Ghost Recon

TWENTY-NINE

Mitchell ordered the others to load Brown and Hume into his SUV. Nolan climbed into the back to better assess their wounds and treat them while en route back to the coast. Hume was in and out. Brown was just coming around.

They raced off, while Ramirez, Beasley, Smith, and Jenkins climbed into Buddha's SUV.

As Diaz took them up onto the slick mountain road, struggling with the wheel, Mitchell just happened to glance in the side-view mirror.

Buddha's SUV had yet to pull out of the courtyard. A man was running toward the truck, waving one hand.

"Ramirez, this is Ghost Lead. What's going on down there?"

They had been screaming for Buddha to get the hell out of there, but the fat man had spotted someone running across the courtyard and had cried, "Wait!"

Ramirez, who was sitting up front, swung his pistol around and aimed at Buddha's head. "Drive!"

"No, that's Huang, our contact. Just wait one second!"

"Get moving now!" shouted Ramirez. "This place'll get hot soon. Come on!"

Buddha faced him with widening eyes. "Patience."

"Get out of the car!" screamed Beasley from the backseat. "Out, fat man! I'm driving!"

"Huang?" shouted Buddha, ignoring Beasley. "What is it?"

Huang waved and continued running toward the SUV, where he saw Buddha turn back and once more scream at the men inside. The pistol was tucked into Huang's pocket.

He had seen Fang escape in the Brave Warrior that was supposed to be Huang's.

He had watched the men climb into Buddha's truck and knew he was going to drive away, leaving Huang with nothing.

Fang had lied and made false promises.

Buddha had lied and broken his promise to kill Fang.

Huang must save face. He must.

"Buddha! Wait! I have something for you."

The exhaustion, lack of sleep, and the high humidity had all taken their toll on Buddha, who was slow to realize what was happening.

Huang did not have some last bit of information for him.

He had a bullet.

The scrawny old man reached into his pocket and produced a pistol.

Buddha reached for his weapon, even as the back door slammed open and one of the Ghosts burst outside.

But it all happened too fast for old Buddha. And there was a strange sense of resignation that took hold, that feeling just before he fell asleep after a long day.

Huang's pistol flashed.

The first round sliced through Buddha's neck just as Ramirez fired past Buddha's face.

The second round struck Buddha in the head, and while he should have died quickly, there was, it seemed, just enough time for a final thought, nothing profound, just a simple line from the Dhammapada, one he often repeated to calm himself: "Here shall I dwell in the season of rains, and here in winter and summer."

Smith flinched over his wounded arm, but he still managed to leap from the SUV, and, one-handing his MR-C, cut down the scarecrow with the pistol.

"Get Buddha out of that seat! Get him in the back!" shouted Ramirez, who then added. "Jesus, I'm hit, too!"

Beasley and Jenkins were out of the truck, rushing to the driver's side to haul out Buddha and load him into the cargo compartment. Smith figured they'd call higher to find out what they wanted to do with the bodies of the CIA guys, but it'd be unwise to leave them behind.

Mitchell was still calling for a SITREP over the radio, and Beasley filled him in while Smith ran back around the truck to check on Ramirez, who had been lifting his arm when that first shot had passed through Buddha's neck. The round had continued on to strike him in the right shoulder, near his upper chest.

"Hey, least you got shot by a bad guy," groaned Ramirez. "That old man got me."

"Yeah, kind of embarrassing."

Ramirez snorted. "Shut up."

"Kidding." Smith checked for an exit wound, found one. "All right, it passed right on through. I know it hurts. We'll tape you up for now."

Ramirez's face screwed up into a knot, and he cursed.

"Joey, if you can get in back, we'll treat you," said Beasley. "Jenkins, you take the wheel."

"Come on," said Smith, reaching out to help Ramirez down from the passenger's seat.

"Bravo Lead," called Mitchell. "Get out of there and light up those choppers."

"Roger that."

Once the last door had slammed shut and Jenkins was wheeling them around, Beasley issued a curt, "Three, two, one," and set off the C4 packed tightly into the helicopters and trucks behind the castle.

The idea, of course, was to keep any military or police response focused inland — and between the castle explosion and the one at the transformer station, Smith figured they had done a convincing job of baiting the hook.

He craned his head and stared back at the castle, water streaming off the rooflines like melting wax as four magnificent fireballs rose skyward and swelled into orange mushrooms behind it. The explosions cast the place in an otherworldly glow, and as they rose higher into the mountains, the valley shone once more in the flicker of lightning.

It was an unforgettable sight, a painting from ancient China coming alive before his eyes,

As Smith turned back and settled into his seat, window down, rifle at the ready, he thought of his parents back home, wished they could've come along with him on this mission. They might realize once and for all that giving up his position as a Ghost to become a small-town sheriff would be like playing in the major leagues and then deciding to coach weekend softball games.

Maybe one day, when he slowed down, but not now. Not when his blood coursed like a million volts through his veins.

While Diaz coaxed the SUV through torrents of rain and mud, Mitchell sat beside her, about to check his HUD to home in on Fang's current location.

However, his downlink channel screen crackled to life with an image of General Keating in the command center. "Mitchell, great work out there, son. Now it's time to come home. But we have a problem. Either your infiltration at the coast went south and you were spotted or that power outage has really spooked them."

The image on screen shifted from Keating to a three-dimensional, rotating graphic of a Chinese patrol boat with accompanying identification label and detailed specs: Type 62C Shanghai-II-class gun patrol boat. Length: 38.78 meters. Top speed: 28.5 knots. Crew: 36. Armament: two twin-barrel 37 mm antiaircraft artillery (AAA) guns and two twin-barrel 25 mm AAA guns.

The general continued: "Two of these Shanghai-class patrol boats are en route to Xiamen Harbor. Most of the newer gunboats of the East Sea Fleet are up in Ningde, but apparently, the older 62Cs were being transferred to other seaports, which accounts for this pair."

"Sir, you trying to make me feel better by saying they're older boats? Their guns are big, and I bet they work just fine."

"You're right. But hang in there, son. We're working some angles from our end."

"Sir, I've got four wounded. Getting back to the sub will be hard enough without those patrol boats breathing down our necks. I need them gone."

"I hear you, Mitchell. Just stand by."

Fang Zhi rumbled down the winding mountain road, spinning out in the mud as he cut curves too sharply. He had no choice but to keep the headlights on and squint through the heavy rain pelting his windshield. His thoughts continued to leap out ahead of the truck, to his destination — his future.

When they discovered all the bodies, and the investigations began in the morning, it wouldn't take long before they located him, questioned him, tortured him into saying what they wanted. Someone would have to take the fall for this. The rage filled his gut and finally erupted from his mouth.

He screamed at the droning wipers. He screamed at the Spring Tigers for failing him.

Yes, it was their fault. There had been a huge breach in security, and if they had placed more faith in him, given him responsibilities at the strategic level, he might have discovered it. One of his guards had called to say that he'd heard the attackers speaking English with American accents.

Fang beat his fist on the steering wheel. How many of his lives could the Americans ruin? And where was he going, except away? He couldn't stay in China. He would never return to Taiwan.

Maybe he could get to the Philippines. He knew two men who could help him do that. They smuggled out women for the sex trade. He could pay them for help. That was it. He would go back to the base, gather all of his belongings, and be gone before daylight. His life would come full circle. He would return to the place where all his trouble had begun.

As he rounded the next corner, the road grew considerably wider, the forest drifting back another twenty meters from the embankment. Suddenly, a single headlight came out of nowhere and raced toward him. He narrowed his gaze and reached over for his pistol, sitting beside the QBZ-95 assault rifle on his seat.

Calm down, he ordered himself. It was probably some old farmer with one busted headlight or some punk on a scooter or motorcycle. He accelerated and kept to the right, but the headlight veered and came straight at him.

General Joshua Keating had just finished sharing the good news with the President of the United States. Targets terminated. Ghost Team exfiltrating. Keating had carefully omitted the news of the Chinese patrol boats. No need to worry the president just yet. Keating ended the video call and was about to reach for his bottle of water when Dr. Gorbatova stepped over to his desk.

"General, our mole has just arrived at his office, but I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding. He was under the impression he was flying out now. We instructed him that he had one more task to complete, but he is very nervous."

"Poor boy. Maybe if he was out there with my Ghosts, he'd have something to be nervous about."

"General, I'm unsure if we can count on him. I don't think he trusts us anymore."

"I don't want excuses, Doctor. I've got wounded men out there. You've got two dead. You tell your boy lives are depending upon him."

Captain Zuo Junping had rushed past the building's perimeter guards, telling them there was trouble in Xiamen and that they should prepare for more arrivals.

He had used his key to enter Deputy Director Wang Ya's office. Now he sat at the director's desk in the dim LED light of Wang's computer screen. He needed to send off the proper e-mails, then he would make the calls. The DIA had charged him with ensuring that the military response was focused inland, and so Zuo, acting as the deputy director, would send those requests up through the CMC. Moreover, there were two patrol boats headed toward Xiamen Harbor, and Zuo had been ordered to send them ten miles north to investigate smuggling activity at the Gaoji Seawall.

Zuo had given away or sold off everything he owned. Back at his apartment were a blanket, a pillow, and two packed suitcases.

After his fellow agent Lo Kuo-hui had left with the good news that the DIA had honored their deal with him, Zuo had finally believed that the agency would help him, too. But this last-minute mission left him sweaty and breathless.

He hit the Return key, reached for the phone.

The door swung open, the lights switched on, and in rushed the deputy director himself, bald pate gleaming, eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. Behind him came two security guards, their rifles trained on Zuo, whose hand went for the pistol holstered at his waist.

"Hands on the desk," barked Wang, as the guards moved in closer.

Zuo raised his palms and gently returned them to the keyboard.

"I am deeply hurt," Wang continued. "I know you used my phone to call Geneva. Who are you working for? The Ministry of Public Security or State Security?"

Zuo swallowed, tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come at first. At least Wang didn't know he was spying for the Americans. He assumed he'd been betrayed, a breakdown in guanxi, in connections. Wang was involved in something even bigger than the Spring Tiger Group's plan, but Zuo wasn't sure what. There'd been no answer in Geneva, but he had passed on that number to the Americans.

Wang shook his head in disappointment. "I haven't slept in two days. I was thinking about meeting you at the academy, about how you've become my son. I have grown sick. Is this what a son does to his father?"

Zuo averted his gaze. "No."

"Then what shall I do with you?"

"Please, sir. I am not working for anyone. I was just curious. Stupid."

Wang crossed around the desk. "Stand up!"

Zuo complied.

Wang reached down, removed Zuo's pistol, and handed it to one of the guards. Then he shook his head and abruptly smacked Zuo across the face. "I have no tolerance or forgiveness or mercy for spies."

With his cheek on fire, Zuo lowered his head and flexed his fingers. This was it. Wang would have him die in a robbery or an accident — nothing to arouse further investigation by State Security. There would be no new life back in America. No freedom. All of the spying he had done for the Americans had been for nothing.

Nothing!

Slowly, he raised his head, looked Wang straight in the eye, then he threw himself forward, wrapping his fingers around the director's throat. He drove the man onto the floor and began digging his fingers into warm, flabby flesh, just as the guards seized his arms and wrenched him off.

One guard reared back and punched Zuo in the temple. He rolled back, across the floor, the room spinning.

"Get him out of here," Wang cried. "Back down to my car. Hurry now!"

They hauled Zuo to his feet, dragged him out the door as he struggled to remain conscious.

The vehicle with the single headlight barreled toward Fang, its engine growing louder and issuing a strange and rhythmic whine. He thrust out his hand, firing his pistol until the magazine was empty.

But the thing kept coming.

He reached over, seized his rifle, propped the barrel on the side-view mirror, and unloaded the ten bullets left in the magazine. He let the rifle fall away, just as he cut the wheel to the right, veering sharply off the road.

With a violent jostle that threw him up from the seat, he hit the embankment, and the truck suddenly dropped a meter and began rolling onto its side.

His gaze flicked up to his left, and he couldn't believe what came roaring by.