Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Wearing a grin, Mitchell shook his head.

"Whew. Now, once we're under way, we don't adhere to any specific dress code, meaning we're pretty lax on what we wear–and don't wear–especially in the berthing compartment area. Diaz will share the head with the XO and me. We'll work out a schedule for the three of us."

"I understand, sir. If we can address this issue as subtly as possible, I'd appreciate it."

"No problem." Gummerson glanced at his notepad before continuing. "The lock-out trunk has a nine-man capacity, which means you and your team can lock out in one evolution, but you'll need training and help from my SEALs, as I indicated to General Keating."

"No arguments here, sir."

"You'll get with SEAL Chiefs Tanner and Phillips between here and China. We'll work in two drills, once with lights, once in total darkness."

Gummerson was about to go on when the radio messenger knocked and entered with two message boards. "A good place to stop," he said. "Let's step back to the wardroom, get some coffee, introduce you to the other officers, and plow through some of this latest traffic."

"Sounds good." Mitchell rose. "And, sir, is it true you guys have the best food in the navy?"

"Oh, don't worry, Captain, you'll find out for yourself."

Damn Ramirez. He had Mitchell thinking about chow.

Once he'd met the other officers, Mitchell retired in privacy to a computer terminal. He accessed a prerecorded video message from General Keating, who confirmed that their satellite surveillance of the Hakka castle was now in place and that their two CIA agents had already been observed meeting with their inside man earlier in the day.

The general also indicated that there was a lot of activity in and around missile sites located within the Nanjing Military Region and that the situation in Taiwan was growing far worse. The declaration of martial law had resulted in numerous cases of human rights violations by Taiwan's military and police, and demonstrators were still picketing and being arrested in front of the presidential building. Images of bludgeoned and bleeding civilians flashed across the screen.

Of course, Mitchell could have bet a year's pay that the general would repeat that it was up to him, that everything came down to the Ghosts stopping the Spring Tigers from initiating their plan. Mitchell finished watching the transmission and growled, "Yeah, I know. It' all up to me."

A second message from the Red Cross caught him by surprise. Bo Jenkins's father had passed away. Last report was that he'd been stable, but he'd taken a sharp turn for the worse. Part of Mitchell wanted to hold off telling Bo so that the man's head would be in the mission. The other part said that wasn't fair and that Bo deserved to know immediately.

Then again, given what was at stake, Mitchell needed every Ghost operating at peak performance.

He sat there a few moments more, putting himself in Bo's place.

And that got him thinking about his own father, who was probably back home, using his router to round off the corners of his casket.

A young lieutenant with what Sergeant Alicia Diaz called a Cocoa Beach crew cut–bleached blond with highlights–watched her leave the VIP stateroom opposite the wardroom. She smiled perfunctorily, noting the gold wings above the lieutenant's left breast pocket. He was cute, so she asked, "Are you a pilot?"

"I'm a naval aviator. There's a difference." He offered his hand. "Jeff Moch."

She took it. "Mach, as in Mach Five?"

"No, it's spelled with an O."

"Be cooler with an A, as in my name: Alicia Diaz."

"That's pretty smooth. I heard something about you guys trying to defect to the navy."

"Vicious rumors." She hesitated, unsure of what to add, then suddenly blurted out, "So, Lieutenant, what isthe difference between a pilot and a naval aviator?"

He snickered. "Naval aviators get shot off the front end of aircraft carriers. We use tail hooks and arresting wires to land. Pilots just kind of float in."

"Okay . . ."

"Naval aviators have to figure out where their landing field went after they fly away. Or worse, if it sank. Pilots know their landing field's right where they left it."

"Not a big fan of the air force, then, huh?"

"I didn't say that. But I've never met an air force pilot who could stop a train without using guns or bombs."

"Stop a train? What do you mean?"

"You got time for a story?"

Diaz looked around. "I'm stuck here for twenty-something hours till we reach the strait."

"Right. Okay, so once you solo at Pensacola, the unwritten rule is you got three days to stop a train. You can't do it before you solo because it ain't legal, and up till then you always had some hard-ass instructor riding along."

"So how exactly do you do this?"

"Well, if you never noticed, Florida's flat, so it's easy to find a nice twenty– to twenty-five-mile stretch of railroad track to watch. And here he comes, Seaboard Coast Line's seven ten P.M., running late."

"But you're right on time," she said with a smirk.

"You bet. Now I have to come in high to clear the pines. At the last minute I slip down, opposite rudder to aileron–drops my bird like a rock–and I turn off my navigation lights, bleed off speed to just 120 knots–flap speed–and swoop in twenty feet over the track."

"Is this where I go, whoa . . . ?"

"Let me finish. Then, and only then, I turn on my landing light. Now it's just me and that train, two lights coming right at each other."

"You really did this?"

He nodded. "The engineer sees that single light coming at him and he's wondering, Did the traffic coordinator screw up? Switchman error? Is it another one of those crazy kids from Pensacola?He hits the brakes, can't take the chance. As he's listening to his whole train rumble and screech, I thunder right over his head, gone, UFO style, beam me up, Scotty."

Moch was only half as cute now. It was hard to see his eyes within that swollen head. "There's no way you guys get away with that."

"You're right. I got a letter of reprimand, which got pulled when I graduated, because the navy saw I was crazy enough to get shot off an aircraft carrier."

"So as a reward they put you on a sub. Yeah, they really like you." She wiggled her brows.

"No, I'm here because of you. Lieutenant Schumaker and I are flying the Predator. I'm telling you, she's one badass little bird."

Diaz had worked with all sorts of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) in her career, and none were what she'd describe as badass. That was a phrase she reserved for people, not machines. She shrugged and said, "Uh, we've packed our own UAVs. As a matter of fact, the captain's going to field a brand-new drone on this mission."

"I heard that, but our Predator still has greater speed and range than your drones. We launch right from the vertical tube. Subs rigged like this have ten-thousand-foot periscopes, so to speak. Trust me, you'll be glad we're up there. Now what's your story?"

Diaz adopted a singsong tone, deciding she would have a little fun with this jock. "Well, sir, I certainly don't have the talent to be a naval aviator, but I like playing around with ranges, working numbers in my head for projectile drop and wind compensation. I like slowing my heart rate, taking a deep breath, letting half out, and squeezing off the round between beats. I like listening to old Bee Gees songs and watching some bad guy's brains splatter over a fifty-foot area from the kinetic energy imparted on impact. I call that a woman's touch."

Moch blinked hard. "Alicia, why don't you step into the wardroom, fill a chair, and let me buy you a cup of our fine navy coffee?"

She chuckled under her breath. "You don't have any bourbon?"

Mitchell found Jenkins in the torpedo room, along with Beasley, Hume, and Smith. The men were doing another inventory of the gear and double-checking batteries.

"Bo, can I speak with you?"

"Yes, sir."

They crossed over to one corner of the room, where Mitchell leaned on the bulkhead and said, "So it's the future, and you're captain of your own Ghost Team."

Initially, Jenkins was confused, but finally his brain caught up to the moment. "Okay, sir, but, uh, I made it through college?"

"Yeah."

"Damn, that's good."

"Play along. So you're captain, and it's the day before a huge operation. You know that you need every guy with a clear head. You know you can't afford any distractions. But you also know that there's news from home that will affect several members of your team. What do you do? Do you give them the news? Or do you wait until after the mission?"

Jenkins swallowed, took a deep breath, and he could no longer look Mitchell in the eye. "I don't say anything, sir, because the mission is more important. The news can wait."

Mitchell thought a moment, then slowly nodded. "Bo, I'm not trying to take myself off the hook."

"I know. I had a dream about him last night. Do you believe in the afterlife?"

"Haven't made up my mind yet. But for now, we're the only ghosts I believe in."

"What about fate?"

"Bo, we have to believe that what wedo matters. I don't think it was all figured out for us. I could've stayed home, worked on cars, built furniture, but I decided to change things. I did that. Not fate."

"Yeah, but maybe there are all these doors in our lives, and we're moving through them. Some close behind us, and some don't. Sometimes we control them. Sometimes not."

"Who knows, Bo."

"When I left Alaska, the door closed all the way, and I knew my father was going to die. He was sick for a long time. I'm okay."

"You're sure."

"If anything, sir, when I go out there, it'll be for him. I wouldn't be a Ghost if it weren't for him."

Mitchell slapped his hand on Bo's massive shoulder. "You're a good man, Bo. I'm sorry about your loss."

"Thank you, sir." He nodded and turned off, heading back to the group.

Mitchell closed his eyes and sighed, still wondering if he had made the right decision.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

EN ROUTE TO TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

Montana's fly-by-wire system hovered the 377-foot submarine at exactly one hundred feet as Mitchell and his team flooded, exited, reentered, and blew out the lock-out trunk with lights on and in total darkness. The drills were completed within the first six hours after leaving Subic Bay, while still in warm seas.

It was, admittedly, unnerving to stand in that trunk in total darkness while the water rose. All Mitchell could think about in those last few seconds was an accident and the warnings offered by the two SEALs.

The twenty-one-hour trip to Xiamen Harbor was otherwise uneventful. Mitchell and his Ghosts listened to stories, shared some of their own, and the lies per nautical mile grew to astronomical proportions.

As they neared the harbor and the end of their journey, Montana"rigged for ultraquiet," with the sub's interior bathed only in red light. All nonwatchstanders remained in their bunks, and television or other leisure activities were prohibited. Even the galley was closed.

The captain told Mitchell that they were sweeping the entire harbor, their fathometer and minesweeping sonar actively probing under and around the sub with impunity because of the horrendous day and night noise level of numerous small craft and shipyard construction activity.

The sun had just set, and under the cover of darkness, the captain extended a photonic mast to photograph and measure laser IR ranges for potential drop-off sites.

Using those pictures, Mitchell and Gummerson met to determine a location, choosing a spot near the southeast tip of an unnamed and uninhabited sand spit.

"Looks good," said Mitchell.

"Yes, and don't worry. I'll get us in within a thousand feet so you won't have far to swim, and I'll still have about two hundred fifty feet of water around me."

The captain went on to say that hovering with her keel at one hundred feet would still keep the tip of Montana's sail at forty-eight feet below the surface. He said he hadn't seen any ship in the harbor that drew that much water, fully laden.

"You must live right, Scott," he finally added. "We're at high tide, and it's a spring tide."

"So that's good?"

"It's excellent. Spring tides are really high or low when the sun and moon are lined up, and we get their combined gravitational pull. You get to swim in a little closer to the beach, and I get a few more feet under my keel."

"Great."

"And one more thing. Sunrise is at oh five twenty-four. If you're not in the water before then, we'll return every night, same time, until the National Command Authority gives me a direct order to terminate the operation. I'm not in the habit of leaving personnel behind."

"Neither am I, sir. And I appreciate that. But if you have to bail on us, we'll just highjack a rickshaw and head west."

The captain grinned. "I'm sure you will. Now I'll have our drop-off point forwarded to your higher, and they'll get it to the agents you'll link up with onshore."

"Thank you, sir."

Within fifteen minutes, Mitchell and the other eight members of his team were standing in the cold metal confines of the lock-out trunk. "Everybody good to go?" he asked.

Eight thumbs lifted.

They had donned wet suits and goggles and had buckled on their Draeger LAR-Vs, which were worn on their chests.

The LAR-V was a self-contained breathing device specifically designed for covert operations in shallow water. Mitchell and his Ghosts would breathe 100 percent oxygen, and their exhaled breath would be recirculated in the closed-circuit system through a filter that removed the carbon dioxide. Consequently, the Draegers allowed them to swim without the bubbles produced by conventional scuba gear.

Each operator also carried an equipment pack, a Px4 Storm SD pistol, and a rifle or two of his or her choosing.

SEAL Chief Tanner, a blue-eyed being of pure muscle, stood outside the hatch and lifted his thumb. "Remember, Captain, slip that beacon in one of your rebreathers on the beach. Chief Phillips and I'll be about ten minutes behind you to pick up the gear."

"Roger that, Chief."

Tanner sealed the hatch and signaled to flood the lock-out trunk.

The water rose and wasn't too cold at twenty-four degrees Celsius. They slipped the rebreathers into their mouths, and once submerged, the hatch opened, and they swam out into fluctuating curtains of darkness.

During the brief crossing to the beach, Mitchell remembered Chief Phillips's instructions to spread out, putting about twenty meters between themselves, so that they didn't surface as a group but as individuals. He also said to try to stagger their dashes from the water.

So they'd given each operator a number, beginning with Jenkins and ending with Mitchell. He slowly lifted his head as his knees scraped bottom and watched as, one by one, his team made it onto the barren shoreline, according to the preplanned sequence.

Behind them, to the southeast, lay the resort island of Gulangyu, its multicolored lights winking in the haze. Mitchell slid his mask onto his forehead and grimaced over the water's nasty stench. He dragged himself closer and removed his fins, leaving on his wet shoes, and rushed onto the shoreline.

There, he and the others stripped out of their gear, piled it up for the SEALs, then Mitchell set the beacon and gave the hand signal to move out.

They hustled off, heading west through a fairly dense forest toward the opposite end of the spit, where a long pier jutted out into the channel between themselves and the mainland.

A lone wooden fishing boat, lights off, was roped up at the end of the pier and idling loudly, its engine exhaling plumes of black smoke. The boat could barely accommodate six people, let alone nine or ten.

Mitchell gave another hand signal, and the team bolted from the forest and out, onto the pier, keeping low.

Once at the boat, a bald, bespectacled Chinese man with a sizable paunch lumbered up to the gunwale. He raised his voice above the coughing inboard, his English surprisingly good: "Everyone come aboard. Quickly now, quickly. And who is Captain Mitchell?"

"I am," Mitchell answered, climbing over the rail and cramming onto the deck.

"Hello. They call me Buddha. I'm taking you across the channel to a small pier used only by the fishermen. We have two trucks waiting. You will change in the trucks."

"Outstanding. And that's a good name you have."

"I think so." Buddha moved to the wheel, shouted to Nolan and Hume to get the ropes, then he throttled up and steered them away from the pier.

They sat below the gunwale, out of view, and Mitchell dug out his Cross-Com earpiece/monocle from his pack. He slipped the unit over his left ear, tapped the Power Up button, and issued the voice command: "Cross-Com activated." In three seconds he was on the network.

The screen glowed to life, and he immediately issued several more voice commands, bringing up his first support asset, that streaming satellite video from the castle itself, and even as the image sharpened from static to an overhead, night-vision-enhanced picture of the four silos and single rectangular building, Mitchell watched as a lone helicopter landed in an adjacent field. "Right on time," he whispered.

The trip across the channel took but fifteen minutes, and as they neared the fishermen's pier, Buddha cut the throttle way too late. They slammed so hard into the pylons that the rail actually cracked.

"Sorry," Buddha said. "I'm a lover, not a sailor."

"Dude, you need some lessons," said Nolan as he helped tie up the boat.

A young man, probably in his mid-twenties, stood waiting for them by the trucks. The guy ditched his cigarette and cocked a thumb at the tarpaulin-covered flatbeds.

"Oh, you have to be kidding me," said Brown.

"Just get in," snapped Mitchell.

The trucks' engines didn't sound much better than the boat's, and judging from their large fenders and big, round headlights, they were probably built in the '50s or '60s.

"They couldn't get anything better than these?" Ramirez asked as he passed Mitchell.

"I don't know. I'll ask."

As the others piled in, Mitchell pulled Buddha aside and voiced his question.

"Captain, these old Jiefangs are not uncommon along the mountain roads and more rural areas. The PLA sold a lot of them to the farmers. A brand-new SUV would call much more attention."

"But will they make it up the hills?"

"I think so."

"We can't be late."

Buddha's eyes widened. "Then why are we talking?"

Mitchell nodded and started back for the truck, but Buddha called after him, "Captain, if we are stopped, be sure everyone is wearing their masks and that no one talks. We are the secret police. I have all the paperwork. And oh, yes, my partner's name is Boy Scout."

"All right."

Mitchell reached the tailgate and hoisted himself inside, where he found Diaz, Nolan, Smith, and Ramirez donning black, nondescript uniforms over their wet suits and black balaclavas to conceal all but their eyes.

"How're we doing?" he asked.

"Good, sir," said Diaz. "My uniform actually fits."

"Excellent. Welcome to China, everybody."

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

Five miles offshore, Captain Gummerson plugged into a secure satellite tactical feed and watched as nine green dots inched across his screen.

And twelve time zones away, Gummerson imagined the most powerful man in the free world sitting alone, studying those same green dots.

"Captain, the Predator is ready for launch," said the XO with a slight hint of resignation in his voice.

"Very well. We need to time this just right so Mitchell and his people can bleed every second out of that bird."

"Yes, sir. And, sir, I'm still concerned about detection during launch."

"As well you should be, XO. We've got time to push out another twenty miles. Can't do much to minimize the glare from the Predator's booster propellant, but there's no need to wake the neighbors."

"You read my mind, sir."

"We'll both sleep better knowing we got plenty of water around us. Last thing we need is some sharp-eyed merchant's lookout spotting our big ear."

"Aye, aye, sir. And, sir, for what it's worth, Captain Mitchell was a true professional."

"Agreed. He would've made an excellent submariner. We can't afford to lose a guy like that."

"Yes, sir. If they can do their part, we'll do ours. That's a very capable team he has."

Gummerson narrowed his eyes on the screen. Sometimes being capable was hardly enough.

HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Captain Fang Zhi had just received radio reports from his three-man teams posted outside the north, south, east, and west buildings of the castle. They were in position. No issues to consider, other than one man had been bitten by a dog while trying to assume his post.

Fang was still waiting to hear from the two-man team inside the central building, where the Spring Tigers were just now gathering to welcome Vice Admiral Cai, the last to arrive. Fang himself was up on the fifth floor of that same building, where he could quickly access the roof to view the entire castle, and he wasn't the only guard with that vantage point.

Two snipers had been posted in the hills, one along the eastern ridge, the other along the steeper banks to the north. They had been first to communicate with him and would check in every fifteen minutes throughout the night.

Fang had warned his entire team to sleep as much as they could throughout the prior day, but even he had found it difficult to take his own advice.

He'd spent most of the day reliving the incident on Basilan, taking himself back through his disgrace, back through the moments when they'd told him he was being discharged, that they had no use for a coward like him. And all of the old wounds were reopened and infected with his rage.

Now, on the eve of justice, he yawned deeply then finally listened to a report coming in from Sergeant Chung, the fool who'd accused him of being a spy. "This is Tiger Twelve. All clear here."

Fang was about to speak into the boom mike at his mouth when he turned, nearly knocking into someone.

"Sorry, Captain, but I came to tell you that they have all gone to the dining room. The meal has been prepared exactly as you'd asked."

Huang stood there, a man beaten and broken. Perhaps one day his time would come. But this day . . . this day was Fang's.

"Thank you, Huang."

"And, sir, not to alarm you, but the power company has been upgrading the transformers for the past two weeks. They will shut down the power sometime within the next few hours, but we will only be in the dark for less than thirty minutes."

Fang frowned. "Why didn't you tell us about this sooner?"

"I had not thought it very important."

Fang sighed through his teeth. "Everything is important. Still, you have served us well. After the meeting tomorrow, I will be leaving behind my truck. It will be yours."

Huang lowered his head and scampered away.

Fang wished the man had put up a greater fight, for only then would he truly respect Huang.

As it was, Fang had no intention of leaving behind his truck–or leaving Huang alive.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

EN ROUTE TO HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

The old truck made a gurgling noise then began to slow. Mitchell brought up the tactical map in his HUD, studying the tortuous mountain road glowing green and leading up to the castle, marked with the requisite yellow square and the words Primary Objective.

They had come to a fork in the road, and the truck carrying Bravo Team, driven by the guy named Boy Scout, was veering right for the 1.7 kilometer trek to the transformer station.

"Ghost Lead, this is Beasley. We're heading up now. I'll contact you once we're set at the secondary objective."

"Roger that."

"Captain?"

Mitchell reached down to the cell phone with walkie talkie function that Buddha had given him. "Go ahead."

"Good news awaits on the road ahead."

"You getting philosophical, or do you know something we don't?"

"I have a little surprise."

"Really? Bring it on. Just hope it's a good one."

"I think you will be pleased."

"You hear that?" Mitchell called to the others. "He's got a surprise."

Diaz shook her head. "I hate surprises."

"Me, too," said Ramirez.

Mitchell nodded. "When we stop, everyone look sharp."

Sergeant First Class Bo Jenkins hadn't told the others about his father, and neither had the captain. That was fine by him. No sense in any of them doubting his abilities or feeling awkward around him. He was a professional and well understood the importance of keeping every emotion in check.

But sitting in the truck and waiting was dangerous. At any moment he would slip into the past, into a day out with his father as they cut wood for the fireplace, into a night when Dad had tried to explain why he and Mom were getting divorced.

Jenkins shuddered and glanced at all the charges they'd been preparing. C-4 for you, C-4 for me, C-4 for everybody–over fifty pounds in all. Buddha and his little buddy had supplied the materials; now it was up to Jenkins and Hume to call upon their old engineering training to create a glorious diversion, should the need arise.

The transformer station was located at the base of a curving row of foothills in a heavily wooded area at least a quarter kilometer from the nearest house. Their CIA driver, who was running with lights out and wearing a pair of night-vision goggles, parked them about a hundred meters south.

Jenkins's pulse rose. Time to rock 'n' roll.

Beasley and Brown leapt out first and charged off to secure the area. Jenkins and Hume loaded the bags with C-4, hoisted them onto their shoulders, and waited.

"Breakers on the left. Remember," said Hume.

"No problem."

Within three minutes Beasley gave the signal. Jenkins led Hume out of the truck, and they rushed up a dirt road and reached the chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire. Beyond stood the transformer station, rising out of the ground like the exposed bowels of some slain electronic beast, poles like intestines, cables and wires like arteries and veins spanning the gaps between large metal organs.

Brown had already cut the lock on the gate, so Jenkins followed Hume inside.

A schematic of the entire transformer station with its switching, connection, and control equipment was already being displayed in their HUDs, and the two of them got to work, first setting up the small and carefully placed charge that would trip the breakers and cut the power to the castle and the surrounding area, then rigging up the larger charges to destroy the entire transformer station and darken an even larger portion of the province.

Meanwhile, Jenkins knew that Beasley and Hume were relieved to lighten their equipment packs. They had been carrying the team's Small Unmanned Ground Vehicle (SUGV), a tracked recon robot equipped with thermal infrared and digital cameras, along with a loudspeaker system. After opening the bot's waterproof packing, they began assembly. The SUGV was barely larger than a kid's radio-controlled tank, with rubberized tracks supporting the folding camera neck. Although armed only with smoke grenades to delay an oncoming adversary, the SUGV would stand watch over the transformer station and ensure that no one could tamper with the charges. Beasley controlled the bot and would be automatically alerted should it detect movement, heat sources, or any other signs of entry within its target discrimination hemisphere, which was adjustable by the operator.

When Jenkins and Hume were finished with their charges, the SUGV was already powered up and online, and any member of the team could call up its camera images in their HUDs. Jenkins did so and glimpsed panning images of the fence line, as captured by the bot.

Brown slipped a brand-new lock on the gate, one nearly identical to the original, while Beasley used the wireless handheld controller to position the robot into a cover position beside two large poles where it could still maintain good surveillance. Once they got out of range, commands to the robot would then be routed through the network, although the SUGV would respond more slowly because of the satellite delay.

From start to finish the entire operation took 19.45 minutes, and Beasley signaled the captain that they were leaving the area and heading for the castle.

"We'll cut the power on your order, sir," he added.

Back inside the truck, Jenkins removed his Cross-Com earpiece/monocle and tugged off his balaclava to palm sweat from his face and massage his tired eyes.

"You all right, Bo?" asked Hume.

"Yeah, why?"

"You just look tired."

"I'm not. Let's get up there and get this done."

Mitchell took a deep breath. "Here we go."

The truck had turned off the road and driven through a narrow path between the trees. Then Buddha had stopped and said, "We are here. Everyone out."

He led them farther into the adjoining forest, where they found two vehicles: late-model four-wheel-drive SUVs, both black and parked under camouflage netting.

"We ride up in crap for a good disguise. But we ride out fast and in style," said Buddha.

Mitchell grinned. "Good surprise."

Buddha winked. "We take no chances for our escape. Now check your map. The castle is right over the next hill. I will hide the truck and remain here, waiting for you, along with Boy Scout, after he drops off the other team. If you need us to come up, okay, but I would rather not. And I warn you, my partner is a rookie."

"So a good surprise comes with a bad one," Mitchell said with a groan. "Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

"No, Captain. I am just a fat man with two cars." After a lopsided grin, Buddha trudged off.

"All right, let's go to our eye in the sky," Mitchell said as he waved them on and started back toward the road, reaching up to his earpiece. "Cross-Com activated."

Live streaming video from the castle revealed dozens of lights shining from the windows of all five buildings, and Mitchell zoomed in on each structure, noting the men posted outside. They were only silhouettes, and it was hard to positively distinguish between them and the several dozen civilians still milling about. Occasionally he would spot the end of a rifle barrel. The place was a cluster of anthills, with their targets hidden deep inside.