Ghost Recon

TWENTY-FIVE

Master Sergeant Matt Beasley was ordinarily a patient man. All those years as a student of human nature had taught him to be still like a predator, always looking and listening.

But the lights had just gone out. And the captain had ordered them to do… nothing.

They were waiting ten more minutes to give the Tigers' security team time to check in with each other, time enough to give them all a false sense of security.

Hitting the castle directly after the power went down was much too conventional, and they would be tense, despite whatever story the CIA's inside man told them about the outage.

And that explained why Beasley, Brown, Jenkins, and Hume continued lying on their bellies within the ditch at the edge of the woodland. The pair of small, two-man civilian helicopters were less than a hundred meters away.

Images of those choppers had been captured by Beasley's camera and uploaded to the network. Within a minute the helicopters had been identified as Brantly B-2Bs manufactured by a Texas company that had been bought out by the Chinese. A detailed set of schematics and even a suggested sabotage point within the cockpit focusing on the bird's electronics systems accompanied the intel.

Parked near the choppers were a pair of jeeplike SUVs identified as the new Brave Warriors, and Beasley didn't need the geeks back home to tell him how to sabotage them.

Out there, a few hundred meters beyond the vehicles, lay the castle, growing even darker as swollen clouds descended like enormous zeppelins to blot out the stars. From one window came the faintest trace of a flashlight being switched on.

Beasley returned his gaze to the helicopters. He'd hoped that the Tigers would have chosen much larger birds so that the Ghosts could've revised their exfiltration plan to include a swift chopper ride back to the coast courtesy of a Chinese pilot held at gunpoint.

But as Murphy and logic would have it, the Tigers had chosen to be discreet and flown in via those smaller civilian birds.

A few drops of rain struck the ditch, followed by a few more. Beasley hoped the captain didn't wait much longer, because once the storm really kicked in, their targets would seek cover in their vehicles, making them even harder to pick off.

The two chopper pilots and two drivers had gathered near the open tailgates of the trucks and were drinking, smoking, while one was engrossed in a small, handheld computer game.

Beasley had already played out Bravo Team's raid a half dozen times in his head. He'd initially considered a standoff attack, dropping each guy quietly like snipers and taking full advantage of the camera mounted on his Modular Rifle — Caseless (MR-C) to peek around the vehicles. However, once those men had gathered in close, he'd realized that the raid must be more swift, that all four needed to go down at once.

And to ensure success, Beasley knew they had to get in close. Very close.

"Well, that's ten minutes," whispered Jenkins over Bravo Team's radio channel.

"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead," called Beasley on the main channel. "Still waiting on you, Boss."

"Uh, yeah. Sit tight."

Something ominous had crept into the captain's tone.

"What the hell's he waiting for?" asked Brown.

"The captain knows what he's doing," Beasley retorted, only half buying the assurance.

"I know he knows. Wish he'd share it with us."

"He sounds distracted," said Jenkins.

"We're all distracted," Beasley snapped.

"I think something's going down," said Brown.

"Yeah, it's called Operation War Wraith," Beasley finished.

"Uh, I don't know. This… this ain't right," said Hume. "Every time we work with the spooks, there's always something they don't tell us — and I got a feeling the captain just got a piece of intel he definitely doesn't like."

Beasley sighed. The longer they waited, the more paranoid they would become.

Huang used the small penlight to lead the village elders into their usual meeting room. Eleven of the twelve men stared worriedly at him as he spoke. "Everyone is in their rooms. The gate door is open. Our visitors are asleep, and Fang and his men remain at their posts. I'm told there will be four men, dressed all in black. We need only stay out of their way. It will all be over soon."

One of the other elders, a ruddy-faced man named Pan who had never liked Huang because of a dispute between their sons, both now grown, widened his eyes. "I will say it again. I'm outraged that you've made this deal with the secret police. If anyone is hurt, I will blame you, Huang. You."

"What is worse? Dealing with the police or being forced to open our doors to these criminals? Tonight, our problems will end once and for all. Go now to your posts. Keep low. And watch. I am told it will happen soon."

Pan held up his index finger at Huang. "I know he's agreed to give you his truck, but you'd better not accept it. That is, as you say, a gift from a criminal."

Huang glowered at Pan as the man passed by.

Interestingly enough, Fang had driven his truck inside the central building and parked it in the courtyard, beneath a long row of canvas awnings, out of sight. He'd certainly made it appear as if he were leaving it behind.

As Huang stepped outside, he glanced at the truck then up past the balconies to where Fang now stood on the sloping roof, his cane a dark slash mark across his hip.

Huang grew rigid, and his breath became shallow. His need for revenge or baochou had been carried down through the ages and was necessary because there was no god, no law, no earthly power that would carry it out for him.

Exacting baochou was the only way Huang and the elders could save face, so Huang had decided that if the secret police did not keep their promise, then he alone would kill the man. The blemishes must be wiped clean.

There was no other way.

Frowning over the drizzle, Diaz checked her Cross-Com's downlink channel for a weather report. Damn, the radar indicated it would only get worse, and the wind speed was picking up, the direction shifting more to the southwest.

Her target didn't like the weather either. He had twice wrestled with his position, his Type 88 rifle resting steadily on its bipod. She found it curious that he wasn't toting a more powerful weapon. Still, she knew that the 88 had only been issued to the PLA in small numbers. Perhaps it was one of his personal favorites.

Diaz's own DSR 1 subsonic sniper rifle had been manufactured by the German company AMP Technical Services, and the rifle had been adopted by the GSG 9 counterterrorism group and a few other elite European agencies. DSR stood for Defensive Sniper Rifle, but in Diaz's hands, it was nothing but offensive.

The rifle had a bullpup design, meaning the action and magazine were located behind the trigger. The design increased the barrel length relative to the weapon's overall length, saving weight and increasing maneuverability. The bipod was mounted on upper rails, and the adjustable front grip was mounted on lower rails. Diaz had already made slight adjustments to the buttstock and cheekpiece, and she had inserted a spare four-round magazine into the holder in front of the trigger guard. The extra mag sitting right in front of her hand made reloading much faster and kept her gaze locked ahead on the target zone. The rifle's bipods were firmly planted on her carrying bag, which doubled as a shooter's mat, and the bag sat atop a long, flat rock.

Additionally, the DSR had a rack-and-pinion fully adjustable monopod jutting from the bottom of the buttstock; as a result, the rifle was fully seated on the firing surface by bipods up front, monopod in the back.

Diaz's subsonic variant had been adjusted to incorporate the 7.62x51mm NATO rifle cartridge instead of the more overt.338 Lapua Magnum, and while she preferred the latter ammo, the mission dictated more stealth and those unmarked shell casings provided by the general and friends in her home state.

She blinked hard and returned to her night-vision scope. He was still there, all right, and at any moment he would begin speaking into the microphone covering his mouth. As soon as he did, Diaz would tip off the captain that her man had just made his radio check.

Captain Gummerson asked himself for the second time, What is Mitchell waiting for? He's got the lights out, rain coming in, and he has the location of his targets.

Gummerson stood under the control room's crimson lights, ears pricked up for the next message. Montana's electronic countermeasures (ECM), electronic intelligence (ELINT), and Sonar teams were probing a three-dimensional battle sphere — air, surface, and subsurface — for any hint of enemy counterdetection.

Meanwhile, the OE-538 multifunction masts that were Montana's "big ear" continued to track each Ghost while monitoring all exchanges between them. Total situational awareness via mutually shared information in a common tactical picture was the epitome of network-centric warfare.

"They move in yet?" asked the XO as he entered the control room.

Gummerson shook his head. "No. All Mitchell's done is step up to the plate."

The XO shrugged. "Sometimes you wait for your pitch."

Gummerson cocked a brow. "And sometimes you strike out looking."

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!

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!"