He's one of the village elders at the castle. Our two CIA guys have already gotten to him, and he'll be our eyes on the inside."

  "That's right," added Mitchell. "We assume most of the Tigers will fly in, probably the night before the meeting. They'll be put up in various rooms. My problem with the initial OPORDER was we were being tasked to find these guys, who could be in five different buildings. That'd waste time and leave us too vulnerable. If Huang comes through for us, he'll indicate exactly where each commander is sleeping before we hit the place."

  "And if he doesn't?" asked Beasley.

  Mitchell snorted. "Then it's going to be a long night. Anyway, let's take a look at the targets."

  Ramirez brought up another photograph depicting a cherub-faced, fifty-year-old Chinese man wearing thick glasses and a dark suit.

  "The TIP suggests that this guy won't be at the castle, but he's the top dog. Deputy Minister Wang Ya from the Central Military Commission's political department. His military attache is the DIA operative who got us this intel."

  "I like his haircut," said Nolan, referring to the sheen on Wang's bald pate. The medic was always good for a wisecrack, and Mitchell allowed him his fun — to a point.

  "Next guy in line is this individual, Major-General Chen Yi. He's a graduate of the Army Command Academy and commander of the entire Nanjing Military Region."

  Chen w
as a few years younger than Wang and had a lazy left eye. He offered a solemn stare in a clearly staged photograph with the Chinese flag in the background.

  Mitchell continued, "When the Tigers meet, Chen runs the show. And then there's this guy…"

  Ramirez brought up a picture of a dark-haired young man with a broad nose, long neck, and solemn stare who stood near one of the Chinese Army's new four-wheel-drive vehicles. "He's Colonel Xu Dingfa, a graduate of the Communication Command Academy in Wuhan. Xu was actually a member of the '08 Olympic gymnastics team. He didn't earn any medals, but let's make sure he doesn't cartwheel his way to escape."

  That drew a few chuckles. Mitchell eyed Nolan, who raised his thumb and nodded.

  The next photograph depicted a short but muscular man wearing a robe and slippers and holding the leash of a small dog. Behind him rose a lush garden.

  "Say hello to Vice Admiral Cai Ming. He's the commander of the East Sea Fleet in the NMR. Here he is taking his dog for a dump near the HQ in Ningbo."

  "I like his dog," said Nolan. "That's a Pekingese. They go good with a nice Cabernet."

  "I prefer a Pinot Noir," said Diaz, smirking at Nolan.

  "And last but not least, we have Major-General Wu Hui. He's a graduate of the Air Defense Command Academy in Zhengzhi."

  Wu had just climbed out of a fighter plane and removed his helmet. He wore a scowl made famous by martial artists like Bruce Lee. Of all the Tigers, he seemed like the real badass, in Mitchell's humble opinion.

  "So once again, we have four primary targets: Chen, the NMR commander; Xu, our army commo guy; Cai, our admiral; and Wu, our top gun. For simplicity and communications purposes we'll designate these guys as Targets Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta respectively."

  Ramirez brought up a slide depicting all four men with target designations superimposed over the photos:

  "Sir, y'all mean to say that these four guys can start World War III?" asked Paul Smith, scratching his head.