Ghost Recon (2008)

by Clancy, Tom - Ghost Recon 01

  The Black Hawk was listing to one side but still lay on its belly in a steaming trench. The tail and main rotors were gone, the landing skids ripped apart and jammed in mangled pieces behind the fuselage. Oddly, the cockpit panels were still illuminated.

  As Mitchell neared the bird, waves of heat warmed his face, and he was forced to sneak a breath. The stench made his eyes tear as he stormed into the bay.

  The charred crew chief lay in pieces on the floor, along with another of the door gunners. Mitchell nearly gagged as he made it to the pilot, who was barely conscious but alive. The copilot had caught several large pieces of shrapnel in the back of his neck, and Mitchell checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing.

  "Captain, I'll get you out."

  "I told them the damned zone was too hot."

  "It's going to get hotter," Mitchell said as he unbuckled the man.

  "Can't move my legs."

  Mitchell tugged a penlight from his web gear, directed it into the pilot's lap, his legs showing no signs of injury.

  But then he checked the back of the pilot's seat, which had been shredded by shrapnel. As he took the pilot by the shoulders and moved him forward, Mitchell noted bloodstains on the man's lower back. He had a spinal injury, no doubt.

  Unable to get a good fireman's carry in the cramped quarters, Mitchell took hold of the pilot's shoulder straps and dragged him out of the cockpit, through the smoking bay, and outside, onto the ground, where he caught his breath.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught movement among the twisted and severed trees.

  He brought his rifle around and hit the deck.

  The perimeter had come alive with the silhouettes of gunmen, shifting in and out from behind the trunks to get a bead on him.

  One ricocheting round off the chopper's fuselage could ignite all that fuel that had spilled into the mud.

  "Scott, this is Rutang, over."

  "Rutang, stand by." Mitchell breathed a curse and braced himself for yet another gunfight.

  FIVE

  BASILAN ISLAND

  SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

  AUGUST 2002

  "I won't lie here and die without a fight," said the pilot at Mitchell's side. He reached for his sidearm. "I'm taking one with me."

  "Just hold up," Mitchell said, aiming at the nearest gunman leaning out from behind a tree, barely visible in grainy darkness. "Something's weird. They see us. They should've fired already."

  "Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06, over?"

  Mitchell lowered his voice. "Go ahead."

  "I've got my Bravo Team at the chopper crash site. They see you but are holding to continue recon, over."

  Mitchell sighed deeply. He got up onto his haunches. "Hold fire!" he cried to the men on the perimeter. "Fall back on me!"

  The gunmen came dashing from the trees, and they were, in fact, Yano's men.

  "Ricochet, the last of the Tangos is on the run," the captain continued. "Let's regroup on the pickup zone, over."

  "Roger that. I need help with my wounded."

  "My medics are on the way, out."

  Mitchell shifted over to the pilot. "Captain, it's time to go. I'll try to take it easy on you."

  "Well, it's not like we can fly. In fact, I'll never fly again. You know that."

  Mitchell wasn't buying into the pity party, and maybe he could relight the man's hope. "Sir, we don't surrender--ever."

  "That rocket just ended my career. My life. Leave me here."

  "No, sir."

  "What's your problem, soldier? I said get away. That's a direct order." He raised his pistol.

  Mitchell took in a long breath. "I guess you'll have to shoot me." He slapped the man's gun away and lifted him over his shoulders as the Filipino guys arrived. "I got him," he said, waving off their offers to help.

  "What's your name, soldier?" asked the captain, his tone as threatening as they came.

  "Mitchell. Scott Mitchell."

  "I'll remember that."

  "I'm sure you will." Mitchell shuffled away from the chopper, fighting to keep his balance.

  Every operator they could locate was transferred back to the pickup zone, but Mitchell's team still had five unaccounted for and presumed dead. The search for their bodies would begin at daybreak. The row of bodies was too hard to look at.

  As they rested on their packs, being attended to by Yano's medics and waiting for the choppers to land on a broad field bordering the jungle, Mitchell tried to call Captain Fang Zhi. He even went on to ask for any member of the Taiwanese team to respond, but none did.

  Rutang shared the grim news passed on by one of the Filipino medics: Carlos had passed away. To the best of Billy's knowledge, only himself, Rutang, and Mitchell had survived the ambush.

  Mitchell backhanded sweat from his brow, threw back his head, and closed his eyes.

  Welcome to the Special Forces . . .

  He was exhausted enough to sleep into the next century and so emotionally drained that he felt only a deep emptiness in his chest, accompanied by a low hum, like Gregorian monks chanting, their voices carried on the breeze. His thoughts began swirling, moments flashing from the distant to the more recent past.

  He was a teenager in Youngstown, lying on his back beneath an old Ford Mustang and learning how to do his first oil change on a car . . .

  He was wearing his neatly pressed uniform and saying good-bye to his father and siblings before he shipped out for the first time . . .

  He was shaking Captain Foyte's hand and grinning broadly over being selected for ODA 574 . . .

  A commotion began at the edge of the field, and Rutang tugged on Mitchell's shoulder. Mitchell stirred, looked up, and saw the entire Taiwanese team emerging from the trees: all twelve of them, looking exactly as they had upon entering the jungle, perhaps a little sweatier.

  His first thought was, Why aren't they all dead? Dead men tell no tales--or answer radio calls.

  Mitchell sprang off his pack and jogged toward them, his bandaged arm and leg stinging again. He spotted Captain Fang near the back of the group.

  Fang's English was pretty good, though he'd asked on several occasions for people to speak more slowly around him.

  Well, Mitchell was happy to oblige, and his question, voiced entirely out of breath, was simple: "Captain, where . . . were . . . you?"

  Fang brought himself to full height, and although he was several inches shorter than Mitchell, his muscular form and penetrating eyes offered ample intimidation. "Sergeant, I am sorry for your losses."

  "You were listening?"

  "Yes."

  "You heard my calls for help?"

  "I ordered my men to fall back."

  "Excuse me, sir?"

  Fang's team was beginning to gather around them, along with Captain Yano and his men.

  "You heard me, Sergeant Mitchell."

  Yes, he had, and the news made Mitchell nauseous.

  "We weren't brought here to cross-train with you. We were brought here to be sacrificed--and I won't allow that to happen. Not to my men. Not for you. Not for anyone."

  Mitchell began to tremble in rage. "Captain, what have you done?"

  "I made a decision. And I stand by it."

  "Captain Yano lost four men. I lost nine. You're insane." Mitchell took a step closer, coming within inches of Fang, getting directly in the captain's face. Mitchell raised his voice. "How could you walk away from the fight?"

  "Step back, Sergeant."

  "Answer my question!"

  "Step back!"

  Mitchell took another step forward, thrusting his bare chest out into Fang's and shoving the officer backward. "I will not step back! You should have stepped up! You're a coward! You're a traitor! You abandoned us! You left us to die!"

  One of Fang's men shouted something, and Mitchell craned his head to Captain Yano, who quickly translated: "He says the American is right. We are cowards. We wanted to fight. But you wouldn't let us."

  Even as Yano finished t
he translation, Fang spun around, reaching into his pack and unsheathing a strange, sticklike sword with many edges.

  He started toward his man with the weapon, but Mitchell grabbed Fang's wrist with one hand and latched onto the sword's handle with the other.

  Suddenly, Fang tripped Mitchell to the ground, wrenched free his sword hand, and struck Mitchell on the side of the head with the blade.

  The blow sent Mitchell's head jerking to one side, and he literally saw stars for a moment before he sat up, blinking hard, checking his head for blood. He should've been cut badly but wasn't.

  Meanwhile, Fang turned back toward his man, raising the sword over his head.

  Yano raced in to try to block Fang, but the rest of the Taiwanese team rushed to intercept, seizing him and beginning to drag him away.

  That's when an all-out brawl erupted, guys shouting, fists coming down while above the choppers swooped in, pivoted, and made their final descents.

  Mitchell rose, started toward Fang, screaming his name.

  Fang spun back, lowering the sword to make his thrust toward Mitchell's chest.

  Still dizzy from the blow to his head, Mitchell tried to grab the sword before it dug into his abdomen, but the metal slid through his sweaty fingers, and the sharpened tips penetrated his flesh. He gasped and groaned as Fang was ripped away by Yano, who had freed himself and now drove the man to the ground, straddling Fang.

  Mitchell stood there, blood dripping from his chest, the wound resembling an odd pattern of lines. "Captain Fang," he shouted. "You're a coward!"

  The chopper crews rushed forward, weapons drawn, just as a third chopper landed.

  Between the roar of engines and the hollering men, Mitchell couldn't hear anything, save for a single voice in his head repeating three simple words: Oh my God.

  One of the Filipino medics came over to Mitchell, lifted his voice above the din. "Let me see that wound, Sergeant."

  "What?"

  "Your wound."

  "Oh, it doesn't feel that deep."

  "Deep enough for a good scar, though."

  Mitchell shrugged and pushed past the medic, watching as the COs from all three teams began shouting and breaking up the riot. It was a scene unlike anything Mitchell had ever witnessed in his military career. But then again, none of them had ever hiked through this little corner of hell.

  Fang's CO, a stout, hard-faced major named Liang, began reprimanding him, then raised his voice even more and slapped Fang in the face--in front of all the men. Liang then seized Fang by the back of the neck and escorted him toward the chopper.

  Fang's gaze met Mitchell's for just a second, and all Mitchell could do was shake his head in disgust.

  After being flown back to the outskirts of Isabella City, where Camp Iron Horse was located, Mitchell, Rutang, and Billy were transferred to the field hospital, and by morning, all three were lying in beds, patched up and drugged up, scheduled to be shipped back to the States within forty-eight hours.

  "I just don't believe what that guy did," said Rutang.

  Mitchell sighed and rubbed his still-swollen head. "You've said that three times. Said it three different ways."

  "You're not surprised?"

  "There's more to it than we know."

  "You got that right. It's just not like them. It's not in their culture to act like that. Am I wrong? You'd think just the opposite. While we were training, he seemed like he'd send those guys to their deaths and not think twice about it."

  "He still cared about his men. Maybe too much. Who knows? He wasn't shy during the briefing. He's got politics--and they interfered with his ability to lead. It is strange."

  "Strange? Damn, I'm in a state of shock."

  "I just keep wondering what would've happened if he'd answered our call. Who'd still be alive? And who died because of him?"

  "If I had my hands around his neck right now . . ."

  "I think his CO will do the job for us."

  "What was going through his mind?"

  "We'll never know, so stop obsessing on it."

  In truth, Mitchell couldn't take his own advice. At least not at the moment. He already knew he'd be playing out a thousand different scenarios in his nightmares, and night after night, revenge would be exacted brutally, efficiently, with extreme prejudice.

  On a warm, sunny afternoon, the army held a ceremony for Scott Mitchell at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The following was read aloud:

  The President of the United States of America, Authorized by Act of Congress, July 9, 1918, has awarded the Silver Star to:

  MASTER SERGEANT SCOTT MITCHELL,

  United States Army

  For gallantry in action:

  Master Sergeant Scott Mitchell, Team Sergeant, Operational Detachment Alpha 574, is awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action on 18 August 2002 in the vicinity of Basilan Island, Southern Philippines. On that date his detachment was ambushed by Abu Sayyaf rebels who killed ODA 574's commanding officer and executive officer at the onset of battle. Despite intense mortar, automatic weapons, and small arms fire, Master Sergeant Mitchell, with forceful leadership, reorganized his men, saving the surviving team members from being overrun. Inspired by his heroic conduct and absolute fearlessness, the detachment successfully held off a numerically superior force until rescued. Master Sergeant Mitchell was wounded during this attack. The gallantry and inspirational leadership displayed by Master Sergeant Mitchell reflect great credit upon him and the military service.

  The digital cameras flashed as the medal was pinned on Mitchell's uniform. Behind him glowed a huge screen displaying the PowerPoint slides of the battlefield on Basilan Island.

  Like Rutang, who also received the Silver Star, Mitchell told the crowd that he was just doing his job. He wasn't being falsely humble. He had done what he'd been trained to do.

  Mitchell found out much later that sitting in the back of the room were two officers who had a lot to say about his potential as a Special Forces operator.

  They were part of an elite, highly covert organization known as the Ghosts.

  SIX

  KAOHSIUNG CITY

  SOUTHERN TAIWAN

  MAY 2007

  Five years after the ambush on Basilan Island, Fang Zhi stood on a street corner, smoking a cigarette and reading his newspaper in the late-afternoon glare. Yellow taxis lined the curb, and across the street, near the Toyota dealership, Fang's man, Yeh Chun-chang, sat parked in his gray sedan, waiting for a cell phone call from Fang.

  In less than thirty minutes, a man would die.

  And not just any man.

  This individual represented the primary obstacle between Fang and his future life. It was not the man's fault. He was simply a victim of his own skills.

  With car horns resounding in the street and the wind of a passing bus buffeting him as it roared by, Fang tried to calm himself. Nothing could go wrong. He had spent too many hours planning it all, waiting, watching, determining exactly what he must do.

  Nearby, a small group of middle-aged Americans obviously on vacation were marveling over the cans of Coca-Cola they had just bought, cans imprinted with Chinese characters. Fang wanted to strangle the smiles from their faces.

  Their country provided the model of arrogance, wealth, and self-indulgent lifestyle that had poisoned Taiwan's government. Officials routinely exploited their citizens to benefit themselves and gain American support. In doing so, they had created a culture of haves and have-nots, just like in America.

  The Republic of China (ROC) Army in Taiwan, taking its cue from the government, behaved the same way. They would march Taiwanese troops into the fire if it would please the United States.

  The more Fang thought about it, the shallower his breath became.

  He scowled at the tourists as they walked by, then his gaze shifted to a man standing on the corner.

  Fang did a double take. It was Sze Ma! Old Sergeant Sze Ma from Fang's last mission as an army officer. He was dressed in civilian clothes but still wor
e a crew cut, suggesting he might still be in the army. Fang tucked his newspaper under his arm, ditched his cigarette, and approached the man.

  Sze Ma, who was simply waiting for the light to change, glanced up. His lip twitched as he recognized Fang. Probably out of habit or reflex, he blurted out, "Captain."