"Yes, sir."

"All right, pick a team, get an outload manifest ready, and get to Subic Bay ASAP. We'll have an ISOFAC set up, and by then your target intel package should be updated and ready."

When the general said "black tie," he meant black operation sans paper or electronic trials. They would literally wear black and carry nothing that could identify them as U.S. soldiers. No one would claim responsibility for their actions. Who could? The Ghosts did not exist.

Their Isolation Facility or ISOFAC would allow them to engage in the planning phase of their mission without interruption.

Finally, their target intelligence package, or TIP, would contain timely, detailed, tailored, and fused multisource information describing a host of elements related to the mission.

However, Mitchell didn't need to review their TIP regarding the infiltration phase. Their Black Hawk pilots would be sitting this one out. Mitchell and his people were going to Subic Bay to board a submarine, because that's the only way they could infiltrate the Chinese coast while armed for bear, or in this case, tigers.

Gorbatova's tone turned grave. "Captain Mitchell, I want to remind you that our operative took a huge risk to retrieve this data."

"What's he get in return? You helping him defect?"

"As a matter of fact, we are. I just hope you and your people can make it all worthwhile."

Mitchell nodded, then regarded Keating. "General, I'm wondering why you don't want SEALs on this one? With a sub infiltration, this sounds like a job for them."

"Are you kidding me, son? You don't want the job?"

Mitchell stiffened. "Sir, I didn't say that."

"You implying that I might be biased? That I picked an army unit to prevent World War III because I'm an SF operator myself?"

"Sir--"

"Well, you're damned right I did. You'll have two SEALs to assist with infil and exfil, and a couple of CIA agents to help you get closer to the target; otherwise, it's your show, Mitchell. And do me a favor--don't you get yourself killed on my watch. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why are you sitting there? Get cleaned up and get the hell on a jet! I'll update you once you're in the Philippines."

Mitchell bolted from his chair and saluted the general. "On my way, sir!"

The screen switched to the computer's desktop, and Mitchell glanced wearily at Gordon and Grey. "Call the president. Tell him to hold up on World War III until after I've had a shower."

Grey smiled. "Speaking of calls, as soon as you have your list, send it over. A lot of operators are out on R & R, and we'll need time to get them back."

Mitchell nodded. "You got a pen? I already know who I want."

Chapter Nineteen.

TOWN OF BIG VALLEY

MODOC COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

APRIL 2012

Sergeant First Class Paul Smith, Ghost Team rifleman, was home in rural Northern California for a few weeks, and it was not two days into his R & R that his boyhood friend Hernando Alameda called to say that he could use a hand loading about two hundred bales of alfalfa hay onto some flatbed trucks. Hernando had taken over the farm from his recently deceased father, and Smith knew that he was shorthanded, so he couldn't say no to his old buddy.

Hernando was twenty-seven, a few years older than Smith, and he'd been complaining all morning about the difficulties of finding good help. He worked out his frustration on the bales of hay, loading twice as fast as Smith did, both of them sweating profusely. Soon the conversation turned to women, as it always did, and Smith asked about Hernando's longtime girlfriend, Vicki, who had sweet-talked him into financing a brand-new pair of boobs.

"She just dumped me last week," Hernando said between breaths.

"How many times is that?"

"Three."

"You don't need her."

"Nope."

"But you'll be calling later."

"Yup. I'm calling in the loan."

Smith grinned. "Damn that woman."

"Hey, your dad told me he's retiring next year."

"Yeah, I can't believe it. He's been sheriff of this Podunk county for thirty years."

"You ought to take over."

Smith laughed. "I joined the army to get away from all this horse dung."

"You hate us that much?"

"No, but come on, bro, you know my parents. Dad wanted me to be a rocket scientist. And they're both still mad about the whole college thing. But I have my own life now."

"And the army's that much better? You never thought about quitting?"

Smith shrugged. There had been a time, near the end of his fourth year as an infantryman. The service hadn't been as glamorous or challenging as he'd thought. He'd spent the better part of his life outdoors, hunting and fishing. He was a bushman at heart, and a lot of guys from the city used to say he had a sixth sense. They always put him on point, like a bloodhound. And that was great, but he'd grown bored.

"There was a time when I wasn't going to re-up," he told Hernando. "But then I met this Special Forces officer, and things changed."

"He gave you the sales pitch."

"No, he just came in to do some combatives and martial arts training. The guy was amazing. He told it like it was, and to this day I still remember his training philosophy."

"Which was?"

"Well, he thought the mental advantage was just as important as firepower. He told us our training should always be mission-specific. It had to be short, and it shouldn't require us to be flexible like gymnasts. And even though he was shorter and lighter, he dropped me like a bad transmission every time. He was the most professional soldier I'd ever met."

"No kidding. You never told me this story. I thought you just did it. But I was right. He convinced you to re-up."

Smith nodded. "After working with me, he said I was Special Forces material. What he didn't tell me was how the Q-Course would kick my ass, especially Robin Sage at the end. I thought I would die out there."

"What was the guy's name?"

"Captain Scott Mitchell." Smith's cell phone began to ring. He set down his next bale of hay and checked the screen. "Sorry, buddy, I need to take this."

7-ELEVEN CONVENIENCE STORE

DETROIT, MICHIGAN

APRIL 2012

Deciding to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, Master Sergeant Matt Beasley, proudly sporting his dark blue Pistons jacket, climbed off his Harley Sportster and started across the rain-slick pavement.

It had been two years since he'd visited the old neighborhood, and he remembered hanging out at this very store, keeping tabs on the motley crew of characters with nicknames like Old Man Freddy, Busted Head Bob, and Wayne the Wimp.

Beasley had been a latchkey kid with decent grades, though he spent most of his time on the streets, just watching people, occasionally tipping off the police when he saw something that shouldn't be happening in his neighborhood. There had been plenty of opportunities to get involved with drugs and gangs, but Beasley had avoided those invitations. He'd seen too many of those punks get their faces shoved down onto the hoods of police cars. Those same punks often referred to him as the weird guy who never talked. That was fine with him. He was a student of human nature.

Beasley grinned as he locked gazes with a freckle-faced kid about sixteen or seventeen seated on the window ledge, hands jammed into the pockets of his dirty pull-over, black ski cap pulled down over his ears. His long, reddish brown hair wandered down past that cap, and he repeatedly backhanded his runny nose.