The Hunted

THREE

Brent sat alone in a corner booth, sipping his draft beer and absently eyeing the flat screens suspended from the ceiling. Several football games, a car race, and a European soccer game barely earned his interest. The Liberator was a requisite hangout for Special Forces guys and those considered a step up from them — the men and women of Ghost Recon, an elite and highly classified group of warriors handpicked from the Special Forces ranks. Ghost Recon soldiers were issued the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art technology, and it was a great honor to be selected for such an organization — even though you couldn’t tell anyone about it, because the Ghosts didn’t exist.

From 2016 on the day the nukes dropped to mid-2020, Brent had fought with various Special Forces teams, even traveling up to Canada to fight against invading Russian forces. His work there had gained him the attention of Ghost Recon’s leadership, and, after dragging himself through an intense qualifications process and course, he’d been selected to train and lead a new Ghost Recon team.

But that glory was short-lived.

He and his new group had run a couple of small missions in Pakistan that had gone south because Brent was too used to fighting by the seat of his pants instead of sticking rigidly to a plan. He’d had that freedom in the regular Special Forces, and he wasn’t always compelled to keep everyone in the communications loop, but the Ghosts were much more hardcore about their operations, not blindly following orders but executing them with surgical precision and with full disclosure and accountability on the battlefield. His newbie team had run a simple intelligence-gathering operation in the country of Georgia, and that, too, had wound up in the toilet because Brent had second-guessed the plan and had jumped the gun on the operation. He’d also failed to properly communicate with his superiors. Some things were better left in the field, and sometimes his superiors didn’t need to see the uglier side of an operation. Unfortunately, the Ghosts’ equipment had higher-ups breathing down Brent’s neck 24/7, which really unnerved him, and he sometimes took out his frustration on his people.

As a consequence, Brent went through team members the way he went through beer, some requesting transfers, others simply getting dropped by him. Recent rumors had it that guys who couldn’t hack it on other Ghost teams were being busted down and collected into a group of misfits to be led by Brent. They would get all the crap jobs like guarding oil tankers, or they’d get some of the most dangerous but least important jobs — since they were the most expendable group in the unit. They would act as “bait” while the other teams swept in and stole the glory. Ironically, even the military’s most elite still had its bottom of the barrel, and though the Ghosts’ least capable operators were arguably ten times more lethal than the average Joe, Brent’s colleagues would never let him live down his mistakes and weaknesses.

And speaking of one such devil, “Schoolie,” a master sergeant with no neck and a complexion as scarred as a crushed beer can, ambled over to Brent’s table. They called him “Schoolie” because he dreamed of becoming a professor at the U.S. Army War College. Trouble was, he was too inept to ever get his degrees. He was an excellent warrior but more of a kinesthetic guy who did much better with physical tasks than mental ones.

The drunken oaf shook his head at Brent. “I know why you’re sitting alone.”

Brent just looked at him.

“They hate you,” Schoolie went on. “You’ve put ’em back through Robin Sage like they were noobs. You’re talking trash to them. So they hate you.”

Brent took a long pull on his beer and thought about that. He had forced his entire team to go back through the Army’s hellish and grueling Robin Sage training exercise, normally reserved for Special Forces candidates, not seasoned Ghost Recon warriors. Being forced to go back through the training was humiliating enough, but Brent had deemed it important and necessary because his current group was suffering from a severe lack of morale. He’d hoped that returning to the course might rekindle some of their “beginner spirit” in regard to combat operations. He’d been mistaken. His team had resented the training, though they were respectful enough to keep those feelings to themselves; however, their expressions said it all.

“Is there a punch line in here somewhere?” Brent finally asked Schoolie. “A sarcastic remark? Or are you auditioning to become my therapist?”

Schoolie grinned. “That’s pretty good.”

“Unless you’re picking up my tab, you’re dismissed.”

“Your people won’t even drink with you.”

“They’re not here yet. Get lost, before I pull rank and things get ugly.”

Schoolie snorted. “They’re right over there. They’ve been here for fifteen minutes. You haven’t even noticed.”

Brent rose slightly so he could look over a small wall between the booths. He realized with sagging shoulders that the bastard was right. His entire Ghost Recon team — all eight operators — had put together two tables on the other side of the bar. They were sitting around, drinking, joking, and getting ready to order.

“Look at that. Not a one of them came over here to say, ‘Hey, Captain, why don’t you join us?’ ” said Schoolie.

Brent dropped a few bills on the table, then stood, bracing himself to confront the group.

“I think you got a situation on your hands, Captain,” said Schoolie.

Brent threw up a hand, ignoring the man.

Now Brent’s cheeks began to warm. Yes, they hated him, all right. If they could pick up their game and jettison their bad attitudes, he wouldn’t have to deal with this.

That he kept forgetting their names certainly contributed to their lack of respect. He’d made himself a cheat sheet just to keep track:

Brent paused a moment, slipped the index card out of his pocket, stole a quick look at the list of names, then tucked it back into his pocket and slowly approached the table. They weren’t just stereotypical soldiers; they were real people with real hopes and dreams. He knew that, but his job wasn’t to stroke them — it was to whip their asses into shape while earning their loyalty and respect. Easier said than done for a man whose patience was already threadbare.

Conversations broke off, and all gazes fell upon him. He cleared his throat. “What’s up?”

Lakota, who’d taken her hair out of the usual tight bun, looked rather attractive as she raked her fingers through her locks and said, “Captain, uh, I guess we all really need to talk.”

“Yeah, about how much we suck,” said Copeland in his New York drawl. “This is a weird place to be — back in noob school. I thought I was done wearing diapers.”

Just when he’d thought they were respectful enough to keep their complaints to themselves — boom — here they came…

“Copeland, right?” Brent asked.

“Very good, sir.”

“You’re a good medic and a good machine gunner, but they sent you to me because you’re a wiseass.”

“That’s what we heard about you, sir,” said Lakota.

Brent grinned crookedly. “I want to clarify that. I’ve been doing this long enough to realize what works and what doesn’t. That’s all. I’ll do my best to get the job done and keep you alive. That’s why we’re back here, back to the beginning. This is good. This keeps us humble and honest. I’m not trying to be anything I’m not. I’ve been skipped over for promotions. My record ain’t that great. My personal life is nonexistent. But I like to think I got heart. And I’m betting you got heart, too.”

“Sir, this might keep us honest, but I’d rather keep lying,” said Riggs, wriggling her brows, her spiked hair hard as icicles. “We all know what you’re trying to do, and we appreciate the idea, but the fact is we’ve all just had bad luck.”

“Well, there you go. I appreciate that honesty,” said Brent.

“And speaking of being honest, why don’t you do the same with us, sir?” said Heston, his voice coming slowly, musically. “Luck or not, we’re all close to getting busted out of here and sent back down to SF or the regular Army.”

“That’s not true,” Brent said, tasting the lie. “Look, we get through this, you prove to me you’re ready, and I’m sure something will come along that will…”

Brent didn’t finish his sentence. His phone was vibrating in his pocket. The caller ID was blocked.

His people groaned as he answered. He held up a palm when he realized who was calling.

On the way over to the isolation chamber, Brent accessed the network on his smartphone and retrieved the declassified bio on Major Alice Dennison, tactical operations specialist, code name “Hammer.”

When the Joint Strike Force had formed and had better organized all of the United States’ military operations through concentrated global network systems, Dennison had become a key player. She’d been raised in a military family, with a father who’d been an Air Force pilot. She’d attended the Virginia Military Institute and had graduated with the class of 2004. Then she’d gone to the naval academy, received her BS in systems engineering, and had graduated summa cum laude. She’d been in U.S. naval intelligence and logistics and gone on to serve in the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Command. She had been selected by General Scott Mitchell himself to join the JSF.

Brent’s eyes bugged out as he finished reading the screen. General Scott Mitchell was a former Ghost Recon operator, one of the organization’s best, a living legend who now led the entire Joint Strike Force.

And Dennison had been recruited by him.

This was huge. Dennison was a major player with a record that made you hate how good she was.

Brent frowned. And then he really frowned.

Why the hell did Dennison want to talk to him, a scrubby-faced gunslinger with a tainted record?

They reached the base, and the isolation chamber wasn’t a chamber at all but a heavily guarded Quonset hut near the nondescript cluster of small buildings that housed Ghost Recon command. There were no signs, no indication at all that some of the world’s deadliest warriors were commanded from this post.

Inside, Brent took a seat before a sixty-inch screen, along with the rest of his team. They were instructed to wait there until Major Dennison called again.

At the back of the room sat two men, and Brent had to do a double take, pun intended, because they were, in fact, twins, one well dressed in slacks and expensive silk shirt, the other wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read MUCKY DUCK RESTAURANT, CAPTIVA ISLAND, FLORIDA. They were both at least six feet, perhaps slightly taller, as lean as Olympic swimmers, and although they both had the same length blond hair, the jeans guy wore his all shaggy and sticking out, while the slacks guy had gelled his back. They might be twins, but there was a definite and deliberate distinction between them that seemed more on the part of the sloppy guy than the neat one.

Brent smiled weakly at them. The jeans guy nodded. The slacks guy looked daggers and folded his arms over his chest.

“Hey, Captain, who’re they?” asked Lakota in a near whisper.

Just then a burst of static and series of encryption code numbers scrolled across the screen for a few seconds until an image appeared. On the left was Major Alice Dennison, too pretty for her own good and remarkably young for her post. On the right was another woman, much older, with gray streaks through her medium-brown hair. Her narrow glasses suggested she was as much academic as she was intelligence officer.

Dennison cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who don’t know her, I want to introduce Anna Grimsdóttir, director of the NSA’s Splinter Cell program. I know once you were promoted into Ghost Recon, you became aware of the Splinter Cell’s existence, but I’m assuming most of you haven’t met its director. Grim?”

“It’s a pleasure,” said Grimsdóttir, nodding politely.

Brent stiffened and began to slide back into his chair. He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy and couldn’t wait to escape from the pleasantries. “Hi, my name is Brent and I like piña coladas and blowing stuff up in the rain…”

The next five minutes went like this:

Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, until, finally, something important caught his attention—

“… and you’ll have two Splinter Cells attached to your team. The target will be Viktoria Antsyforov, aka the Snow Maiden. Her dossier will be available on the network. Suffice it to say that we want her alive if possible. You are, however, authorized to shoot to kill. But that’s a last resort. This woman is former GRU and more valuable to us than you know.”

Dennison gave them more details about the Snow Maiden’s last known location and how they would be heading off to Europe within the next four hours.

They’d been formally introduced to the two Splinter Cells at the back of the room, George and Thomas Voeckler. George was the clean-cut one, Thomas the looser free spirit.

Brent had already decided to request full dossiers on the two spies, and he hoped Dennison would divulge that information. Bottom line: You wanted to know who had your back — and who might not.

As they left the room, Brent reached to shake George’s hand.

The spy frowned and accepted the handshake. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

“It’s not easy, I know,” said Brent. “You guys are used to working alone.”

“That’s right,” said Thomas. “I don’t even like to work with my brother. And all this military talk gives me an upset stomach. We’re spooks, not soldiers.”

“I apologize for my brother,” said George. “He suffered some head trauma as a child and he’s never been—”

Thomas jabbed George in the ribs, then faced Brent. “Don’t worry about us, GI Joe. Just give us a long leash, and we’ll deliver that bitch on a silver platter.” Thomas tossed his head back, hair flying, and for a moment, Brent wondered if the man was on drugs. No, just a little weird.

Back in their barracks, Brent gathered his team into a half circle. “You got your wish. No more training. Live fire now. Test of fire. Are we up for this?”

A few of them shrugged.

“Look, they gave us a good operation.”

“Yeah, but something’s not right,” said Lakota. “They wouldn’t give us something this important — unless they’re making it seem important and it’s really not… or maybe we’re just part of some bigger plan and acting as cover… or bait. The spooks got the real work. We’re just the bulldogs waiting outside to cover them when they leave.”

“Not true. And don’t get paranoid,” said Brent. “Higher knows I’ve had some nice captures in Afghanistan, seven in all, and those ops went well. Maybe they figure me for a guy who can abduct people. I’m like a UFO, so they gave us this. That make you feel better, Lakota?”

She shrugged. “A little.”

Park, the Korean guy who never talked, widened his eyes and lifted his chin. “Captain, I don’t think we should trust the spies.”

Brent frowned. “What makes you say that?”

Heston cursed under his breath. “Captain, he never talks, but when he does, you should listen.”

“Park?” Brent asked again.

“I don’t mean to sound unprofessional, sir, but I do have some experience with the NSA through joint operations in the Helmand Province. They always have another agenda. And you heard what the director said about those CIA agents who went after the Snow Maiden. Two dead, two still missing.”

“Well, we sure as hell ain’t the CIA.”

Park’s tone grew more grave. “No, but those teams all had one thing in common — they had Splinter Cells attached to their units.”

“Could be just a coincidence, but if you haven’t learned this about me by now, here’s a quick lesson — you need to earn my trust. And so will they.”

“I’m not worried, sir. But you should be.”

Brent sighed. “All right, everyone, let’s pack up. Bring your civvies. We need to look like tourists. We finally get to insert with real cover. I always love it when they drop us into a city wearing unmarked fatigues — but we’re not supposed to look like soldiers.”

“Can I wear a dress and heels?” said Riggs.

That query was met by the hoots, hollers, and catcalls of all the men, save for Park.

“Calm down, wolves. Riggs, that sounds good. Just be ready to ditch the heels when I need you.”

“You got it, sir.”

“All right, on the ready line in twenty minutes.”

They muttered behind him as he spun on his heel and left, heading back to the office to pick up their travel docs.

While en route, Schoolie caught him on the sidewalk. “Heard you’re shipping out, got a big mission.”

“Yeah, we’re going to rescue your father from the backyard kiddie pool. He’s been lying in it all day, getting drunk.”

“How do you come up with this stuff?”

“You inspire me.”

“Seriously, Brent, just wishing you good luck.” Schoolie proffered his hand.

When Brent glanced down at that hand, he saw another one, darker skinned, and when he looked up, there was Carlos Villanueva, grinning. “All I want is a race. Just shake hands and tell me you’ll race so I don’t have to kick your ass.”

Brent blinked hard and faced Schoolie. “I’ll shake when I get back. Don’t want to jinx myself, okay?”

“Okay, Brent. I heard you were superstitious.” Schoolie lowered his hand. “Make old Buzz proud.”

“Roger that.”

Schoolie had just referred to Major Harold “Buzz” Gordon, born March 17, 1955, and one of the first soldiers assigned to the Ghosts when they were formed in 1994. He’d gone on to become a lieutenant colonel and company commander, working extensively with Scott Mitchell. Buzz was now considered the “father” of Ghost Recon, while Mitchell was considered its greatest living Ghost. Brent hoped history wouldn’t record him as the black sheep of the unit, but you had to do more than hope to change history… you had to act. And he would.