Ghost Recon gr-1

by Tom Clancy

  TAMPA, FLORIDA

  APRIL 2012

  While it might be the wee hours in China, it was twelve hours earlier at USSOCOM, and General Joshua Keating strode past banks of screens displaying network data, from satellite intel all the way down to the camera mounted on Captain Scott Mitchell's earpiece.

  At the moment, Keating couldn't understand why Mitchell was taking so much damned time to analyze the pictures captured by his portable drone.

  Keating was, in fact, a few seconds away from getting on the horn and blasting Mitchell for his delay.

  But he liked Mitchell. Wanted to trust him. Wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  Dr. Gail Gorbatova of the DIA, who was seated beside one of her intelligence analysts, rose from the desk and approached him. "General, we are wondering—"

  "About the delay," he finished, drawing in a deep breath through his teeth.

  "Our colleagues at the CIA are wondering the same thing and have no explanations from their people. And we have our mole standing by."

  "Excellent. Now we're still gathering intel, so if you would, Dr. Gorbatova, just have a seat."

  Keating returned to his computer and keyed up the intel coming in from Mitchell's Ghost Team: grainy green pictures of the castle, the helicopters, the trucks, and even Diaz's point of view as she balanced her crosshairs over one of the two Chinese snipers. Everything looked perfect.

  Come on, son. Give the order. Move out!

  A voice echoed through the room: "Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. Our targets will take cover from the rain any second now. Captain, we need to move now!"

  "Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. Wind speed is getting worse and can really mess up my shot, sir."

  Give the order, Mitchell!

  "Bravo Lead, this is Ghost Lead," said Mitchell. "Stand by. And Diaz, hold."

  "Captain Mitchell? This is Lieutenant Moch, Predator support, sir. We've identified a power company truck en route to your transformer station. ETA approximately ten minutes, sir."

  Keating clenched his fist and imagined himself screaming at Mitchell: What's the holdup, son? I need those Spring Tigers taken out now!

  Despite his frustration, Keating knew that senses and intuition captured in real time by a commander on the ground far outweighed any digitized picture transmitted over thousands of miles.

  Special Forces truth: Human beings were more important than hardware. What's more, Mitchell's own tactical assessment could be very different than what they viewed at USSOCOM. If the captain were waiting for something, then he had a damned good reason.

  However — and this was a big however — he'd made no attempt to explain himself, and that was highly unlike him.

  Damn it, Mitchell! Attack!

  HAKKA CASTLE

  XIAMEN, CHINA

  APRIL 2012

  More voices echoed in Mitchell's earpiece, and more faces appeared in his HUD, but he just lay there, mouth hung open.

  At the moment the power had been cut, Mitchell had ordered Smith to launch the MAV4mp Cypher. In the minutes that had followed, Mitchell had navigated the drone high above the central building and had been able to identify the positions of every guard posted there: three at each of the silos, two at the central building with one on the roof, and the two snipers. His threat assessment, replete with flashing red diamonds, was complete and available to his people.

  Mitchell steered the drone as low as he dared, and just as he had tapped the joystick, ready to fly the Cypher home, the guard on the roof turned to reveal a cane fixed to his belt.

  With jittery hands Mitchell zoomed in with the drone's camera, trying to pull up a more detailed side view and muttering to himself that no, it couldn't be, that these kinds of Escrima sticks or canes or other martial arts clubs were commonplace among military men, that after ten long years, there was no way in hell that this guy, on top of this roof, in China of all places, could be Captain Fang Zhi.

  But the camera's zoom worked remarkably well. And Mitchell knew that cane. That face. Those eyes.

  Was it a remarkable coincidence? Fate? Was Mitchell being forced back through an open door that had never closed?

  What the hell was Fang doing in China? Had he defected? Mitchell had lost track of the man — and purposely so — because he'd had to go on with life. That was the advice he'd given Rutang, and that was the advice he'd lived by.

  But he'd never forgotten Fang's cowardice, or Captain Foyte impaled on those punji stakes, or Warrant Officer Alvarado clutching that dart in his neck, or poor Carlos bleeding out and telling him to go back for Billy. Mitchell would never forget that row of bodies lying on the field.

  Twelve men had entered the jungle on Basilan Island, and only three had come out, thanks, in part, to Fang Zhi.

  The scar on Mitchell's chest burned anew.

  And now he was back on that field, squaring off with Fang, only this time Fang had no chance to draw his sword. This time, Mitchell had a pistol jammed into Fang's forehead, and when he squeezed the trigger, all he heard was Beasley crying in his earpiece, "Captain, we have to move—now!"

  TWENTY-SIX

  HAKKA CASTLE

  XIAMEN, CHINA

  APRIL 2012

  With a gasp, Mitchell was back, hot-wired to the moment, his senses flooded with input.

  "Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead," Beasley called again. "Don't forget about us, Captain! I need that order!"

  As chills raced up Mitchell's spine, he checked the downlink channel now showing Beasley's camera, zoomed in, and enhanced. Bravo Team's targets were seeking cover.

  Instincts honed by years of combat experience took over. Mitchell began processing information and issuing orders with cool, calm efficiency:

  "Bravo Team, attack."

  "Roger that," Beasley answered in a stage whisper. "Moving up to attack."

  "Diaz, snipers, then main gate, fire now."

  "Roger that, Captain. Sighting my first target."

  "Smith? Police up the drone, then fall in behind us. Ramirez? Nolan? Move out!"

  Mitchell burst from cover, and Ramirez was already a few steps ahead of him and took point, his MK14 EBR rifle with attached silencer held at the ready as they raced along the road, then started down toward the castle, picking their way through streams of rainwater washing down the mountain.

  Nolan was hard on Mitchell's heels, carrying his P90 SD Belgian-designed submachine gun with suppressor because, as many medics argued, the best form of preventative medicine was superior firepower.

  "Got the drone," Smith reported, then hustled up behind them with a Modular Rifle — Caseless (MR-C). The MR-C fired caseless ammo at 900 rounds per minute, and while the regular army did not field the rifle, the Ghosts endorsed it wholeheartedly.

  They had guns, all right. Lots of them.

  But only four shots really mattered: one in the head of each Spring Tiger.

  Or was it five shots?

  Mitchell considered shouting to the others, The guy with cane? He's mine!

  However, he could not reveal his personal bias and immediately undermine his command. The mission and his people came first. He knew that. They knew that. If Fang were killed in the crossfire, then so be it.

  But who was he kidding? He wanted to fire that shot more than anything else in the world. His anger had grown talons that ripped apart his gut, and over and over he watched himself squeezing the man's neck and firing that shot. Mitchell gasped, shuddered off the thought, and hustled on.

  Beasley sprinted along the edge of the forest, then he broke into a Motor City madman dash across the field, coming toward the choppers and trucks from the left flank.

  Two of the men, the drivers, had pushed themselves deeper into the back of one truck, leaving the tailgate open. The other two guys, the pilots, had sought refuge inside the other Brave Warrior's cab.

  Those drivers they could reach. But the pilots in the cab were already giving Beasley a headache.

  He signaled for Jenkins and Hume to ge
t low on the driver's side of the pilots' truck, while he and Brown rushed up to the other truck with the open tailgate, their pistols clutched tightly in gloved hands.

  One of the pilots was about to light a cigarette. The other was lifting his glass to take a sip.

  Brown shot the drinker in the head. Thump!

  But Beasley opted for two shots into the smoker's chest — because the man would become helpful, even in death. He rushed forward, caught the guy before he slumped forward, and whispered to Brown, "Help me stand him up!"

  "What the hell are we doing?"

  "Marcus, trust me. And we have to move. I need to check in with the bot. That power crew will be there any minute."

  "Okay. I think I get it now."

  The captain's firing order had come so abruptly that it took Diaz's brain a moment to catch up to her ears.

  Holding her breath, she made the slightest tweak to her aim before squeezing the trigger.

  While she doubted the click from her rifle was loud enough to be detected by the guards posted around the castle, that second sniper might've heard it. She squinted and observed a blood cloud envelop the first sniper.

  Clean kill.

  Using the knife edge of her firing hand, she worked the bolt effortlessly and ejected the spent case. After chambering the next round, she clambered to her feet, grabbed the firing mat, and stole off along the ridge.

  She needed to cross just ten, fifteen meters to the west to get a more direct bead on the second sniper on the north side. She already envisioned herself in place and taking him out.

  The rain was torrential now, and the first jagged seam of lightning ripped through the sky, backlighting the gnarled and dripping limbs in her path.

  Just a little farther, she assured herself, her boots thumping, her breath growing shallow.

  She was at once scared out of her mind and riding an adrenaline high unlike any she'd ever experienced. She'd been in a lot of foreign countries before, but none held the mystery and foreboding of China.

  Too bad she didn't have time to sightsee. She was here to meet exotic people, and, like the old bumper sticker said, kill them.

  In fact, Captain Mitchell and the rest of Alpha Team were already heading to the gate, and they needed those entrance guards taken out, so every second counted. Every last one. But she hadn't found her next firing position yet.

  She sighed loudly in frustration and gritted her teeth. The balaclava, with a small hole cut out for her Cross-Com earpiece, was soaking wet and beginning to itch. She cursed and reached up, removed the earpiece/monocle, then grabbed the balaclava, tore it off, and kept running.

  "Come on, come on, come on," she whispered.

  Within a minute Diaz finally settled into her next spot, the balaclava now tucked behind her belt, the Cross-Com back on her ear.

  The cold, wet rifle felt perfect against her cheek. She homed in on the second sniper.

  Time for him to check out.

  But damn it, he was already moving, the red diamond IDing him sliding across her HUD.

  She breathed another curse, dragged herself back up, and got moving again.

  Mitchell, Ramirez, Smith, and Nolan worked their way across the field, the mud rising to their ankles.

  With the rain and their black uniforms, they should be near impossible to spot. Still, sharp veins of lightning printed the sky negative, and the ground rumbled with racing cracks of thunder. During any one of those flashes, a keen-eyed guard could turn his head in the right direction, make his radio call, and open fire. Surprise party over.

  A long, earthen wall about four feet tall extended from both sides of the wrought-iron gates, and Ramirez was first to reach it, followed by Mitchell, Smith, and Nolan.

  Crouching in the shallow mud puddles, Mitchell activated his MR-C's gun cam, then he rose and slid the rifle over the wall top while peering into the camera's display, which flipped open like a portable video camera's. The screen allowed him to shoot around corners and over the tops of walls, but for now he exploited its recon possibilities. He panned right, then left, and despite the grainy image, he saw enough to elicit a huff of frustration. The two guards posted outside the rectangular building were still at their posts, so Mitchell and the others would have to risk moving in closer to ensure single-shot, clean kills. And the question lingered: what had happened to Diaz?

  He slid back down and shook his head at the others, then he checked his HUD, switching to an image coming in from Diaz's camera: she was on the run.

  "Diaz, SITREP."

  "I lost the second sniper for a minute. Got him now in my HUD. I'm moving position. Can you wait for me?"

  "Negative, I need my guards down now."

  "Roger that. Stand by."

  The truck's schematics had given no indication if the windshield and side windows were bulletproof, and Beasley couldn't take the chance of allowing Jenkins and Hume to make a firing attempt through the glass.

  Time for plan B, as in use an enemy body to your advantage. Beasley and Brown kept low behind the dead driver, bringing him over to and propping him up near the truck. Hume, who was hunkered down near the driver's side rear door, moved up and knocked on the driver's window. The guy at the wheel turned.

  Between the pouring rain and the darkness, the guy would fail to get a good look at his dead colleague — and that's what Beasley was counting on. The window lowered, and the second it did, Beasley and Brown let the body fall back, giving Jenkins, who was positioned near the truck's front tire, room enough to slide up and direct his pistol into the cabin. His Px4 Storm SD thumped twice. Blood began dripping down the side windows. Jenkins reached in and opened the truck's door.

  "Outstanding," grunted Beasley. "Now start with the choppers while I take care of the bot." He opened the truck's rear door and climbed inside, out of the rain. He called up the SUGV's main camera in his HUD and worked the wireless controller to pan that camera toward the main gate. Headlights grew brighter in the distance.

  He steered the drone away from its cover spot and began launching all six smoke grenades, positioning them all over the station. The new lock and the threat of an electrical fire, as evidenced by the smoke, should delay that crew a little longer.

  By the time he finished and returned the bot to its position, Hume signaled that all vehicles were inoperable and rigged with more C-4, should they choose to create yet another diversion.

  Now it was time to move in toward the castle and take out as many guards as they could before falling back to cover Alpha Team's exit. Beasley updated the captain, then ordered Bravo Team to move out toward the building on the castle's west side.

  Diaz's attention was divided between the sniper running along the opposite mountain to the north and the two guards below. She had to adjust her damned firing position three times before she finally had her bead on the first guy.

  But the rain. All that damned rain. The best she could do was make her adjustments… and fire.

  The first guard went down, tumbling beside one wall, out of sight. The second guard, standing just around the corner from him and shivering under the overhanging roofline, turned his head, as though he'd heard something.

  He began speaking into his radio.

  Diaz waited until he was finished. Then, without warning, a burst of wind came in hard — just as she took her next shot.

  The round exploded into the wall just above the guard's left shoulder.

  Her brothers began screaming in her head as she reloaded in one smooth motion and the guard dropped to his belly, seeking cover.

  But she still had him in her sights. And as he crawled forward, her second shot caught him in the middle of his back. He did not move again.

  "Captain, this is Diaz. You're clear!"

  Mitchell and Smith jogged forward toward the main entrance of the central building, while Ramirez and Nolan broke right toward the long, curving wall of the east building and its rows of rectangular windows. Once they drew closer, they'd have two guards to pick
off before they moved inside.

  According to the CIA's inside guy, Colonel Xu was in the central building, while each of the others were staying in the south, east, and north buildings, respectively. Their locations had been assessed by the Ghosts' intelligence analysts and sent to Mitchell's HUD so that he and the others need only follow the intel indicators to find the men.

  Admittedly, Mitchell had chosen to take out Xu because he knew Fang had been stationed on the roof of Xu's building. Fang had come down when the rain had picked up, and Mitchell assumed that the bastard was somewhere inside.

  Ramirez crawled on his hands and knees through the muck as he neared the first guard, who was sniffling and huddling beside the door, his weapon pointed at the ground. Ramirez needed him to turn his head a bit more, so he issued a curt, "Hey!"

  The guard looked down, up, didn't see Ramirez. He frowned, blinked, and then… he finally spotted him and made that turn.

  One silenced round to the head ended his surprise and discomfort.

  Ramirez waved on Nolan, and they kept tight to the wall, racing around to the opposite side of the building, where the second guy was posted near the other door.

  They got down as they approached, and Nolan drifted out a bit from the wall, lifted his pistol, just as the guard raised his head and looked at them.

  The shot kicked him onto his back.

  Ramirez rose and raced to him. Clean head shot. He glanced back at Nolan, raised a thumb. They tried the door: locked. Ramirez fished out his tool kit and got to work, while Nolan covered him.

  They still had one more guard in their way. He was, of course, posted outside Admiral Cai Ming's door.

  Nolan breathed a curse and suddenly fired. Ramirez turned his head to watch a guard posted outside the south building tumble to his death.

  "He was just coming around," Nolan explained. "And can you hurry up? It's not like bad guys are trying to shoot us or anything."

  Ramirez jabbed one of his tools into the lock. "I'm an artist, bro. Patience."