Ghost Recon (2008)

by Clancy, Tom - Ghost Recon 01

  Mitchell had barely finished his champagne when the music suddenly returned and a hand locked onto his wrist. "You bastard, you made me cry."

  He glanced up into Kristen Fitzgerald's watery eyes. One dreaded duty down, one dreaded encounter to go.

  "Dance with me," she demanded, hauling him out on the floor before he could set down his empty flute. She wrapped her arms around him.

  Thankfully, the DJ was playing a ballad. All he had to do was rock back and forth while becoming intoxicated from the champagne and Kristen's perfume.

  He had been avoiding her all night, despite Dad's nagging, and she'd done the same.

  But a breakdown was, of course, inevitable.

  Because in Mitchell's expert opinion, she was as spectacular as ever. Her strawberry blond hair curved back into an elegant bun, and her diamond stud earrings flashed brilliantly. The maroon gown with shawl complemented every angle of her athlete's body.

  "You smell good," she said.

  "I took a shower."

  "I hate you," she suddenly blurted out.

  "I know."

  "Don't step on these shoes. They cost me over a hundred bucks."

  "Okay. You're trembling."

  "Shut up." Her gaze dropped to his medals.

  "What are you looking at? They're just a bunch of medals."

  "Right." She came in closer, put her head on his chest. "Feels like we're back at the prom."

  "Yeah, I slept in my old room last night. And, uh, can I ask you something? Why are you being so nice to me?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, I like it."

  "Really? Don't get used to it."

  "Look at my father over there. He's watching us like a hawk."

  "He's a good guy."

  "I'm worried about him. He's building his own coffin."

  "He's an eccentric."

  Mitchell nodded. "You know, if we stay out here any longer, they're going to start talking about us."

  "I know. When are you flying out?"

  "Tomorrow morning."

  She lifted her head and locked gazes with him. "After this is over, you're coming home with me."

  "I am?"

  "You questioning my orders?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "Then be quiet and listen to me complain. I can't believe after all these years you still haven't learned to dance."

  They were tipsy but hardly drunk by the time they left the banquet hall. Kristen drove them in her little white sports car back to her condo, a two-bedroom affair that was also home to her two cats.

  She had lots of big, country-style furniture and had an affinity for plaid. The place felt homey and clashed with her sophisticated gown and hairstyle.

  "I need to be back to the house by oh seven thirty," he said. "I have to get to the airport, return my rental car, and make my flight."

  "Tomorrow's Sunday. Don't worry about it. I'll get you there."

  "Kristen, I shouldn't be here. All we're doing is torturing ourselves."

  She pulled her hair out of the bun and shook free her long curls. "No. It's not like that at all."

  An hour later, they lay in silence, just watching the shadows shift across the ceiling as headlights filtered in through the long windows.

  She leaned over and began tracing the scar on his belly. "What happened here?"

  "Stupid accident in my shop."

  "It's a strange-looking scar, like one of those Asian tattoos or something."

  "Why aren't you married?"

  "I don't know. Maybe the same reason you aren't."

  "Your job takes you all over the world for years at a time?"

  She hissed. "You know what I mean."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't apologize. It's our luck."

  "My dad thinks I'll fall back in love with you, quit the army, and stay here."

  "I don't think that's what he wants for you."

  "Oh, yeah it is."

  She shook her head. "Back in April, when I went over to the house to drop off his taxes, I caught him out in the shop, staring at a picture of you. He's got it hung on the wall above his workbench."

  "There's no picture there."

  "There was. Your dad showed me a red, white, and blue ribbon on your uniform. He said it was the Silver Star. He said you had to do something very special to earn that."

  "So that's why you were looking at my medals?"

  She nodded. "We have a saying around the office. Do you know why J. Edgar Hoover hired only lawyers and CPAs when he formed the FBI? Because of our meticulous attention to detail, our curiosity, and our persistence."

  "What are you really trying to say?"

  "I'm saying that after I talked to your dad, I went online to the Silver Star registry, saw your name there twice."

  "Yeah?"

  "Then I clicked on the citation block."

  "Really?" Mitchell began to tense. Had the army actually left that door open? Impossible.

  "Yeah, and all they said was 'classified.' "

  Mitchell relaxed. "Everything's classified."

  "You should be recognized with much more than just medals."

  "It's not about recognition. It never was."

  She leaned over and ran her fingers along the side of his face. "Scott, I've had a lot of time to think about what happened to us."

  "Me, too. More than you know."

  "I always asked why, and then, last April, when I talked to your dad, I finally got my answer."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, that's why I brought you here. Not to torture us." She took his hands in hers.

  "Aw, man, please don't cry."

  Her voice cracked. "I want you to know that I get it. I used to think you were selfish. You loved the army more than me. But that's not it at all, is it?"

  His own eyes burned. "Sometimes I wonder, if I don't do it, who will?"

  "I know. Those that can--do."

  "Yeah."

  "Most people have no idea what duty really means. I never did."

  He nodded. "Sometimes it's so hard."

  "I can't even imagine." She squeezed his hands. "But listen to me. You can't stop. Because we need you."

  She dropped him off at the house by 0710, and before heading inside to wake up everyone and say his good-byes, Mitchell skulked his way back to the workshop, Special Forces style, and went inside.

  He crossed over to Dad's main workbench, saw a nail in the brown wall and a rectangular square where the paint looked darker and was not coated by a layer of dust.

  Indeed, a picture had hung there. Mitchell opened one of the bench's side drawers and found it.

  So Dad had remembered the picture at the last minute and had rushed out to the shop to hide it. He was proud of his son but too self-conscious to show it.

  Mitchell slipped the frame back into the drawer and smiled. Kristen had given him much more than she knew.

  This was a homecoming he would never forget.

  SIXTEEN

  THIRTY-FIRST GROUP ARMY HEADQUARTERS (NMR)

  SPECIAL OPERATIONS FORCES OFFICES

  XIAMEN, CHINA

  FEBRUARY 2012

  Special Operations Forces of the Nanjing Military Region of China were code-named the Flying Dragons, and consequently People's Liberation Army Colonel Xu Dingfa had suggested back in 2008 that the operation be called Pouncing Dragon, since colleagues from his old Special Forces group would play a key role in the attack on Taipei. The name had remained unchanged for all that time.

  At the moment, he was seated in his office, sharing a cup of morning tea with his most esteemed colleague, Major-General Chen Yi, commander of the entire region. Only a select few were aware of Chen's visit, and Xu understood why the general did not want to discuss matters electronically or over the phone.

  "As you predicted, the time is drawing near," Xu said, lifting his chin at a copy of the Beijing Daily resting on his desk. "They completed their negotiations yesterday morning."

  Chen smiled knowingly,
his lazy left eyelid barely moving. "Spring comes early this year."

  Taiwanese officials had announced that they had reached an agreement with the United States to forgo three diesel submarines for one new-conversion Ohio-class SSGN. The Ohio SSGN was capable of ripple firing 154 Tomahawk Cruise Missiles. No modifications were needed to Chingshan, Taiwan's recently completed secret submarine pen carved into a mountainside on the east coast. This was the first nuclear submarine the U.S. had ever considered selling to a foreign government, though Xu knew that the sale was subject to ratification by Congress.

  If all went well, their government would deem the sale a provocative act and deploy additional ground troops to its military facilities from Shanghai to Xiamen.

  Live-fire and force-on-force concentration exercises, along with aggressive amphibious operations exercises would commence immediately.

  Moreover, the country's Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA)--the phrase coined to outline the military's desire to build a smaller, more technologically advanced force--had resulted in the creation of many more high-tech units designed to target enemy communications and computer systems as well as jam the guidance systems of precision-guided munitions.

  These smaller, better-equipped units, along with Xu's Special Forces teams, were exactly what the Spring Tiger Group required to initiate the first stage of its plan.

  Tigers born in spring were on their own after the second year, the third spring, but Xu and his group had been waiting much longer than that to exact their will when others in Beijing were too cowardly to do so. The time had drawn near for the East and West to vie for supremacy in the Pacific.

  "General, we will continue to monitor the situation very closely. I trust you will notify me when it is time to prepare for the final session."

  "I will send the usual courier." Chen's attention turned to the photograph on Xu's desk. "And you may tell your parents that it will not be long now."

  Xu nodded. After a long night of drinking, he had, quite regretfully, shared that most intimate story with the general, whose own lifelong frustration with the government motivated him to act. Chen stood. "I have a very busy day and a plane ride this afternoon. I will be meeting with the deputy director tomorrow."

  Deputy Director Wang Ya of the Central Military Commission's General Political Department advised one of the most senior members of the PLA. Wang was a zhengzhi junguan (political officer), a graduate of the Chinese Academy of Military Science, a member of the State Council appointed by the National People's Congress (NPC) at the thirteenth National Congress. Chen would speak with the group's most powerful ally in the compound in western Beijing. From the beginning, Wang had offered his strong but silent endorsement of the Tigers' activities. When the time came, Wang's influence would be invaluable.

  "General, thank you for coming. I will await your message."

  "Excellent. And remember, when the time comes, we will need to move very quickly."

  "I understand, sir."

  As he showed the general out, Captain Fang Zhi was waiting for him in the outer office.

  Fang hurriedly entered and said, "Have you heard the news?"

  Xu grinned. "Hours ago, my friend."

  "Do you think the time has come?"

  Xu hesitated.

  During the past four years he and Fang had become close friends. Neither of them had performed very well at the Olympic Games, but it was there that they had forged a relationship.

  Once Xu had managed to secure a commission for Fang in the PLA, he had very slowly, very carefully, introduced Fang to his colleagues. Fang had, indeed, shared intimate knowledge of American and allied Special Forces operations and tactics. But Fang had still come from Taiwan, and Xu had been warned by Chen and others that Fang should never be fully trusted.

  Consequently, Fang was quite aware of the group's existence and its membership, but he was not part of its inner circle and unaware of the exact nature of its plans. His task, as always, would be to lead the security teams whenever the group convened.

  Xu finally answered, "Has the time come? I don't know. It's true we've been waiting for a long time, but conditions must be perfect. Don't forget the other opportunities that have come and gone. We must be patient."

  "I understand."

  "However, I would like you to go up into the mountains, meet with those elders, and see if we might secure that meeting place we discussed."

  "Do you have an exact day and time?"

  "Not yet. But I want you to see how quickly they can accommodate us."

  "I will take care of it immediately."

  With his heart pounding, Fang Zhi left Xu's office and climbed into his Brave Warrior, a new four-wheel-drive off-road vehicle that resembled a smaller version of the American Hummer and was painted olive drab. He left the Group Army Headquarters, heading east for the inland mountains.

  Soon the paved roads turned to dirt, and he rumbled past the cold streams and brown forests that would soon warm and return to their lush green. In some areas where the houses were completely shaded by trees, the only signs of civilization were the power and phone poles lining the path.

  The road grew steeper, more tortuous, with large limbs overhanging the truck. Fang had only visited the site at night, and he took a moment to marvel over the beautiful countryside. This was his home.

  His only wish was that Xu would finally trust him. He sensed the secrets in his friend's tone, and for the past four years, Fang had bided his time, hoping he would eventually be allowed to join the Spring Tigers as an equal partner. He might lack the higher rank of the others, but he was and would continue to be a valuable consultant on the enemy's tactics, techniques, and procedures.

  Fang knew he shouldn't resent Xu if that never happened. His friend was under the pressure of his colleagues, and so it was up to Fang to continue to prove his worth and loyalty.

  He drove for nearly two more hours, heading down into a remote valley where a lone Hakka castle, surrounded by steep mountains and thick forests, sprang up from the earth like a quartet of nuclear missile silos: rings with hollow centers.

  The Hakka people had, over the course of centuries, migrated from Northern China to settle in the south. They had a long and rich history, and most notably, a unique form of architecture: round, earthen castles constructed of clay, ash, and bran. These structures rose as high as four or five stories, and some had been in place for over one thousand years.

  As Fang neared the castle, the four round buildings with mushroom-shaped rooflines grew more distinct, along with a central square structure that also contained a courtyard. Nearly one hundred people lived and worked around the castle. The ground floors were reserved for storing food, cooking, eating, and socializing, while the upper floors were used as living quarters. The youngest people resided on the top floors.

  The main entrance was through a central gate, similar to the castles of Europe, and what Fang appreciated most about this particular castle were the tall wrought-iron doors that offered added security.

  It had been Fang's suggestion to work out a deal with the Hakka to borrow their castle for meetings. The location was remote, easy to secure, and should the worst ever happen, the group would be surrounded by civilian shields, which could give an enemy pause.

  Additionally, the Hakka, who were well paid for allowing them to use their facility, treated every member of the group like emperors. Most importantly, they were discreet, which had been a difficult challenge at other locations.

  As Fang drove up the long path, then turned down the road, children playing along the embankment stopped and ran after his truck.

  By the time he reached the gate, he'd drawn a small crowd of little ones, and one of the fourteen village elders, Huang, a gray-haired stick of a man whose pants were buckled high above his navel, shooed the children away and came toward Fang as he climbed out.