by Tom Clancy
No movement. He switched off the camera now, lest its light give up his position.
He took a huge breath and darted from the tree, ascending along mud-covered stone toward the rocky wall ahead. He veered left toward the last few trees.
The satellite image set his pulse racing even more.
Fang was on top of him. Literally. He whirled — and at that moment the grave error he had made finally, inevitably dawned on him.
Mitchell threw himself forward as Fang, who had just climbed a tree and was positioning himself on the lowest, heaviest limb, opened fire.
A round tore into Mitchell's right arm, just above his elbow, and another sparked off his MR-C as he slid forward and rolled, raising the rifle to unleash a volley up through the trees, even as Fang continued firing, seemingly bent on unloading his entire magazine.
Mitchell rolled again, releasing another burst.
Fang screamed, but his voice broke off into a gurgling sound.
Smoke wafted up from Mitchell's barrel. He lay there struggling for breath, the million taps of rain on limbs and leaves droning on.
He squinted up, saw Fang's arm just dangling over the branch.
It was over. Finally over. And Mitchell's only regret was that Fang had not known his killer.
"Diaz, this is Ghost Lead. Bring the truck down. I'm hit, but I'll be there in a minute."
"Roger that. How bad are you?"
He moved his wounded arm. At least he could do that. "We'll see. Just come."
Before Mitchell could get to his feet, something thumped into the mud not a meter from his feet.
He blinked hard through the pain.
The object was a wooden shaft hand-carved in a tiger-stripe pattern: Fang's cane. But there was only the empty sheath. It must have slipped off the sword on its own.
Or had it? Mitchell looked up.
Fang had balanced himself on the limb and drawn the sword high above his head in a reverse grip, tip down. A guttural cry exploded from his lips as he launched himself off the limb.
He came down toward Mitchell like a tiger baring its fangs, and no force in the world could stop him.
With a gasp and a violent shudder, Mitchell reacted, his thoughts shutting down, his muscles taking over.
He rolled out of the way, his Cross-Com falling off his ear just as the man hit the mud and his sword impaled the mire, burying itself to the hilt.
Diaz's voice buzzed from the earpiece/monocle lying on the ground, "Captain, we're in position. Why are you still up there?"
As Mitchell turned to bring his rifle to bear, Fang wrenched free the blade and with both hands batted away Mitchell's weapon, even as Mitchell squeezed the trigger, the rounds going astray. The sword's metal edges struck Mitchell's support hand with such force that he reflexively released that hand from the weapon and held his breath in extreme pain.
Exploiting that opening, Fang dropped to his knees, releasing one hand from the hilt and placing it near the sword's tip. He now used the weapon to drive Mitchell's rifle back into the mud as he straddled Mitchell.
With his still-throbbing free hand, Mitchell struck a roundhouse to Fang's chin, stunning the man into releasing some pressure on the sword.
Now Mitchell pushed forward, driving Fang's sword back just enough to slip his hand free of the rifle.
Seeing that, Fang came back up, and now one-handing the sword, drew back in, preparing for a thrusting blow to Mitchell's heart.
Because only the sword's tip was sharp, Mitchell locked bare hands onto the wet metal shaft, and, with eyes tearing through the excruciating, throbbing pain from his wounded arm, he drove the sword up, over his shoulder, as Fang made his thrust and once more impaled the mud.
Then Fang wrenched the sword back so quickly that it slipped through Mitchell's fingers.
Holding the weapon once more in a reverse grip, Fang reared back, his face contorted in a mask of sharp, inhuman angles, his eyes dark voids that narrowed as he issued an ear-splitting war cry and brought down the sword.
THIRTY-ONE
LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
What Fang did not realize and could never truly appreciate was that Captain Scott Mitchell was not alone.
His father, mother, brothers, and sister were with him.
Kristen was with him.
His Ghosts were with him — as was every Special Forces operator with whom he had ever served.
Maybe it was their presence that Fang detected. Or maybe it was something else.
But as the man came down for the kill shot with that sword whose tip was already familiar with Mitchell's flesh, there was a moment of recognition in his eyes, as though maybe, just maybe, he realized who was behind the balaclava covering Mitchell's face.
It was only a second of hesitation.
But it was enough.
Mitchell slammed his knees into Fang's back, even as he reached out and knocked the sword to the left while throwing Fang back, over his head. He rolled and clawed frantically through the dirt, toward his rifle, Diaz's voice still rattling from the earpiece/monocle, the rain turning torrential and blown sideways through the trees.
Mitchell seized the MR-C, rolled back onto his rump, and took aim at Fang, who was coming at him once more, clutching the sword in both hands like a baseball bat.
Fang froze. He had a decision to make.
Mitchell blinked the rain from his eyes and wondered if Fang would drop the sword.
Fang was no doubt wondering why Mitchell hadn't already fired. He'd find out in a second.
Slowly, Mitchell got to his feet, as Fang held his ground, his chest rising and falling, his mouth twisting as he flinched from his chest wound.
Holding his rifle in one hand, Mitchell ripped off his balaclava, shoved it into his pocket, and stepped toward Fang, whose eyes widened in shock.
"You… you are Mitchell. Master Sergeant Mitchell," Fang said in English. He was unaware of Mitchell's promotions since then, unaware of so much.
"That's right," Mitchell answered. "Let's talk before I put a bullet in your head."
"You will never have that pleasure."
In a blur of movement, Fang adjusted his grip on the sword and turned the tip on himself, ready to plunge the sword into his chest.
Mitchell fired a single round into Fang's abdomen, blood spraying as Fang twisted and fell onto his back, the sword tumbling from his grip.
As Fang turned onto his side to retrieve the sword, Mitchell splashed past him and kicked the blade out of the man's reach.
Then he set down his rifle and seized Fang by the collar, hauled him back into a sitting position.
Fang's head lolled back as he threatened to lose consciousness.
"Fang, look at me!" cried Mitchell. "Look at me."
Fang felt the blood seeping into his chest and lungs. It would not be long now. He'd wanted to deny Mitchell the satisfaction of killing him, but that wouldn't happen.
As he gazed up, past the man's shoulder, he saw eleven sweaty soldiers carrying M4A1 rifles, the rain dripping from their boonie hats.
Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Had he already died?
Fang remembered some of their names and their call signs all starting with the letter R. Rutang, Ricochet, and Rockstar stood there among the others. And there was Fang's American counterpart, Captain Victor Foyte, shaking his head and glowering at Fang.
Mitchell rose, picked up Fang's sword, and faced Fang as the other men formed a semicircle behind him. "Only Billy, Rutang, and I made it. Everyone else is dead. Did you know that? Do you care? You should have been a politician — because you're not a soldier. We're all brothers in arms no matter where we come from. But you don't get that."
The other eleven men pushed past Mitchell and came toward Fang. The rain began washing the skin from their faces, leaving grinning skulls and bulging eyes. They opened their mouths and shrieked, the noise sending shock waves through Fang's body. He closed his eyes
and screamed against them. No! I didn't mean for it to come to this! We would not be pawns. We were soldiers! I am a soldier!
Mitchell shook Fang again, and the man's eyes flickered open. Mitchell held up the sword. "You see this? It's mine now. You have nothing." Mitchell shoved Fang into a puddle.
With a grimace, Mitchell got to his feet, retrieved the sheath, and slid the sword home. He tucked the cane into his pack, took one last look at Fang, lying there, dying, then picked up his earpiece/monocle and started down the hill, just as Diaz, pistol in hand, came running toward him. "Captain!"
Fang knew that if he lost the sword, his spirit would not be in harmony with his ancestors. The sword represented that harmony, and it had been destined for the hands of Fang's own son, the child he'd yet to have. He should have been less focused on his career. He should have found a woman in China and had that son. Now Fang had nothing left, save for one more breath.
"Diaz, I'm right here," Mitchell called, wiping off the earpiece/monocle and slipping it back over his ear. He was too exhausted to feel vindicated, justified, or anything else.
As she approached, her gaze lifted past him. "Nice work, Captain."
Mitchell shook his head. "It should have never come to this. Never…"
"Let me see that arm." She tugged out her rescue knife with its secondary blade for cutting past uniforms.
"No time. Nolan will look at it. Let's go." He started forward, lost his balance, and Diaz grabbed his good arm, draped it over her shoulder.
"It's okay, Captain. I got you."
USS MONTANA (SSN-823)
SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT
SOUTH CHINA SEA
APRIL 2012
"And there she goes, twenty-six million dollars of pure fun," said Lieutenant Moch, as the Predator's onboard camera showed an image of the dark, roiling waves before the screen went blank.
Captain Gummerson turned his attention to Moch's playback monitor. "Show me that fuel barge and that crane one more time before I talk to Mitchell."
"Rewinding now. And there they are, sir," said Moch, rapping a knuckle on his screen.
As Gummerson studied the infrared images, he pointed his finger at one heat source and said, "What is he still doing there?"
"I don't know, sir," said Moch.
Gummerson glanced back over his shoulder. "XO? Tell the SEALs we may have a change of plan."
"Aye, aye, sir."
UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND
MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE
TAMPA, FLORIDA
APRIL 2012
"All right, son, what am I looking at?" said General Keating to the young intelligence officer seated before the wide-screen display.
"Here's Xiamen Harbor. Right here is the first patrol boat, heading up to the seawall. From what I can tell, sir, the DIA's mole got off that order to the patrol boats, but only one's heading up. The other captain has either been ordered to remain behind, or maybe he didn't receive the second order. Bottom line is we still have one Shanghai to deal with. See him, right there, running along the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island."
"And there's no way my Ghosts can exfiltrate with that guy patrolling the gap."
"It would not be easy, sir."
"And what do we have here?" Keating pointed to a window that had just opened on the display.
"That's video from the Predator, sir. It just hit the network a few minutes ago."
Keating watched as the bird flew up the long, L-shaped pier jutting out from the sand spit where the Ghosts had made their infiltration.
Only now there were two large heat sources down there, and the image zoomed in to a fuel barge tucked up alongside the pier and a floating crane out near the end.
"They just moved those in," said Keating.
"Yes, sir."
"Get the satellite over them. And get me Montana's commander."
"Yes, sir."
EN ROUTE TO XIAMEN HARBOR
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
Nolan had already jabbed a needle into Mitchell's arm, numbing the area, and the medic was now in the process of removing the slug with a pair of straight forceps while Brown and Hume balanced dim lights over the incision.
It wouldn't be the first time Mitchell had lead plucked from his flesh, though he hoped it'd be the last. Nolan repeatedly urged Diaz to avoid the bumps in the dirt road as he pushed the forceps into the wound, and she did the best she could, saying they'd reach paved ground pretty soon.
"Almost there, Captain," said Nolan. "I see it."
"That's nice. Just get it out of me."
"And there it is," said the medic, holding up the slug. "I'll save it for you."
"Don't bother. Just stitch me up, thanks."
"It's a one-stop shop, Captain."
The Cross-Com's uplink channel flickered with an image from Beasley's camera. "Bravo Lead here, sir. We just hit the paved road, still heading to the coast. Lights are still out down here."
"Roger that," replied Mitchell. "Check the map. Once you get on the shore drive, look for that overpass we discussed. We'll see you there."
"You got it, Boss."
Brown, who was now up front with Diaz and had donned his night-vision goggles like her, pointed to the road ahead and said, "There's the turnoff."
As she took the left fork, Mitchell's Cross-Com once more flashed with an incoming transmission from the downlink channel. General Keating thumbed his glasses higher on his nose and lifted his voice, "Keating here, Mitchell."
"Go ahead, General."
"Our DIA mole managed to draw off one of those patrol boats, but the other's still out there, running up and down the harbor."
"Sir, he'll tag us in a second."
"And Montana can't take a shot at him without the risk of being tagged herself, but intel from the Predator has presented some interesting possibilities."
"I'm all ears, sir."
"Intel believes that the patrol boats were put in place by one of the Spring Tigers himself, Admiral Cai. He added harbor security prior to their operation. You got lucky those boats didn't arrive before your infiltration."
"I hear that, sir."
"Cai also ordered in a refueling barge to support the boats, and he called in a crane to load pallets of fuel onto the pier for additional support elements. Have a look."
Mitchell studied the rotating graphic of the eighty-foot-long, self-propelled barge with a squared-off bow and a small control house. A tower with a boom jutting out in a V pattern rose just past amidships. Attached to that boom was a large refueling hose ready to be extended down and outward. The data bar indicated that the barge had a crew of six.
Next appeared the floating crane seated atop a rectangular, rust-laden barge not unlike its land-based counterpart. The crane's boom rose some 120 feet into the air, and written in English on the side of the operator's cabin was the company name: Wuhan Noontide Industries, Inc. The crane had a main operator and an assistant.
"Now Mitchell, I've just gotten off the horn with Captain Gummerson, and we're running this a couple different ways to help get you out of there. With all the injured you have and the two CIA casualties, Gummerson is willing to surface at the last possible second to get you aboard, but he won't do that unless you make it past the gap."
"Which takes us back to where we started."
"Not exactly. Now pay attention, son. We have a lot to discuss."
THIRTY-TWO
SHORE DRIVE OVERPASS
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
While Ramirez was technically the assistant team leader, the shooting pain from his gunshot wound made it difficult to think straight, so he'd placed Beasley in charge. Smith, who'd been hit himself, had done a fine job of taping up Ramirez and fitting him with a makeshift sling, but Ramirez had refused painkillers. He'd wanted his head to be clear. Maybe he'd have Nolan inject him with a local anesthetic when the medic arrived.
Ramirez and Beasley remained inside the idling
SUV while Jenkins and Smith had gone down to the docks and loading ramp, just fifty meters ahead to secure the boat.
All of Haicang up to the Xiamen Bridge was still dark, but just across the harbor, Xiamen Island remained brightly — and unnervingly — lit.
Ramirez checked his watch, then pulled up the tactical map in his HUD and zoomed in on Mitchell's SUV. "They should be here by 0410 hours."
"And the sun comes up at what, 0524 hours," said the team sergeant. We need to move."
"Yup."
"You know something, Joey? I don't like this plan." Beasley grinned.
"Neither do I."
They banged fists, the words and act a little ritual often repeated during exfiltration.
Headlights shone behind them, and Ramirez whirled. "Captain's early? But I just saw him on—"
"No," grunted Beasley. "That ain't him. Get down!"
Beasley, who was in the driver's seat, shut off the engine and lowered the window, pistol in hand.
Ramirez clutched his own pistol and hit the window button as the headlights drew nearer.
"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead."
"Go ahead."
"Boss, we might have a problem."
Jenkins had found the fishing boat's engine key in Buddha's pocket, and once down at the boat, he and Smith had climbed aboard, and Jenkins had inserted the key. He didn't start the engine. Not yet. Beasley had ordered them to lay low until he signaled.
"This thing's a piece of crap," said Jenkins. "We'll sink before we're saved."
"And this water is a freaking biohazard."
"You're not kidding. And hey, what if she doesn't start?"
"Dude, don't jinx us."
A flash of light on his peripheral vision stole Jenkins's attention. "Maybe I already have."