But as Murphy and logic would have it, the Tigers had chosen to be discreet and flown in via those smaller civilian birds.

A few drops of rain struck the ditch, followed by a few more. Beasley hoped the captain didn't wait much longer, because once the storm really kicked in, their targets would seek cover in their vehicles, making them even harder to pick off.

The two chopper pilots and two drivers had gathered near the open tailgates of the trucks and were drinking, smoking, while one was engrossed in a small, handheld computer game.

Beasley had already played out Bravo Team's raid a half dozen times in his head. He'd initially considered a standoff attack, dropping each guy quietly like snipers and taking full advantage of the camera mounted on his Modular Rifle--Caseless (MR-C) to peek around the vehicles. However, once those men had gathered in close, he'd realized that the raid must be more swift, that all four needed to go down at once.

And to ensure success, Beasley knew they had to get in close. Very close.

"Well, that's ten minutes," whispered Jenkins over Bravo Team's radio channel.

"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead," called Beasley on the main channel. "Still waiting on you, Boss."

"Uh, yeah. Sit tight."

Something ominous had crept into the captain's tone.

"What the hell's he waiting for?" asked Brown.

"The captain knows what he's doing," Beasley retorted, only half buying the assurance.

"I know he knows. Wish he'd share it with us."

"He sounds distracted," said Jenkins.

"We're all distracted," Beasley snapped.

"I think something's going down," said Brown.

"Yeah, it's called Operation War Wraith," Beasley finished.

"Uh, I don't know. This . . . this ain't right," said Hume. "Every time we work with the spooks, there's always something they don't tell us--and I got a feeling the captain just got a piece of intel he definitely doesn't like."

Beasley sighed. The longer they waited, the more paranoid they would become.

Huang used the small penlight to lead the village elders into their usual meeting room. Eleven of the twelve men stared worriedly at him as he spoke. "Everyone is in their rooms. The gate door is open. Our visitors are asleep, and Fang and his men remain at their posts. I'm told there will be four men, dressed all in black. We need only stay out of their way. It will all be over soon."

One of the other elders, a ruddy-faced man named Pan who had never liked Huang because of a dispute between their sons, both now grown, widened his eyes. "I will say it again. I'm outraged that you've made this deal with the secret police. If anyone is hurt, I will blame you, Huang. You."

"What is worse? Dealing with the police or being forced to open our doors to these criminals? Tonight, our problems will end once and for all. Go now to your posts. Keep low. And watch. I am told it will happen soon."

Pan held up his index finger at Huang. "I know he's agreed to give you his truck, but you'd better not accept it. That is, as you say, a gift from a criminal."

Huang glowered at Pan as the man passed by.

Interestingly enough, Fang had driven his truck inside the central building and parked it in the courtyard, beneath a long row of canvas awnings, out of sight. He'd certainly made it appear as if he were leaving it behind.

As Huang stepped outside, he glanced at the truck then up past the balconies to where Fang now stood on the sloping roof, his cane a dark slash mark across his hip.

Huang grew rigid, and his breath became shallow. His need for revenge or baochou had been carried down through the ages and was necessary because there was no god, no law, no earthly power that would carry it out for him.

Exacting baochou was the only way Huang and the elders could save face, so Huang had decided that if the secret police did not keep their promise, then he alone would kill the man. The blemishes must be wiped clean.

There was no other way.

Frowning over the drizzle, Diaz checked her Cross-Com's downlink channel for a weather report. Damn, the radar indicated it would only get worse, and the wind speed was picking up, the direction shifting more to the southwest.

Her target didn't like the weather either. He had twice wrestled with his position, his Type 88 rifle resting steadily on its bipod. She found it curious that he wasn't toting a more powerful weapon. Still, she knew that the 88 had only been issued to the PLA in small numbers. Perhaps it was one of his personal favorites.

Diaz's own DSR 1 subsonic sniper rifle had been manufactured by the German company AMP Technical Services, and the rifle had been adopted by the GSG 9 counterterrorism group and a few other elite European agencies. DSR stood for Defensive Sniper Rifle, but in Diaz's hands, it was nothing but offensive.

The rifle had a bullpup design, meaning the action and magazine were located behind the trigger. The design increased the barrel length relative to the weapon's overall length, saving weight and increasing maneuverability. The bipod was mounted on upper rails, and the adjustable front grip was mounted on lower rails. Diaz had already made slight adjustments to the buttstock and cheekpiece, and she had inserted a spare four-round magazine into the holder in front of the trigger guard. The extra mag sitting right in front of her hand made reloading much faster and kept her gaze locked ahead on the target zone. The rifle's bipods were firmly planted on her carrying bag, which doubled as a shooter's mat, and the bag sat atop a long, flat rock.

Additionally, the DSR had a rack-and-pinion fully adjustable monopod jutting from the bottom of the buttstock; as a result, the rifle was fully seated on the firing surface by bipods up front, monopod in the back.

Diaz's subsonic variant had been adjusted to incorporate the 7.62x51mm NATO rifle cartridge instead of the more overt .338 Lapua Magnum, and while she preferred the latter ammo, the mission dictated more stealth and those unmarked shell casings provided by the general and friends in her home state.

She blinked hard and returned to her night-vision scope. He was still there, all right, and at any moment he would begin speaking into the microphone covering his mouth. As soon as he did, Diaz would tip off the captain that her man had just made his radio check.

USSMONTANA(SSN-823)

SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

Captain Gummerson asked himself for the second time, What is Mitchell waiting for? He's got the lights out, rain coming in, and he has the location of his targets.

Gummerson stood under the control room's crimson lights, ears pricked up for the next message. Montana's electronic countermeasures (ECM), electronic intelligence (ELINT), and Sonar teams were probing a three-dimensional battle sphere--air, surface, and subsurface--for any hint of enemy counterdetection.

Meanwhile, the OE-538 multifunction masts that were Montana's "big ear" continued to track each Ghost while monitoring all exchanges between them. Total situational awareness via mutually shared information in a common tactical picture was the epitome of network-centric warfare.

"They move in yet?" asked the XO as he entered the control room.

Gummerson shook his head. "No. All Mitchell's done is step up to the plate."

The XO shrugged. "Sometimes you wait for your pitch."

Gummerson cocked a brow. "And sometimes you strike out looking."

UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND