Ghost Recon

FIVE

"I won't lie here and die without a fight," said the pilot at Mitchell's side. He reached for his sidearm. "I'm taking one with me."

"Just hold up," Mitchell said, aiming at the nearest gunman leaning out from behind a tree, barely visible in grainy darkness. "Something's weird. They see us. They should've fired already."

"Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06, over?"

Mitchell lowered his voice. "Go ahead."

"I've got my Bravo Team at the chopper crash site. They see you but are holding to continue recon, over."

Mitchell sighed deeply. He got up onto his haunches. "Hold fire!" he cried to the men on the perimeter. "Fall back on me!"

The gunmen came dashing from the trees, and they were, in fact, Yano's men.

"Ricochet, the last of the Tangos is on the run," the captain continued. "Let's regroup on the pickup zone, over."

"Roger that. I need help with my wounded."

"My medics are on the way, out."

Mitchell shifted over to the pilot. "Captain, it's time to go. I'll try to take it easy on you."

"Well, it's not like we can fly. In fact, I'll never fly again. You know that."

Mitchell wasn't buying into the pity party, and maybe he could relight the man's hope. "Sir, we don't surrender — ever."

"That rocket just ended my career. My life. Leave me here."

"No, sir."

"What's your problem, soldier? I said get away. That's a direct order." He raised his pistol.

Mitchell took in a long breath. "I guess you'll have to shoot me." He slapped the man's gun away and lifted him over his shoulders as the Filipino guys arrived. "I got him," he said, waving off their offers to help.

"What's your name, soldier?" asked the captain, his tone as threatening as they came.

"Mitchell. Scott Mitchell."

"I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will." Mitchell shuffled away from the chopper, fighting to keep his balance.

Every operator they could locate was transferred back to the pickup zone, but Mitchell's team still had five unaccounted for and presumed dead. The search for their bodies would begin at daybreak. The row of bodies was too hard to look at.

As they rested on their packs, being attended to by Yano's medics and waiting for the choppers to land on a broad field bordering the jungle, Mitchell tried to call Captain Fang Zhi. He even went on to ask for any member of the Taiwanese team to respond, but none did.

Rutang shared the grim news passed on by one of the Filipino medics: Carlos had passed away. To the best of Billy's knowledge, only himself, Rutang, and Mitchell had survived the ambush.

Mitchell backhanded sweat from his brow, threw back his head, and closed his eyes.

Welcome to the Special Forces…

He was exhausted enough to sleep into the next century and so emotionally drained that he felt only a deep emptiness in his chest, accompanied by a low hum, like Gregorian monks chanting, their voices carried on the breeze. His thoughts began swirling, moments flashing from the distant to the more recent past.

He was a teenager in Youngstown, lying on his back beneath an old Ford Mustang and learning how to do his first oil change on a car…

He was wearing his neatly pressed uniform and saying good-bye to his father and siblings before he shipped out for the first time…

He was shaking Captain Foyte's hand and grinning broadly over being selected for ODA 574…

A commotion began at the edge of the field, and Rutang tugged on Mitchell's shoulder. Mitchell stirred, looked up, and saw the entire Taiwanese team emerging from the trees: all twelve of them, looking exactly as they had upon entering the jungle, perhaps a little sweatier.

His first thought was, Why aren't they all dead? Dead men tell no tales — or answer radio calls.

Mitchell sprang off his pack and jogged toward them, his bandaged arm and leg stinging again. He spotted Captain Fang near the back of the group.

Fang's English was pretty good, though he'd asked on several occasions for people to speak more slowly around him.

Well, Mitchell was happy to oblige, and his question, voiced entirely out of breath, was simple: "Captain, where… were… you?"

Fang brought himself to full height, and although he was several inches shorter than Mitchell, his muscular form and penetrating eyes offered ample intimidation. "Sergeant, I am sorry for your losses."

"You were listening?"

"Yes."

"You heard my calls for help?"

"I ordered my men to fall back."

"Excuse me, sir?"

Fang's team was beginning to gather around them, along with Captain Yano and his men.

"You heard me, Sergeant Mitchell."

Yes, he had, and the news made Mitchell nauseous.

"We weren't brought here to cross-train with you. We were brought here to be sacrificed — and I won't allow that to happen. Not to my men. Not for you. Not for anyone."

Mitchell began to tremble in rage. "Captain, what have you done?"

"I made a decision. And I stand by it."

"Captain Yano lost four men. I lost nine. You're insane." Mitchell took a step closer, coming within inches of Fang, getting directly in the captain's face. Mitchell raised his voice. "How could you walk away from the fight?"

"Step back, Sergeant."

"Answer my question!"

"Step back!"

Mitchell took another step forward, thrusting his bare chest out into Fang's and shoving the officer backward. "I will not step back! You should have stepped up! You're a coward! You're a traitor! You abandoned us! You left us to die!"

One of Fang's men shouted something, and Mitchell craned his head to Captain Yano, who quickly translated: "He says the American is right. We are cowards. We wanted to fight. But you wouldn't let us."

Even as Yano finished the translation, Fang spun around, reaching into his pack and unsheathing a strange, sticklike sword with many edges.

He started toward his man with the weapon, but Mitchell grabbed Fang's wrist with one hand and latched onto the sword's handle with the other.

Suddenly, Fang tripped Mitchell to the ground, wrenched free his sword hand, and struck Mitchell on the side of the head with the blade.

The blow sent Mitchell's head jerking to one side, and he literally saw stars for a moment before he sat up, blinking hard, checking his head for blood. He should've been cut badly but wasn't.

Meanwhile, Fang turned back toward his man, raising the sword over his head.

Yano raced in to try to block Fang, but the rest of the Taiwanese team rushed to intercept, seizing him and beginning to drag him away.

That's when an all-out brawl erupted, guys shouting, fists coming down while above the choppers swooped in, pivoted, and made their final descents.

Mitchell rose, started toward Fang, screaming his name.

Fang spun back, lowering the sword to make his thrust toward Mitchell's chest.

Still dizzy from the blow to his head, Mitchell tried to grab the sword before it dug into his abdomen, but the metal slid through his sweaty fingers, and the sharpened tips penetrated his flesh. He gasped and groaned as Fang was ripped away by Yano, who had freed himself and now drove the man to the ground, straddling Fang.

Mitchell stood there, blood dripping from his chest, the wound resembling an odd pattern of lines. "Captain Fang," he shouted. "You're a coward!"

The chopper crews rushed forward, weapons drawn, just as a third chopper landed.

Between the roar of engines and the hollering men, Mitchell couldn't hear anything, save for a single voice in his head repeating three simple words: Oh my God.

One of the Filipino medics came over to Mitchell, lifted his voice above the din. "Let me see that wound, Sergeant."

"What?"

"Your wound."

"Oh, it doesn't feel that deep."

"Deep enough for a good scar, though."

Mitchell shrugged and pushed past the medic, watching as the COs from all three teams began shouting and breaking up the riot. It was a scene unlike anything Mitchell had ever witnessed in his military career. But then again, none of them had ever hiked through this little corner of hell.

Fang's CO, a stout, hard-faced major named Liang, began reprimanding him, then raised his voice even more and slapped Fang in the face — in front of all the men. Liang then seized Fang by the back of the neck and escorted him toward the chopper.

Fang's gaze met Mitchell's for just a second, and all Mitchell could do was shake his head in disgust.

After being flown back to the outskirts of Isabella City, where Camp Iron Horse was located, Mitchell, Rutang, and Billy were transferred to the field hospital, and by morning, all three were lying in beds, patched up and drugged up, scheduled to be shipped back to the States within forty-eight hours.

"I just don't believe what that guy did," said Rutang.

Mitchell sighed and rubbed his still-swollen head. "You've said that three times. Said it three different ways."

"You're not surprised?"

"There's more to it than we know."

"You got that right. It's just not like them. It's not in their culture to act like that. Am I wrong? You'd think just the opposite. While we were training, he seemed like he'd send those guys to their deaths and not think twice about it."

"He still cared about his men. Maybe too much. Who knows? He wasn't shy during the briefing. He's got politics — and they interfered with his ability to lead. It is strange."

"Strange? Damn, I'm in a state of shock."

"I just keep wondering what would've happened if he'd answered our call. Who'd still be alive? And who died because of him?"

"If I had my hands around his neck right now…"

"I think his CO will do the job for us."

"What was going through his mind?"

"We'll never know, so stop obsessing on it."

In truth, Mitchell couldn't take his own advice. At least not at the moment. He already knew he'd be playing out a thousand different scenarios in his nightmares, and night after night, revenge would be exacted brutally, efficiently, with extreme prejudice.

On a warm, sunny afternoon, the army held a ceremony for Scott Mitchell at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The following was read aloud:

The digital cameras flashed as the medal was pinned on Mitchell's uniform. Behind him glowed a huge screen displaying the PowerPoint slides of the battlefield on Basilan Island.

Like Rutang, who also received the Silver Star, Mitchell told the crowd that he was just doing his job. He wasn't being falsely humble. He had done what he'd been trained to do.

Mitchell found out much later that sitting in the back of the room were two officers who had a lot to say about his potential as a Special Forces operator.

They were part of an elite, highly covert organization known as the Ghosts.