Ghost Recon

NINETEEN

Sergeant First Class Paul Smith, Ghost Team rifleman, was home in rural Northern California for a few weeks, and it was not two days into his R & R that his boyhood friend Hernando Alameda called to say that he could use a hand loading about two hundred bales of alfalfa hay onto some flatbed trucks. Hernando had taken over the farm from his recently deceased father, and Smith knew that he was shorthanded, so he couldn't say no to his old buddy.

Hernando was twenty-seven, a few years older than Smith, and he'd been complaining all morning about the difficulties of finding good help. He worked out his frustration on the bales of hay, loading twice as fast as Smith did, both of them sweating profusely. Soon the conversation turned to women, as it always did, and Smith asked about Hernando's longtime girlfriend, Vicki, who had sweet-talked him into financing a brand-new pair of boobs.

"She just dumped me last week," Hernando said between breaths.

"How many times is that?"

"Three."

"You don't need her."

"Nope."

"But you'll be calling later."

"Yup. I'm calling in the loan."

Smith grinned. "Damn that woman."

"Hey, your dad told me he's retiring next year."

"Yeah, I can't believe it. He's been sheriff of this Podunk county for thirty years."

"You ought to take over."

Smith laughed. "I joined the army to get away from all this horse dung."

"You hate us that much?"

"No, but come on, bro, you know my parents. Dad wanted me to be a rocket scientist. And they're both still mad about the whole college thing. But I have my own life now."

"And the army's that much better? You never thought about quitting?"

Smith shrugged. There had been a time, near the end of his fourth year as an infantryman. The service hadn't been as glamorous or challenging as he'd thought. He'd spent the better part of his life outdoors, hunting and fishing. He was a bushman at heart, and a lot of guys from the city used to say he had a sixth sense. They always put him on point, like a bloodhound. And that was great, but he'd grown bored.

"There was a time when I wasn't going to re-up," he told Hernando. "But then I met this Special Forces officer, and things changed."

"He gave you the sales pitch."

"No, he just came in to do some combatives and martial arts training. The guy was amazing. He told it like it was, and to this day I still remember his training philosophy."

"Which was?"

"Well, he thought the mental advantage was just as important as firepower. He told us our training should always be mission-specific. It had to be short, and it shouldn't require us to be flexible like gymnasts. And even though he was shorter and lighter, he dropped me like a bad transmission every time. He was the most professional soldier I'd ever met."

"No kidding. You never told me this story. I thought you just did it. But I was right. He convinced you to re-up."

Smith nodded. "After working with me, he said I was Special Forces material. What he didn't tell me was how the Q-Course would kick my ass, especially Robin Sage at the end. I thought I would die out there."

"What was the guy's name?"

"Captain Scott Mitchell." Smith's cell phone began to ring. He set down his next bale of hay and checked the screen. "Sorry, buddy, I need to take this."

Deciding to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, Master Sergeant Matt Beasley, proudly sporting his dark blue Pistons jacket, climbed off his Harley Sportster and started across the rain-slick pavement.

It had been two years since he'd visited the old neighborhood, and he remembered hanging out at this very store, keeping tabs on the motley crew of characters with nicknames like Old Man Freddy, Busted Head Bob, and Wayne the Wimp.

Beasley had been a latchkey kid with decent grades, though he spent most of his time on the streets, just watching people, occasionally tipping off the police when he saw something that shouldn't be happening in his neighborhood. There had been plenty of opportunities to get involved with drugs and gangs, but Beasley had avoided those invitations. He'd seen too many of those punks get their faces shoved down onto the hoods of police cars. Those same punks often referred to him as the weird guy who never talked. That was fine with him. He was a student of human nature.

Beasley grinned as he locked gazes with a freckle-faced kid about sixteen or seventeen seated on the window ledge, hands jammed into the pockets of his dirty pull-over, black ski cap pulled down over his ears. His long, reddish brown hair wandered down past that cap, and he repeatedly backhanded his runny nose.

He was Beasley, half a lifetime ago.

The kid just looked at him, then averted his gaze. Beasley stepped inside, announced by the store's familiar ding-dong, and went to the coffee machine.

An elderly African-American couple stood at the counter, bickering with the heavyset clerk over their expired coupon for milk; otherwise, the store was empty.

Beasley finished making his coffee, grabbed his paper, and by the time he reached the counter, the old folks were gone. The clerk rang him up, and he left the store.

The kid was still there, watching. Beasley thought of asking why he wasn't in school but decided not to hassle him. Beasley had been on the other end of that conversation way too many times. Nearly slipping on the wet pavement, he crossed to his bike.

And just as he tucked his newspaper under his arm and was about to fish out his keys, something thudded against the back of his head. He glanced ever so slightly over his shoulder, saw the kid standing there, his arm extended.

"This ain't no toy gun. Your keys! Now!" The kid shoved his pistol harder into Beasley's skull.

"Easy, buddy. I was just pulling them out."

"You hand them to me. And you don't turn around."

"Okay."

Beasley drew in a long, slow breath to calm himself. He reached into his pocket, felt the keys, but he didn't grab them. He visualized his move… then made it.

Whirling and wrenching his hand from his coat, Beasley struck the kid's forearm with his own, then slid his hand down and ripped the gun from the kid's grip.

Dumbfounded, the kid gasped and stepped back, turned, about to run, then slipped in a puddle.

Beasley shook his head in disgust. "Better stay down, buddy."

Breathless, the kid rolled to face Beasley, tears forming in his eyes.

Beasley gritted his teeth. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"What are you doing with your life? Throwing it away trying to jack me?"

Beasley wanted to tell this punk he was capable of so much more. He wanted to say that he'd sat on that very window ledge, yet he'd gone on to become a Ranger and even a team sergeant with the Ghosts. He wanted to scare this kid straight. But he already sensed his little speech would fall on deaf ears.

Abruptly, his cell phone beeped with an incoming text message, and the kid exploited the diversion to burst to his feet and take off.

Beasley was about to start after him, but something told him to check the phone. He took one look at the screen and muttered, "Whoa."

Sergeant First Class Bo Jenkins had just finished his weight training routine and had decided to take a group cycle class. At six foot five, 280 pounds, he knew he looked a little ridiculous on the bike, but that had never stopped him from joining in the fun.

In fact, he always turned the class into a party, hooting and hollering as the instructor, Marcy, played her classic rock songs and his fellow riders, mostly middle-aged housewives, released their stress and angst over living in a place that was dark for way too many months a year.

Marcy was in her late thirties and liked to touch Jenkins's high-and-tight crew cut. He'd once told her that if he applied enough mousse, he could balance a full bottle of water on his hair, and the bottle would never touch his scalp.

She'd grinned. "You are definitely husband material with talent like that."

"Hey, you know, women are always looking for skills."

Now, as he was about to enter the class, his phone rang. It was Aunt Judy.

"Bo, you'd better meet me at the hospital. They've admitted your dad again."

His heart sank. "I'm on my way." He raced to the locker room to grab his bag.

After his parents had gotten divorced when he was fourteen, Jenkins had gone to live with his father in Anchorage, where Dad had become a commercial fisherman. Dad had spent most of his life on boats, and all that hard work and hard drinking had taken their toll. He had liver problems and a host of other issues that were steadily growing worse. And if it weren't for Aunt Judy, who had helped raise Jenkins, he wasn't sure how he'd get through now.

Watching his father slowly wither away was far more difficult than all those missions in the Philippines, Indonesia, Eritrea, and Cuba. They were nothing compared to standing in that hospital room and holding Dad's hand, remembering that he was the one who'd said, "Bo, I think you should join the army. You need focus. They'll give it to you."

Jenkins was the most physically imposing member of the Ghosts, joking that he sprinkled brass casings on his cornflakes instead of blueberries, but he wasn't strong enough to handle this. Not this.

He could barely breathe by the time he left the gym and headed out to his car. The phone rang again. It wasn't Aunt Judy. And Jenkins's heart sank even more. "No, no, no. Not now. Come on, not now!"

"Alex, I really appreciate this. Just thought it'd be nice to see another life."

Sergeant First Class Alex Nolan smiled and lifted a thumb to shove his spectacles higher on his nose. It was a nervous habit that occurred every time someone embarrassed him or made him feel awkward. Even a sincere thank-you like the one Hume was offering could trigger the response. "Hey, man, it's cool. And don't feel bad. I didn't get to go here, either."

Nolan's buddy John Hume was a staff sergeant, anti-tank gunner, and demolitions expert with the Ghosts. He'd been in the Fifth Infantry Brigade in Iraq, had been an engineer sergeant on Special Forces teams, had fought in the Philippines and spoke fluent Tagalog, and was one of the first guys to befriend Nolan when he had been selected for the Ghosts as a senior medical sergeant. They were both a handful of years older than the average Ghost and had become fast friends. Hume had opted to spend the first few days of his R & R with Nolan in Nolan's hometown of Boston.

Hume had asked if they could visit MIT, and, after walking the campus, they had headed inside the museum to check out the Robots and Beyond exhibit featuring the work done at MIT's Artificial Intelligence Laboratory.

Despite all the fascinating displays, Hume couldn't hold his attention on anything for very long. His brother Billy had called from San Francisco to say he was upset that Hume hadn't come straight home to see their mother. It seemed that Hume's brother had become the caregiver for their elderly mom. Hume had made a rather terrible faux pas by opting to spend a few days with his buddy first. Nolan could tell his friend was upset and had even let him off the hook by saying it was fine if he had to leave.

However, Hume needed to see MIT. After high school, he'd been accepted and never been more proud of that, but his father had had a stroke, and he'd been forced to take over the family farm in Salt Lake City and had given up on his dream. But then his father had passed on and, after a few years, he'd met an old buddy from high school who'd joined the army and had presented an entirely different path for Hume to consider.

Hume raised his chin at the crowd watching a demonstration of a haptic interface that allowed robots to simulate a sense of touch. "Hey, Alex, these robots are going to take over the world. If they replace me with a robot, then you can forget about your certification and residency, forget all about being a hotshot combat doc and saving guys like me. You need to be a robot repairman."

"No, they'll invent robot medics. You know, we trained with one of those unmanned ground vehicles a few years back. They call them SUVGs. Thing was small but nasty."

"Yeah, I've seen those. I'd like to blow one up — just to say I did."

Nolan chuckled. "You were the kid who stuffed fire-crackers in the frog's mouth."

"No, actually, Dad and I put on some world-class fireworks shows. People came from all over to see them." Hume's voice grew thin. "Dad would've loved to have seen this place, too."

Nolan's phone began to vibrate, just as Hume's began to ring. They checked their screens.

Hume sighed. "My brother's really going to flip out now."

"Dude, we have to be in Subic Bay, and they're timing us," said Nolan, already breaking into a jog. "Come on!"