MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE
TAMPA, FLORIDA
APRIL 2012
While it might be the wee hours in China, it was twelve hours earlier at USSOCOM, and General Joshua Keating strode past banks of screens displaying network data, from satellite intel all the way down to the camera mounted on Captain Scott Mitchell's earpiece.
At the moment, Keating couldn't understand why Mitchell was taking so much damned time to analyze the pictures captured by his portable drone.
Keating was, in fact, a few seconds away from getting on the horn and blasting Mitchell for his delay.
But he liked Mitchell. Wanted to trust him. Wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Dr. Gail Gorbatova of the DIA, who was seated beside one of her intelligence analysts, rose from the desk and approached him. "General, we are wondering--"
"About the delay," he finished, drawing in a deep breath through his teeth.
"Our colleagues at the CIA are wondering the same thing and have no explanations from their people. And we have our mole standing by."
"Excellent. Now we're still gathering intel, so if you would, Dr. Gorbatova, just have a seat."
Keating returned to his computer and keyed up the intel coming in from Mitchell's Ghost Team: grainy green pictures of the castle, the helicopters, the trucks, and even Diaz's point of view as she balanced her crosshairs over one of the two Chinese snipers. Everything looked perfect.
Come on, son. Give the order. Move out!
A voice echoed through the room: "Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. Our targets will take cover from the rain any second now. Captain, we need to move now!"
"Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. Wind speed is getting worse and can really mess up my shot, sir."
Give the order, Mitchell!
"Bravo Lead, this is Ghost Lead," said Mitchell. "Stand by. And Diaz, hold."
"Captain Mitchell? This is Lieutenant Moch, Predator support, sir. We've identified a power company truck en route to your transformer station. ETA approximately ten minutes, sir."
Keating clenched his fist and imagined himself screaming at Mitchell: What's the holdup, son? I need those Spring Tigers taken out now!
Despite his frustration, Keating knew that senses and intuition captured in real time by a commander on the ground far outweighed any digitized picture transmitted over thousands of miles.
Special Forces truth: Human beings were more important than hardware. What's more, Mitchell's own tactical assessment could be very different than what they viewed at USSOCOM. If the captain were waiting for something, then he had a damned good reason.
However--and this was a big however--he'd made no attempt to explain himself, and that was highly unlike him.
Damn it, Mitchell! Attack!
HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
More voices echoed in Mitchell's earpiece, and more faces appeared in his HUD, but he just lay there, mouth hung open.
At the moment the power had been cut, Mitchell had ordered Smith to launch the MAV4mp Cypher. In the minutes that had followed, Mitchell had navigated the drone high above the central building and had been able to identify the positions of every guard posted there: three at each of the silos, two at the central building with one on the roof, and the two snipers. His threat assessment, replete with flashing red diamonds, was complete and available to his people.
Mitchell steered the drone as low as he dared, and just as he had tapped the joystick, ready to fly the Cypher home, the guard on the roof turned to reveal a cane fixed to his belt.
With jittery hands Mitchell zoomed in with the drone's camera, trying to pull up a more detailed side view and muttering to himself that no, it couldn't be, that these kinds of Escrima sticks or canes or other martial arts clubs were commonplace among military men, that after ten long years, there was no way in hell that this guy, on top of this roof, in China of all places, could be Captain Fang Zhi.
But the camera's zoom worked remarkably well. And Mitchell knew that cane. That face. Those eyes.
Was it a remarkable coincidence? Fate? Was Mitchell being forced back through an open door that had never closed?
What the hell was Fang doing in China? Had he defected? Mitchell had lost track of the man--and purposely so--because he'd had to go on with life. That was the advice he'd given Rutang, and that was the advice he'd lived by.
But he'd never forgotten Fang's cowardice, or Captain Foyte impaled on those punji stakes, or Warrant Officer Alvarado clutching that dart in his neck, or poor Carlos bleeding out and telling him to go back for Billy. Mitchell would never forget that row of bodies lying on the field.
Twelve men had entered the jungle on Basilan Island, and only three had come out, thanks, in part, to Fang Zhi.
The scar on Mitchell's chest burned anew.
And now he was back on that field, squaring off with Fang, only this time Fang had no chance to draw his sword. This time, Mitchell had a pistol jammed into Fang's forehead, and when he squeezed the trigger, all he heard was Beasley crying in his earpiece, "Captain, we have to move--now!"
Chapter Twenty-Six.
HAKKA CASTLE
XIAMEN, CHINA
APRIL 2012
With a gasp, Mitchell was back, hot-wired to the moment, his senses flooded with input.
"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead," Beasley called again. "Don't forget about us, Captain! I need that order!"
As chills raced up Mitchell's spine, he checked the downlink channel now showing Beasley's camera, zoomed in, and enhanced. Bravo Team's targets were seeking cover.
Instincts honed by years of combat experience took over. Mitchell began processing information and issuing orders with cool, calm efficiency:
"Bravo Team, attack."
"Roger that," Beasley answered in a stage whisper. "Moving up to attack."
"Diaz, snipers, then main gate, fire now."
"Roger that, Captain. Sighting my first target."
"Smith? Police up the drone, then fall in behind us. Ramirez? Nolan? Move out!"
Mitchell burst from cover, and Ramirez was already a few steps ahead of him and took point, his MK14 EBR rifle with attached silencer held at the ready as they raced along the road, then started down toward the castle, picking their way through streams of rainwater washing down the mountain.
Nolan was hard on Mitchell's heels, carrying his P90 SD Belgian-designed submachine gun with suppressor because, as many medics argued, the best form of preventative medicine was superior firepower.
"Got the drone," Smith reported, then hustled up behind them with a Modular Rifle--Caseless (MR-C). The MR-C fired caseless ammo at 900 rounds per minute, and while the regular army did not field the rifle, the Ghosts endorsed it wholeheartedly.
They had guns, all right. Lots of them.
But only four shots really mattered: one in the head of each Spring Tiger.
Or was it five shots?
Mitchell considered shouting to the others, The guy with cane? He's mine!
However, he could not reveal his personal bias and immediately undermine his command. The mission and his people came first. He knew that. They knew that. If Fang were killed in the crossfire, then so be it.
But who was he kidding? He wanted to fire that shot more than anything else in the world. His anger had grown talons that ripped apart his gut, and over and over he watched himself squeezing the man's neck and firing that shot. Mitchell gasped, shuddered off the thought, and hustled on.
Beasley sprinted along the edge of the forest, then he broke into a Motor City madman dash across the field, coming toward the choppers and trucks from the left flank.