Ghost Recon

THIRTY

Captain Gummerson approached the two naval aviators just as Lieutenant Moch shook his fist and muttered, "Yeah."

They were in the control room, and Moch and his copilot, Lieutenant Justin Schumaker, had been a study in sheer determination as they'd piloted the Predator over the twisting mountain road. Once they'd located a swath of ground wide enough to permit the Predator's wingspan of 14.8 meters, they had descended hard and fast through the rainstorm, putting the bird on a direct intercept course with Mitchell's fleeing guard.

Gummerson had listened to the initial request, which had raised a few brows on Montana.

"Predator support, this is Diaz," called one of Mitchell's Ghosts.

"Hey, Alicia. Go ahead."

"Jeff, remember that story you told me? Well, I need you to stop a train."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. It's up to you, Mr. Naval Aviator."

"Roger that. Sit back and enjoy the show."

Now Gummerson leaned over Moch and said, "I assume you stopped your train — or is it a truck?"

"Oh, yeah, sir. All he saw was our headlight before we ran him off the road." Moch pointed at one of his monitors with thermal images and pairs of reticles superimposed over several data bars. "Check it out. You see the look on his face?"

"Wow. But he did see the bird."

"True. But he won't be around long enough to tell."

Gummerson nodded and glanced over at Lieutenant Commander Sands, who appeared equally impressed.

Moch's copilot began speaking quickly over his radio as flashing red circles appeared along a three-dimensional rendering of the drone's fuselage.

"What now?" groaned Moch.

"Looks like some hydraulic and engine damage, and a small fuel leak from all that gunfire," said Schumaker. "Sensor operators back home confirm."

"Lieutenant, I need you to take her back over the harbor before you ditch. Can you still do that?" asked Gummerson.

"We'll sweet-talk her into one last pass, sir."

"Focus on the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island. That zone concerns me the most."

Moch gently shifted the joystick controller. "On our way."

Gummerson faced Sands. "XO, are the SEALs ready?"

"Standing by."

"Excellent. Tell 'em it won't be long."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Satellite imagery relayed to Mitchell's HUD indicated that Fang was out of his ride, but he had not fled. He was trying to use the truck's forward winch to drag the vehicle from the embankment and, perhaps, tip it upright. If he could utilize a few trees and rig the tow line at the proper angle, he could get back on the road.

They were about five minutes away from his position, and Mitchell knew that if they roared up on him, he'd bolt into the woods.

A pang of guilt woke deep in Mitchell's gut. The mission and his people came first, yes, but this was a chance to slam shut one of the most painful doors of his life. Could he justify taking time out for revenge?

Maybe Fang had seen the Predator. Maybe he'd alert the PLA that the attack had come from Americans.

And didn't General Keating need more time to get those patrol boats away from the harbor?

He could rationalize it all he wanted, but the guilt still clawed at his neck and began robbing him of breath. He turned to the backseat. "Nolan, how're we doing?"

"A whole lot better," replied the medic.

"Hey, sir," said Brown, moving his lips as though tasting something very bad, a symptom of a head wound. "I'm okay."

"Me, too," said Hume.

"Marcus, I'm so sorry," said Diaz.

"Forget it. I know if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't have missed."

"We'll talk more later," she said.

Mitchell tensed. "All right, listen up. We'll be on that last guard in a minute. He's rolled over and is trying to free his truck with a winch. I don't want to leave any loose ends — particularly a military witness like this guy, so I plan to take him out."

"Sounds good to us, sir," said Nolan.

"There's something else, something you have a right to know. That guard's name is Fang Zhi. He's from Taiwan. He was a captain in their army, and I worked with him in the Philippines, doing some joint training back in '02. We got ambushed, and he wouldn't order his team to attack. He said our orders were unconscionable. I lost a lot of good men because of that man."

"Sir, are you serious?" asked Diaz.

"I am. When the drone was deployed, I got a good look at him."

"Whoa, what the hell's he doing here?" asked Hume.

Mitchell sighed. "I heard he got busted out of the army. He must've defected to China. But that doesn't matter. All I'm trying to say is, you guys come first."

"Sir, the rumors have gone around," said Diaz. "He's the guy who gave you that scar, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Then, sir, you tell me where to pull over." Diaz's tone darkened. "We'll go down there and take care of business."

"No. I won't risk you guys for that. You give me five minutes. If you don't hear from me, I'm dead. You come down, get my body, and get to the coast. All right, this is close enough."

As Diaz slowed, she shook her head and raised her voice: "Sir, we have no intention of collecting your body. You're going to kill that bastard. And maybe you don't want us with you, but we can still help."

Mitchell climbed out of the SUV, gave her a curt nod. "Okay. Stay in touch."

When Fang's Brave Warrior had slammed onto its side and skidded down into the mud, he'd just sat there, stunned. He'd thought, That drone… it has to belong to the Americans.

After snatching up his rifle and loading his last magazine, he'd slung the weapon over his shoulder and had crawled his way out of the truck through the back door.

Once on the ground, his gaze had swept across the dark sky for the drone. Was that its engine humming lowly in the distance? Maybe. Maybe it was retreating.

He'd surveyed the embankment. The road had become more narrow again, and trees with thick, talonlike limbs rose on a slope just off to his left. He'd draped the heavy tow line over two thick branches and, after hooking it back over itself, he'd run back to the truck and switched on the winch. The truck slid forward, plowing up mud, but the angle was no good. The line simply dragged the truck forward and did not, as Fang had anticipated, lift it upright.

Suddenly, one limb cracked, the tow line fell slack, and the truck stopped. Fang raged aloud and rushed back to the truck to switch off the winch. He would try once more; then he would abandon the truck and take off on foot.

As he leaned forward toward the winch, something nicked his shoulder. He rolled over, felt the sharp stinging, then looked down at his uniform shirt. A small amount of blood had soaked through the fabric.

He desperately reached back for his rifle, came up with it, and began easing forward on elbows and knees, keeping tight to the truck, calculating where that shot had originated. The wound began to throb, the blood beating in his ears.

Where are you?

A shadow shifted up on the slope to his left, near the trees.

Fang swung his rifle around and opened fire, laying down a vicious salvo while screaming through the rattling and pouring rain.

The second he ceased fire, he rose, got around the truck, and charged across the road and into the thicker knots of trees and waist-high shrubs.

Mitchell knew he'd struck Fang, but the perfect head shot had turned into a slight shoulder wound, damn it. Even with the IWS's aiming assistance, he was no Diaz. He'd been shifting toward the next tree when Fang had returned fire. He crawled forward now, checking his HUD. Fang had retreated into the opposite woods.

"Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. We heard the shots. I have your position. Target is heading north, but there's a big rock wall in his way. He probably doesn't see it yet. Follow him in. You can trap him there."

"Roger that," said Mitchell, already jogging away from the slope. He stomped past Fang's truck and splashed across the road, heading toward the forest.

"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. Our ETA is two minutes. You want us to hold back with Diaz?"

"Negative. You guys take point and head on to the coast."

"Roger that, Boss."

Mitchell pushed through the weeds and grass, shifted around the next few trees, then the slope grew rockier, steeper, and he reached the next tree and crouched down as he studied the satellite image in his HUD. Fang was close.

The rain fell harder, sifting through the thick canopy, the heaviest drops tapping on Mitchell's shoulders like a nervous buddy trying to get his attention. That buddy began whispering in his ear: "He's over here. No, he's over there. Check that tree. That bush. No, that one." The gun cam's screen glowed softly, and Mitchell wiped off the rain and used it to peer around the next trunk.

No movement. He switched off the camera now, lest its light give up his position.

He took a huge breath and darted from the tree, ascending along mud-covered stone toward the rocky wall ahead. He veered left toward the last few trees.

The satellite image set his pulse racing even more.

Fang was on top of him. Literally. He whirled — and at that moment the grave error he had made finally, inevitably dawned on him.

Mitchell threw himself forward as Fang, who had just climbed a tree and was positioning himself on the lowest, heaviest limb, opened fire.

A round tore into Mitchell's right arm, just above his elbow, and another sparked off his MR-C as he slid forward and rolled, raising the rifle to unleash a volley up through the trees, even as Fang continued firing, seemingly bent on unloading his entire magazine.

Mitchell rolled again, releasing another burst.

Fang screamed, but his voice broke off into a gurgling sound.

Smoke wafted up from Mitchell's barrel. He lay there struggling for breath, the million taps of rain on limbs and leaves droning on.

He squinted up, saw Fang's arm just dangling over the branch.

It was over. Finally over. And Mitchell's only regret was that Fang had not known his killer.

"Diaz, this is Ghost Lead. Bring the truck down. I'm hit, but I'll be there in a minute."

"Roger that. How bad are you?"

He moved his wounded arm. At least he could do that. "We'll see. Just come."

Before Mitchell could get to his feet, something thumped into the mud not a meter from his feet.

He blinked hard through the pain.

The object was a wooden shaft hand-carved in a tiger-stripe pattern: Fang's cane. But there was only the empty sheath. It must have slipped off the sword on its own.

Or had it? Mitchell looked up.

Fang had balanced himself on the limb and drawn the sword high above his head in a reverse grip, tip down. A guttural cry exploded from his lips as he launched himself off the limb.

He came down toward Mitchell like a tiger baring its fangs, and no force in the world could stop him.

With a gasp and a violent shudder, Mitchell reacted, his thoughts shutting down, his muscles taking over.

He rolled out of the way, his Cross-Com falling off his ear just as the man hit the mud and his sword impaled the mire, burying itself to the hilt.

Diaz's voice buzzed from the earpiece/monocle lying on the ground, "Captain, we're in position. Why are you still up there?"

As Mitchell turned to bring his rifle to bear, Fang wrenched free the blade and with both hands batted away Mitchell's weapon, even as Mitchell squeezed the trigger, the rounds going astray. The sword's metal edges struck Mitchell's support hand with such force that he reflexively released that hand from the weapon and held his breath in extreme pain.

Exploiting that opening, Fang dropped to his knees, releasing one hand from the hilt and placing it near the sword's tip. He now used the weapon to drive Mitchell's rifle back into the mud as he straddled Mitchell.

With his still-throbbing free hand, Mitchell struck a roundhouse to Fang's chin, stunning the man into releasing some pressure on the sword.

Now Mitchell pushed forward, driving Fang's sword back just enough to slip his hand free of the rifle.

Seeing that, Fang came back up, and now one-handing the sword, drew back in, preparing for a thrusting blow to Mitchell's heart.

Because only the sword's tip was sharp, Mitchell locked bare hands onto the wet metal shaft, and, with eyes tearing through the excruciating, throbbing pain from his wounded arm, he drove the sword up, over his shoulder, as Fang made his thrust and once more impaled the mud.

Then Fang wrenched the sword back so quickly that it slipped through Mitchell's fingers.

Holding the weapon once more in a reverse grip, Fang reared back, his face contorted in a mask of sharp, inhuman angles, his eyes dark voids that narrowed as he issued an ear-splitting war cry and brought down the sword.