"Maybe not. You put so much gunfire on that truck that you blew it up. Everybody should have held fire. You send out your medic and put your snipers to work to pin down the bad guys."

Warris swallowed, and Mitchell knew that every decision the captain had just made would weigh heavily on his mind. He was already wondering if his career was in jeopardy.

So Mitchell let him off the hook and added, "I know that one second could make the difference between living and dying, but you need to take that second and think, okay, I got a guy running at the truck. He's stopped the truck--which was what the claymore was supposed to do. We got no smoke, but the G-chief has all their attention. Let me get my marksmen on target. And yes, I know you need to make that assessment in one second. But we're not out in the woods because we're afraid of challenges. And for what it's worth, I did the same thing you did--just put tons of steel on target. I never sent the medic. The guerrillas turned it around and blamed me for his death. It took me a long time to win back their trust."

Warris considered that, muttered a "Whoa," then added, "Captain, I appreciate your honesty."

Mitchell offered his hand. "Lessons learned. So now that I'm dead, you need to figure out if you can still negotiate with my Gs and who's in charge--and sometimes even that can be a real headache. And oh, yeah, the Gs are going to loot those bodies, then after that, they might want to chop off their heads and put them on poles. How do you feel about that?"

Warris's eyes grew wide.

Mitchell gave a short nod to Captain Harruck, who began barking new instructions to the group as up ahead, an HMMWV came rolling forward and stopped. "Hi, I'm looking for Captain Mitchell," said the young PFC at the wheel.

Mitchell drew his head back. "Really, because I've been looking for you, Private"--he read the woman's patch--"Morgan."

"Sir?"

"Yeah, I haven't had a hot shower in two weeks. Can you take me to the nearest hotel?"

The private grimaced. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Yeah, I smell. You'll get over it. Just get me to a shower."

"I mean, I'm sorry, sir, they sent me up here to get you. I've been waiting back at your FOB all morning. Just got cleared to come up. I have orders to drive you back to Bragg--no detours."

Mitchell frowned. "Great." He climbed into the Hummer and collapsed into the seat, mud and paint splashing all over the floorboard. "Sorry about the mess."

"That's okay, sir."

He closed his eyes, hating that his driver, the pretty young PFC Morgan, could be Kristen's twin.

When they reached Bragg, Lieutenant Colonel Gordon and Major Grey were waiting. Gordon said they had the general breathing down their necks. Apparently, misery loved company. They ushered Mitchell directly into the nondescript Ghost offices and practically shoved him in front of the video monitor.

On the screen was General Joshua Keating calling from USSOCOM. The general's conservative haircut and tinted glasses belied his history as a Special Forces operator back in Vietnam and during the first Gulf War, where he'd earned drawers full of medals. He had degrees in history and business and had already penned a successful book about the history of Special Forces operations. He was even a graduate of the Harvard Executive Education Program's National and International Security Managers Course, and for the past decade had served in more command positions than even he could probably remember. Earlier in the year he had finally taken over as commander of USSOCOM, his dream post, Mitchell knew.

While some loathed and feared Keating, Mitchell got along with him just fine, in part because the general was a hands-on officer who understood the unique nature of Special Forces operations and considered it his duty to keep in close contact with his men on the ground. Sure, he was an impatient taskmaster, but he was also a straight shooter who never held back a punch. Mitchell found that refreshing.

Keating leaned forward, his breast full of ribbons standing in sharp relief against his starched and pressed class As, the new blue army class uniform having replaced the old green in 2011. "Mitchell, you look like crap."

He pawed self-consciously at the mud on his face. "Thank you, sir. I had another word in mind."

To Keating's right hung dozens of screens displaying maps, intelligence reports, satellite imagery, and live video streams from operators in the field, all of it coming together in a pixilated mosaic fluctuating with a life of its own. Over the general's left shoulder loomed a four-meter-tall, three-dimensional map of the Chinese coast and Taiwan, with green overlays and flashing grid coordinates drawing Mitchell's attention to several locations.

"Don't be a wise guy, Mitchell. I dragged you back from Robin Sage because we got a situation."

"Sir, I've been out in the woods for a couple of weeks. Haven't been online or seen a newspaper . . . but my fortune cookie tells me it's got something to do with that submarine sale to Taiwan."

"You bet it does."

"I see you got China on the big map."

Keating glanced over his shoulder. "Damned right I do, because our little standoff in the Pacific is about to go south real fast."

The general shifted his position to allow a smartly dressed woman in dark blue to appear on the screen. She was in her late forties, with brown hair streaked with gray and a pair of green-framed glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose.

Keating went on: "Mitchell, this is Dr. Gail Gorbatova of the DIA."

"Hello, Captain."

"Ma'am."

"The general wanted me to brief you on an intelligence report we recently received from one of our operatives inside the Chinese government. It concerns an operation called Pouncing Dragon."

"I haven't heard that name in a long time."

"Not since Waziristan, I presume?"

"Yeah."

"We've been tracking that lead for over three years now, and its finally borne fruit."

General Keating, already out of patience, jumped back in: "Mitchell, the DIA's mole has uncovered a group of Chinese commanders calling themselves the Spring Tigers. They got itchy fingers and their sights set on Taiwan. Our intel indicates they'll use this standoff to launch their own attack."

Mitchell shrugged. "Call China. Tip off their president."

"We can't trust them to handle this," said Gorbatova. "The deputy director of the political department is a silent partner. And the Chinese could allow it to happen, then simply blame it on this cabal of renegades. We can't give the Chinese that opportunity."

"Let me ask you something, Doctor. How reliable is your intel?"

"Our operative was recruited years ago. He's one of the best we have inside."

"Well that's good, because I assume when this conversation is over that I'll be staking my life on the accuracy of the information he's given you."

"We have no reason to believe otherwise."

The general jumped back in. "Mitchell, we have a list of every Spring Tiger. We also know they've scheduled a final planning meeting exactly nine days from now--and we have the time and location of that meeting."

Mitchell knew where this was going. "What's the dress? Casual? Or do I have to wear a tie?"

"Oh, it's a formal affair, son. Black tie only. You'll crash that party . . . and Mitchell, we need a clean, surgical strike. No prisoners. Do you read me, soldier?"