Ghost Recon gr-1

by Tom Clancy

  "We ride up in crap for a good disguise. But we ride out fast and in style," said Buddha.

  Mitchell grinned. "Good surprise."

  Buddha winked. "We take no chances for our escape. Now check your map. The castle is right over the next hill. I will hide the truck and remain here, waiting for you, along with Boy Scout, after he drops off the other team. If you need us to come up, okay, but I would rather not. And I warn you, my partner is a rookie."

  "So a good surprise comes with a bad one," Mitchell said with a groan. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

  "No, Captain. I am just a fat man with two cars." After a lopsided grin, Buddha trudged off.

  "All right, let's go to our eye in the sky," Mitchell said as he waved them on and started back toward the road, reaching up to his earpiece. "Cross-Com activated."

  Live streaming video from the castle revealed dozens of lights shining from the windows of all five buildings, and Mitchell zoomed in on each structure, noting the men posted outside. They were only silhouettes, and it was hard to positively distinguish between them and the several dozen civilians still milling about. Occasionally he would spot the end of a rifle barrel. The place was a cluster of anthills, with their targets hidden deep inside.

  Once they reached the edge of the tree line, Mitchell led them up the hill, and near the crest, they tucked themselves deep into the underbrush and set their own eyes on the valley, a rolling, dark green mat speckled with a cluster of yellow diamonds.

  "It looks a lot bigger in person," said Diaz.

  "No kidding," Smith added. "And those buildings do look like missile silos from up here."

  "Paul, get the drone ready for deployment," ordered Mitchell, cutting off the small talk.

  "You got it, Boss."

  Paul Smith dug into Mitchell's pack and withdrew the MAV4mp Cypher, a newly designed man-portable drone not much larger in diameter than a Frisbee and even quieter than the UAV3.

  While Mitchell continued studying the satellite images, Smith activated the drone via its controller, then announced that it was ready for launch.

  "Bravo Lead, this is Ghost Lead," Mitchell called over the radio. "Stand by to cut power."

  "Roger that," answered Beasley, whose truck had just stopped to let off his team. "And we're inbound for the choppers and vehicles."

  Mitchell switched views to his Situational Awareness Tactical Display showing the four green diamonds — Bravo Team — heading toward the north side of the castle, where two choppers were parked in the field, along with two more trucks. The map was color-coded, with hostile terrain glowing orange, secured terrain in blue, and inaccessible areas in gray. Bravo Team would quietly ensure that none of those rides remained operational. If any Tiger tried to escape, he'd be doing it on foot.

  Abruptly, the uplink channel window crackled to life with the image of a young man with bleached blond hair impaled by a headset. "Captain Mitchell, this is Lieutenant Moch, sir."

  Ah, yes, Mitchell had met him briefly and heard more about him from Diaz. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."

  "Sir, we had a clean launch, and you'll have Predator support in one minute, thirty seconds, sir."

  "Roger that. And just remember to keep that flying lawn mower on the perimeter. You scan for outside threats and complement the satellite. We've got the AO covered from here."

  "Uh, roger that, sir."

  Mitchell grinned to himself. The "aviator" wasn't happy, but he had admitted on the sub that the Predator's engines could blow everyone's cover. Still, having the drone provide additional surveillance of the mountains was certainly welcome.

  "Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. We have drivers and pilots posted near their vehicles, and we're in position. Waiting on you, Boss."

  "Roger that." Mitchell glanced at the time in his HUD. "Still a little early."

  He then stole another look from the satellite images, waited a moment more, then switched to the Predator's thermal infrared sensors just as the drone came online.

  He immediately spotted the two snipers posted in the hills, red diamonds flashing.

  "Diaz, check your HUD. Predator's got two out there."

  "I see them. All right, sir, they're mine."

  "Alicia, when that power goes down and I signal, you'll need to work faster than you've ever worked before. Snipers, then main gate sentries. Then you move again."

  "I understand, sir." She backed out of the brush and darted off into the woods across the path.

  Mitchell unclipped the cell phone from his waist and called Buddha. "Okay, where are my targets?"

  "Sorry, Captain. He has not called back yet."

  "What's the delay?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then call him!"

  "Too risky. We must wait. He will call."

  "What if he has second thoughts?"

  "I have read this man correctly. He is scared, but he will help. He wants the best for his village."

  "Buddha, I got air assets, I got people waiting."

  "Captain, you may launch your attack now, but it seems there are still people awake at the castle, and I can't promise how soon that information will come."

  Mitchell thought a curse. "Understood."

  "Sir, do you want to launch the drone?" asked Smith.

  "No, we'll wait till we cut power — but I was hoping to have our targets pinpointed before then, damn it."

  Of course, if they didn't, they'd be searching for four needles within five haystacks. Yet for every second they remained in position, the odds of them being spotted increased.

  Below, a few more castle windows darkened.

  The uplink channel in Mitchell's HUD switched to a view from the tiny camera mounted on Diaz's headset. "Captain, I got a bead on our first sniper. I'll have to move to get the other guy."

  "Hold."

  "Holding."

  "Captain, we're still waiting here," called Beasley from his position in the forest near the choppers and trucks.

  "I know, I know. Just sit tight."

  Inside the castle grounds, Huang held the leash of his dog and started toward the main gate.

  "Where are you going?" asked one of Fang's men posted there.

  "For a walk," Huang snapped.

  The guard frowned. "Walk him here."

  "He will not go here. I take him to the field."

  "No."

  "Do you want me to call Captain Fang?"

  The soldier swallowed. "You know him?"

  "I'm going to walk my dog." Huang turned around, moved to the gate, unlocked the door, then started outside, deliberately leaving the gate open.

  Once he reached the bottom of the path and was turning toward the field, he tugged the phone from his pocket and nervously made the call.

  Forty-three minutes later, Colonel Xu Dingfa was lying in his quarters inside the central, rectangular-shaped building. Fresh flowers had been arranged in vases, and the beds had been made with clean and sweet-smelling linen. Captain Fang had made all the arrangements for the "comfort girls" who had recently arrived, and one of them was already giving Xu a deep and erotic massage. The other three Tigers were, assumably, enjoying their own nights of pleasure before turning to much more grave business in the morning.

  When they had planned the meeting, Xu had suggested that they gather immediately within the first hour of their arrival, but his impatience had been summarily quashed by the older Chen, who considered the "event" a long weekend and chance to work, celebrate, and unwind. Consequently, Xu had arranged for the girls and the banquet-style meal.

  In the morning, they would establish the chain of command, finalize their timetables, and clearly identify the individual types and numbers of ships and aircraft involved. Call signs would be issued, as well as operating area assignments. Chen would distribute the communication encryption key cards for secure communications on what he had dubbed the Pouncing Dragon Primary Tactical Network (PDPTN).

  Xu sighed as the girl dug her soft hands a little deeper i
nto his shoulders.

  The lights suddenly flickered a moment, then went out.

  The girl gasped.

  Xu rose, fumbled in the dark for his radio, found it, and called Fang.

  The captain sounded irritated. "Sir, Huang tells me they are working on the transformers every night. The power should return within thirty minutes. It is no worry."

  "I don't like this, Fang. Security is your mission. Do not fail us."

  "I will not."

  Xu thumbed off the radio and thought of calling Major-General Chen to give him the news. Then again, Chen could already be asleep. Why alert him to something that he might never discover?

  Xu rolled over and grabbed the girl, who giggled

  TWENTY-FIVE

  HAKKA CASTLE

  XIAMEN, CHINA

  APRIL 2012

  Master Sergeant Matt Beasley was ordinarily a patient man. All those years as a student of human nature had taught him to be still like a predator, always looking and listening.

  But the lights had just gone out. And the captain had ordered them to do… nothing.

  They were waiting ten more minutes to give the Tigers' security team time to check in with each other, time enough to give them all a false sense of security.

  Hitting the castle directly after the power went down was much too conventional, and they would be tense, despite whatever story the CIA's inside man told them about the outage.

  And that explained why Beasley, Brown, Jenkins, and Hume continued lying on their bellies within the ditch at the edge of the woodland. The pair of small, two-man civilian helicopters were less than a hundred meters away.

  Images of those choppers had been captured by Beasley's camera and uploaded to the network. Within a minute the helicopters had been identified as Brantly B-2Bs manufactured by a Texas company that had been bought out by the Chinese. A detailed set of schematics and even a suggested sabotage point within the cockpit focusing on the bird's electronics systems accompanied the intel.

  Parked near the choppers were a pair of jeeplike SUVs identified as the new Brave Warriors, and Beasley didn't need the geeks back home to tell him how to sabotage them.

  Out there, a few hundred meters beyond the vehicles, lay the castle, growing even darker as swollen clouds descended like enormous zeppelins to blot out the stars. From one window came the faintest trace of a flashlight being switched on.

  Beasley returned his gaze to the helicopters. He'd hoped that the Tigers would have chosen much larger birds so that the Ghosts could've revised their exfiltration plan to include a swift chopper ride back to the coast courtesy of a Chinese pilot held at gunpoint.

  But as Murphy and logic would have it, the Tigers had chosen to be discreet and flown in via those smaller civilian birds.

  A few drops of rain struck the ditch, followed by a few more. Beasley hoped the captain didn't wait much longer, because once the storm really kicked in, their targets would seek cover in their vehicles, making them even harder to pick off.

  The two chopper pilots and two drivers had gathered near the open tailgates of the trucks and were drinking, smoking, while one was engrossed in a small, handheld computer game.

  Beasley had already played out Bravo Team's raid a half dozen times in his head. He'd initially considered a standoff attack, dropping each guy quietly like snipers and taking full advantage of the camera mounted on his Modular Rifle — Caseless (MR-C) to peek around the vehicles. However, once those men had gathered in close, he'd realized that the raid must be more swift, that all four needed to go down at once.

  And to ensure success, Beasley knew they had to get in close. Very close.

  "Well, that's ten minutes," whispered Jenkins over Bravo Team's radio channel.

  "Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead," called Beasley on the main channel. "Still waiting on you, Boss."

  "Uh, yeah. Sit tight."

  Something ominous had crept into the captain's tone.

  "What the hell's he waiting for?" asked Brown.

  "The captain knows what he's doing," Beasley retorted, only half buying the assurance.

  "I know he knows. Wish he'd share it with us."

  "He sounds distracted," said Jenkins.

  "We're all distracted," Beasley snapped.

  "I think something's going down," said Brown.

  "Yeah, it's called Operation War Wraith," Beasley finished.

  "Uh, I don't know. This… this ain't right," said Hume. "Every time we work with the spooks, there's always something they don't tell us — and I got a feeling the captain just got a piece of intel he definitely doesn't like."

  Beasley sighed. The longer they waited, the more paranoid they would become.

  Huang used the small penlight to lead the village elders into their usual meeting room. Eleven of the twelve men stared worriedly at him as he spoke. "Everyone is in their rooms. The gate door is open. Our visitors are asleep, and Fang and his men remain at their posts. I'm told there will be four men, dressed all in black. We need only stay out of their way. It will all be over soon."

  One of the other elders, a ruddy-faced man named Pan who had never liked Huang because of a dispute between their sons, both now grown, widened his eyes. "I will say it again. I'm outraged that you've made this deal with the secret police. If anyone is hurt, I will blame you, Huang. You."

  "What is worse? Dealing with the police or being forced to open our doors to these criminals? Tonight, our problems will end once and for all. Go now to your posts. Keep low. And watch. I am told it will happen soon."

  Pan held up his index finger at Huang. "I know he's agreed to give you his truck, but you'd better not accept it. That is, as you say, a gift from a criminal."

  Huang glowered at Pan as the man passed by.

  Interestingly enough, Fang had driven his truck inside the central building and parked it in the courtyard, beneath a long row of canvas awnings, out of sight. He'd certainly made it appear as if he were leaving it behind.

  As Huang stepped outside, he glanced at the truck then up past the balconies to where Fang now stood on the sloping roof, his cane a dark slash mark across his hip.

  Huang grew rigid, and his breath became shallow. His need for revenge or baochou had been carried down through the ages and was necessary because there was no god, no law, no earthly power that would carry it out for him.

  Exacting baochou was the only way Huang and the elders could save face, so Huang had decided that if the secret police did not keep their promise, then he alone would kill the man. The blemishes must be wiped clean.

  There was no other way.

  Frowning over the drizzle, Diaz checked her Cross-Com's downlink channel for a weather report. Damn, the radar indicated it would only get worse, and the wind speed was picking up, the direction shifting more to the southwest.

  Her target didn't like the weather either. He had twice wrestled with his position, his Type 88 rifle resting steadily on its bipod. She found it curious that he wasn't toting a more powerful weapon. Still, she knew that the 88 had only been issued to the PLA in small numbers. Perhaps it was one of his personal favorites.

  Diaz's own DSR 1 subsonic sniper rifle had been manufactured by the German company AMP Technical Services, and the rifle had been adopted by the GSG 9 counterterrorism group and a few other elite European agencies. DSR stood for Defensive Sniper Rifle, but in Diaz's hands, it was nothing but offensive.

  The rifle had a bullpup design, meaning the action and magazine were located behind the trigger. The design increased the barrel length relative to the weapon's overall length, saving weight and increasing maneuverability. The bipod was mounted on upper rails, and the adjustable front grip was mounted on lower rails. Diaz had already made slight adjustments to the buttstock and cheekpiece, and she had inserted a spare four-round magazine into the holder in front of the trigger guard. The extra mag sitting right in front of her hand made reloading much faster and kept her gaze locked ahead on the target zone. The rifle's bipods were firmly
planted on her carrying bag, which doubled as a shooter's mat, and the bag sat atop a long, flat rock.

  Additionally, the DSR had a rack-and-pinion fully adjustable monopod jutting from the bottom of the buttstock; as a result, the rifle was fully seated on the firing surface by bipods up front, monopod in the back.

  Diaz's subsonic variant had been adjusted to incorporate the 7.62x51mm NATO rifle cartridge instead of the more overt.338 Lapua Magnum, and while she preferred the latter ammo, the mission dictated more stealth and those unmarked shell casings provided by the general and friends in her home state.

  She blinked hard and returned to her night-vision scope. He was still there, all right, and at any moment he would begin speaking into the microphone covering his mouth. As soon as he did, Diaz would tip off the captain that her man had just made his radio check.

  USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

  SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

  SOUTH CHINA SEA

  APRIL 2012

  Captain Gummerson asked himself for the second time, What is Mitchell waiting for? He's got the lights out, rain coming in, and he has the location of his targets.

  Gummerson stood under the control room's crimson lights, ears pricked up for the next message. Montana's electronic countermeasures (ECM), electronic intelligence (ELINT), and Sonar teams were probing a three-dimensional battle sphere — air, surface, and subsurface — for any hint of enemy counterdetection.

  Meanwhile, the OE-538 multifunction masts that were Montana's "big ear" continued to track each Ghost while monitoring all exchanges between them. Total situational awareness via mutually shared information in a common tactical picture was the epitome of network-centric warfare.

  "They move in yet?" asked the XO as he entered the control room.

  Gummerson shook his head. "No. All Mitchell's done is step up to the plate."

  The XO shrugged. "Sometimes you wait for your pitch."

  Gummerson cocked a brow. "And sometimes you strike out looking."

  UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND

  MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE