Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

"Roger that."

"And, sir, looks like our SUVs are coming down the mountain."

"What?"

"That's right, sir. They're coming down."

Mitchell swung around and watched as Fang Zhi's truck roared up onto the east road, directly toward the first oncoming SUV. "Diaz, you see that other truck."

"I got him."

"Fire!"

"I'll try, sir, but he's moving fast!"

"Just try. Ramirez? Nolan? Get to Jenkins. Help him get Brown out of there.

"You got it, Boss," answered Ramirez.

Boy Scout cut his wheel to the left, trying to run the oncoming truck off the road, but the driver, whose window was down, thrust his arm and head out the window and began firing his pistol.

The first shot exploded into Boy Scout's windshield as he reached for his own weapon.

He never brought it to bear.

Just as the two vehicles passed each other, with the truck to Boy Scout's left, the driver fired once more. Boy Scout's neck snapped back as he thought a curse, fell forward onto the wheel, and all sensation vanished.

Buddha rolled his wheel and drove as far off to the right as he could, bringing his SUV high onto the muddy embankment, even as he fired upon the escaping truck.

That driver returned fire, then accelerated up and over the hill, gone.

Beasley picked his way through the shattered staircase and found Hume sitting up against the wall, his legs and right arm pinpricked by dozens of pieces of shrapnel. Opposite him lay a guard and Major-General Chen.

"Johnny, it's me, Matt. Getting you out of here, buddy."

Hume did not move.

Beasley removed the sergeant's earpiece and balaclava, then directed a small Gladius tactical light to the side of Hume's head, checking his ears and eyes. They looked all right. He examined the wounds on Hume's extremities.

The sergeant stirred and said, "Matt, I think I'm going to puke."

"Your ears ringing, too?"

"Yeah."

"You got a little shrapnel, little head injury. Ain't nothing. Let's see if you can put some weight on those legs. Ready?"

Beasley rose, got in beside Hume to dig his arms into Hume's pits and haul him to his feet.

Hume hadn't been kidding about feeling nauseous. Just as he leaned over, about to hurl, Smith came rushing into the stairwell, took one look at them, and said, "Guess you got it covered here, Matt."

"Hold on, cowboy. Get back here, police up his gear, and help me get him out. Let's go!"

Seeing that the first SUV was barreling down the road, out of control, heading directly toward the east building, Mitchell raced toward it.

There was, however, nothing he could do as metal screeched and the vehicle crashed through the gate, heading straight for the curving brick wall. At least the gate had helped to slow the SUV so that once it struck the wall with a low boom, the bricks slid back a quarter meter or so, but the vehicle did not bust through and sat there idling, its black hood draped in dust and rocks.

Gasping, Mitchell reached the SUV, swung open the driver's side door, and grimaced. Their young CIA contact was gone and had bled all over the seat and wheel. He shifted the lever into park and turned as Diaz came sprinting up.

"Sir, I'm sorry, I just couldn't get a bead," she said, gasping herself, her face drenched, the Cross-Com's power light glowing like a small jewel near her ear.

"It's all right. Help me get him out. You take the wheel. I want to stop that other truck."

"You got it, sir. He's following our route, which is good, but he's got one hell of a lead."

Mitchell sighed in disgust. "I know."

As they dragged Boy Scout out of the seat and toward the back of the SUV, Diaz cried, "Wait a second. There might be a way to slow him down."

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Mitchell ordered the others to load Brown and Hume into his SUV. Nolan climbed into the back to better assess their wounds and treat them while en route back to the coast. Hume was in and out. Brown was just coming around.

They raced off, while Ramirez, Beasley, Smith, and Jenkins climbed into Buddha's SUV.

As Diaz took them up onto the slick mountain road, struggling with the wheel, Mitchell just happened to glance in the side-view mirror.

Buddha's SUV had yet to pull out of the courtyard. A man was running toward the truck, waving one hand.

"Ramirez, this is Ghost Lead. What's going on down there?"

They had been screaming for Buddha to get the hell out of there, but the fat man had spotted someone running across the courtyard and had cried, "Wait!"

Ramirez, who was sitting up front, swung his pistol around and aimed at Buddha's head. "Drive!"

"No, that's Huang, our contact. Just wait one second!"

"Get moving now!" shouted Ramirez. "This place'll get hot soon. Come on!"

Buddha faced him with widening eyes. "Patience."

"Get out of the car!" screamed Beasley from the backseat. "Out, fat man! I'm driving!"

"Huang?" shouted Buddha, ignoring Beasley. "What is it?"

Huang waved and continued running toward the SUV, where he saw Buddha turn back and once more scream at the men inside. The pistol was tucked into Huang's pocket.

He had seen Fang escape in the Brave Warrior that was supposed to be Huang's.

He had watched the men climb into Buddha's truck and knew he was going to drive away, leaving Huang with nothing.

Fang had lied and made false promises.

Buddha had lied and broken his promise to kill Fang.

Huang must save face. He must.

"Buddha! Wait! I have something for you."

The exhaustion, lack of sleep, and the high humidity had all taken their toll on Buddha, who was slow to realize what was happening.

Huang did not have some last bit of information for him.

He had a bullet.

The scrawny old man reached into his pocket and produced a pistol.

Buddha reached for his weapon, even as the back door slammed open and one of the Ghosts burst outside.

But it all happened too fast for old Buddha. And there was a strange sense of resignation that took hold, that feeling just before he fell asleep after a long day.

Huang's pistol flashed.

The first round sliced through Buddha's neck just as Ramirez fired past Buddha's face.

The second round struck Buddha in the head, and while he should have died quickly, there was, it seemed, just enough time for a final thought, nothing profound, just a simple line from the Dhammapada, one he often repeated to calm himself: "Here shall I dwell in the season of rains, and here in winter and summer."

Smith flinched over his wounded arm, but he still managed to leap from the SUV, and, one-handing his MR-C, cut down the scarecrow with the pistol.

"Get Buddha out of that seat! Get him in the back!" shouted Ramirez, who then added. "Jesus, I'm hit, too!"

Beasley and Jenkins were out of the truck, rushing to the driver's side to haul out Buddha and load him into the cargo compartment. Smith figured they'd call higher to find out what they wanted to do with the bodies of the CIA guys, but it'd be unwise to leave them behind.

Mitchell was still calling for a SITREP over the radio, and Beasley filled him in while Smith ran back around the truck to check on Ramirez, who had been lifting his arm when that first shot had passed through Buddha's neck. The round had continued on to strike him in the right shoulder, near his upper chest.

"Hey, least you got shot by a bad guy," groaned Ramirez. "That old man got me."

"Yeah, kind of embarrassing."

Ramirez snorted. "Shut up."

"Kidding." Smith checked for an exit wound, found one. "All right, it passed right on through. I know it hurts. We'll tape you up for now."

Ramirez's face screwed up into a knot, and he cursed.

"Joey, if you can get in back, we'll treat you," said Beasley. "Jenkins, you take the wheel."

"Come on," said Smith, reaching out to help Ramirez down from the passenger's seat.

"Bravo Lead," called Mitchell. "Get out of there and light up those choppers."

"Roger that."

Once the last door had slammed shut and Jenkins was wheeling them around, Beasley issued a curt, "Three, two, one," and set off the C4 packed tightly into the helicopters and trucks behind the castle.

The idea, of course, was to keep any military or police response focused inland–and between the castle explosion and the one at the transformer station, Smith figured they had done a convincing job of baiting the hook.

He craned his head and stared back at the castle, water streaming off the rooflines like melting wax as four magnificent fireballs rose skyward and swelled into orange mushrooms behind it. The explosions cast the place in an otherworldly glow, and as they rose higher into the mountains, the valley shone once more in the flicker of lightning.

It was an unforgettable sight, a painting from ancient China coming alive before his eyes,

As Smith turned back and settled into his seat, window down, rifle at the ready, he thought of his parents back home, wished they could've come along with him on this mission. They might realize once and for all that giving up his position as a Ghost to become a small-town sheriff would be like playing in the major leagues and then deciding to coach weekend softball games.

Maybe one day, when he slowed down, but not now. Not when his blood coursed like a million volts through his veins.

While Diaz coaxed the SUV through torrents of rain and mud, Mitchell sat beside her, about to check his HUD to home in on Fang's current location.

However, his downlink channel screen crackled to life with an image of General Keating in the command center. "Mitchell, great work out there, son. Now it's time to come home. But we have a problem. Either your infiltration at the coast went south and you were spotted or that power outage has really spooked them."

The image on screen shifted from Keating to a three-dimensional, rotating graphic of a Chinese patrol boat with accompanying identification label and detailed specs: Type 62C Shanghai-II-class gun patrol boat. Length: 38.78 meters. Top speed: 28.5 knots. Crew: 36. Armament: two twin-barrel 37 mm antiaircraft artillery (AAA) guns and two twin-barrel 25 mm AAA guns.

The general continued: "Two of these Shanghai-class patrol boats are en route to Xiamen Harbor. Most of the newer gunboats of the East Sea Fleet are up in Ningde, but apparently, the older 62Cs were being transferred to other seaports, which accounts for this pair."

"Sir, you trying to make me feel better by saying they're older boats? Their guns are big, and I bet they work just fine."

"You're right. But hang in there, son. We're working some angles from our end."

"Sir, I've got four wounded. Getting back to the sub will be hard enough without those patrol boats breathing down our necks. I need them gone."

"I hear you, Mitchell. Just stand by."

Fang Zhi rumbled down the winding mountain road, spinning out in the mud as he cut curves too sharply. He had no choice but to keep the headlights on and squint through the heavy rain pelting his windshield. His thoughts continued to leap out ahead of the truck, to his destination–his future.

When they discovered all the bodies, and the investigations began in the morning, it wouldn't take long before they located him, questioned him, tortured him into saying what they wanted. Someone would have to take the fall for this. The rage filled his gut and finally erupted from his mouth.

He screamed at the droning wipers. He screamed at the Spring Tigers for failing him.

Yes, it was their fault. There had been a huge breach in security, and if they had placed more faith in him, given him responsibilities at the strategic level, he might have discovered it. One of his guards had called to say that he'd heard the attackers speaking English with American accents.

Fang beat his fist on the steering wheel. How many of his lives could the Americans ruin? And where was he going, except away? He couldn't stay in China. He would never return to Taiwan.

Maybe he could get to the Philippines. He knew two men who could help him do that. They smuggled out women for the sex trade. He could pay them for help. That was it. He would go back to the base, gather all of his belongings, and be gone before daylight. His life would come full circle. He would return to the place where all his trouble had begun.

As he rounded the next corner, the road grew considerably wider, the forest drifting back another twenty meters from the embankment. Suddenly, a single headlight came out of nowhere and raced toward him. He narrowed his gaze and reached over for his pistol, sitting beside the QBZ-95 assault rifle on his seat.

Calm down,he ordered himself. It was probably some old farmer with one busted headlight or some punk on a scooter or motorcycle. He accelerated and kept to the right, but the headlight veered and came straight at him.

UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND

MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE

TAMPA, FLORIDA

APRIL 2012

General Joshua Keating had just finished sharing the good news with the President of the United States. Targets terminated. Ghost Team exfiltrating. Keating had carefully omitted the news of the Chinese patrol boats. No need to worry the president just yet. Keating ended the video call and was about to reach for his bottle of water when Dr. Gorbatova stepped over to his desk.

"General, our mole has just arrived at his office, but I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding. He was under the impression he was flying out now. We instructed him that he had one more task to complete, but he is very nervous."

"Poor boy. Maybe if he was out there with my Ghosts, he'd have something to be nervous about."

"General, I'm unsure if we can count on him. I don't think he trusts us anymore."

"I don't want excuses, Doctor. I've got wounded men out there. You've got two dead. You tell your boy lives are depending upon him."

CENTRAL MILITARY COMMISSION (CMC)

MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND

BEIJING, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Captain Zuo Junping had rushed past the building's perimeter guards, telling them there was trouble in Xiamen and that they should prepare for more arrivals.

He had used his key to enter Deputy Director Wang Ya's office. Now he sat at the director's desk in the dim LED light of Wang's computer screen. He needed to send off the proper e-mails, then he would make the calls. The DIA had charged him with ensuring that the military response was focused inland, and so Zuo, acting as the deputy director, would send those requests up through the CMC. Moreover, there were two patrol boats headed toward Xiamen Harbor, and Zuo had been ordered to send them ten miles north to investigate smuggling activity at the Gaoji Seawall.

Zuo had given away or sold off everything he owned. Back at his apartment were a blanket, a pillow, and two packed suitcases.

After his fellow agent Lo Kuo-hui had left with the good news that the DIA had honored their deal with him, Zuo had finally believed that the agency would help him, too. But this last-minute mission left him sweaty and breathless.

He hit the Return key, reached for the phone.

The door swung open, the lights switched on, and in rushed the deputy director himself, bald pate gleaming, eyes narrowed behind thick glasses. Behind him came two security guards, their rifles trained on Zuo, whose hand went for the pistol holstered at his waist.

"Hands on the desk," barked Wang, as the guards moved in closer.

Zuo raised his palms and gently returned them to the keyboard.

"I am deeply hurt," Wang continued. "I know you used my phone to call Geneva. Who are you working for? The Ministry of Public Security or State Security?"

Zuo swallowed, tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come at first. At least Wang didn't know he was spying for the Americans. He assumed he'd been betrayed, a breakdown in guanxi, in connections. Wang was involved in something even bigger than the Spring Tiger Group's plan, but Zuo wasn't sure what. There'd been no answer in Geneva, but he had passed on that number to the Americans.

Wang shook his head in disappointment. "I haven't slept in two days. I was thinking about meeting you at the academy, about how you've become my son. I have grown sick. Is this what a son does to his father?"

Zuo averted his gaze. "No."

"Then what shall I do with you?"

"Please, sir. I am not working for anyone. I was just curious. Stupid."

Wang crossed around the desk. "Stand up!"

Zuo complied.

Wang reached down, removed Zuo's pistol, and handed it to one of the guards. Then he shook his head and abruptly smacked Zuo across the face. "I have no tolerance or forgiveness or mercy for spies."

With his cheek on fire, Zuo lowered his head and flexed his fingers. This was it. Wang would have him die in a robbery or an accident–nothing to arouse further investigation by State Security. There would be no new life back in America. No freedom. All of the spying he had done for the Americans had been for nothing.

Nothing!

Slowly, he raised his head, looked Wang straight in the eye, then he threw himself forward, wrapping his fingers around the director's throat. He drove the man onto the floor and began digging his fingers into warm, flabby flesh, just as the guards seized his arms and wrenched him off.

One guard reared back and punched Zuo in the temple. He rolled back, across the floor, the room spinning.

"Get him out of here," Wang cried. "Back down to my car. Hurry now!"

They hauled Zuo to his feet, dragged him out the door as he struggled to remain conscious.

LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

The vehicle with the single headlight barreled toward Fang, its engine growing louder and issuing a strange and rhythmic whine. He thrust out his hand, firing his pistol until the magazine was empty.

But the thing kept coming.

He reached over, seized his rifle, propped the barrel on the side-view mirror, and unloaded the ten bullets left in the magazine. He let the rifle fall away, just as he cut the wheel to the right, veering sharply off the road.

With a violent jostle that threw him up from the seat, he hit the embankment, and the truck suddenly dropped a meter and began rolling onto its side.

His gaze flicked up to his left, and he couldn't believe what came roaring by.

Chapter Thirty.

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

Captain Gummerson approached the two naval aviators just as Lieutenant Moch shook his fist and muttered, "Yeah."

They were in the control room, and Moch and his copilot, Lieutenant Justin Schumaker, had been a study in sheer determination as they'd piloted the Predator over the twisting mountain road. Once they'd located a swath of ground wide enough to permit the Predator's wingspan of 14.8 meters, they had descended hard and fast through the rainstorm, putting the bird on a direct intercept course with Mitchell's fleeing guard.

Gummerson had listened to the initial request, which had raised a few brows on Montana.

"Predator support, this is Diaz," called one of Mitchell's Ghosts.

"Hey, Alicia. Go ahead."

"Jeff, remember that story you told me? Well, I need you to stop a train."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. It's up to you, Mr. Naval Aviator."

"Roger that. Sit back and enjoy the show."

Now Gummerson leaned over Moch and said, "I assume you stopped your train–or is it a truck?"

"Oh, yeah, sir. All he saw was our headlight before we ran him off the road." Moch pointed at one of his monitors with thermal images and pairs of reticles superimposed over several data bars. "Check it out. You see the look on his face?"

"Wow. But he did see the bird."

"True. But he won't be around long enough to tell."

Gummerson nodded and glanced over at Lieutenant Commander Sands, who appeared equally impressed.

Moch's copilot began speaking quickly over his radio as flashing red circles appeared along a three-dimensional rendering of the drone's fuselage.

"What now?" groaned Moch.

"Looks like some hydraulic and engine damage, and a small fuel leak from all that gunfire," said Schumaker. "Sensor operators back home confirm."

"Lieutenant, I need you to take her back over the harbor before you ditch. Can you still do that?" asked Gummerson.

"We'll sweet-talk her into one last pass, sir."

"Focus on the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island. That zone concerns me the most."

Moch gently shifted the joystick controller. "On our way."

Gummerson faced Sands. "XO, are the SEALs ready?"

"Standing by."

"Excellent. Tell 'em it won't be long."

"Aye, aye, sir."

LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Satellite imagery relayed to Mitchell's HUD indicated that Fang was out of his ride, but he had not fled. He was trying to use the truck's forward winch to drag the vehicle from the embankment and, perhaps, tip it upright. If he could utilize a few trees and rig the tow line at the proper angle, he could get back on the road.

They were about five minutes away from his position, and Mitchell knew that if they roared up on him, he'd bolt into the woods.

A pang of guilt woke deep in Mitchell's gut. The mission and his people came first, yes, but this was a chance to slam shut one of the most painful doors of his life. Could he justify taking time out for revenge?

Maybe Fang had seen the Predator. Maybe he'd alert the PLA that the attack had come from Americans.

And didn't General Keating need more time to get those patrol boats away from the harbor?

He could rationalize it all he wanted, but the guilt still clawed at his neck and began robbing him of breath. He turned to the backseat. "Nolan, how're we doing?"

"A whole lot better," replied the medic.

"Hey, sir," said Brown, moving his lips as though tasting something very bad, a symptom of a head wound. "I'm okay."

"Me, too," said Hume.

"Marcus, I'm so sorry," said Diaz.

"Forget it. I know if you wanted to kill me, you wouldn't have missed."

"We'll talk more later," she said.

Mitchell tensed. "All right, listen up. We'll be on that last guard in a minute. He's rolled over and is trying to free his truck with a winch. I don't want to leave any loose ends–particularly a military witness like this guy, so I plan to take him out."

"Sounds good to us, sir," said Nolan.

"There's something else, something you have a right to know. That guard's name is Fang Zhi. He's from Taiwan. He was a captain in their army, and I worked with him in the Philippines, doing some joint training back in '02. We got ambushed, and he wouldn't order his team to attack. He said our orders were unconscionable. I lost a lot of good men because of that man."

"Sir, are you serious?" asked Diaz.

"I am. When the drone was deployed, I got a good look at him."

"Whoa, what the hell's he doing here?" asked Hume.

Mitchell sighed. "I heard he got busted out of the army. He must've defected to China. But that doesn't matter. All I'm trying to say is, you guys come first."

"Sir, the rumors have gone around," said Diaz. "He's the guy who gave you that scar, isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"Then, sir, you tell me where to pull over." Diaz's tone darkened. "We'll go down there and take care of business."

"No. I won't risk you guys for that. You give me five minutes. If you don't hear from me, I'm dead. You come down, get my body, and get to the coast. All right, this is close enough."

As Diaz slowed, she shook her head and raised her voice: "Sir, we have no intention of collecting your body. You're going to kill that bastard. And maybe you don't want us with you, but we can still help."

Mitchell climbed out of the SUV, gave her a curt nod. "Okay. Stay in touch."

When Fang's Brave Warrior had slammed onto its side and skidded down into the mud, he'd just sat there, stunned. He'd thought, That drone . . . it has to belong to the Americans.

After snatching up his rifle and loading his last magazine, he'd slung the weapon over his shoulder and had crawled his way out of the truck through the back door.

Once on the ground, his gaze had swept across the dark sky for the drone. Was that its engine humming lowly in the distance? Maybe. Maybe it was retreating.

He'd surveyed the embankment. The road had become more narrow again, and trees with thick, talonlike limbs rose on a slope just off to his left. He'd draped the heavy tow line over two thick branches and, after hooking it back over itself, he'd run back to the truck and switched on the winch. The truck slid forward, plowing up mud, but the angle was no good. The line simply dragged the truck forward and did not, as Fang had anticipated, lift it upright.

Suddenly, one limb cracked, the tow line fell slack, and the truck stopped. Fang raged aloud and rushed back to the truck to switch off the winch. He would try once more; then he would abandon the truck and take off on foot.

As he leaned forward toward the winch, something nicked his shoulder. He rolled over, felt the sharp stinging, then looked down at his uniform shirt. A small amount of blood had soaked through the fabric.

He desperately reached back for his rifle, came up with it, and began easing forward on elbows and knees, keeping tight to the truck, calculating where that shot had originated. The wound began to throb, the blood beating in his ears.

Where are you?

A shadow shifted up on the slope to his left, near the trees.

Fang swung his rifle around and opened fire, laying down a vicious salvo while screaming through the rattling and pouring rain.

The second he ceased fire, he rose, got around the truck, and charged across the road and into the thicker knots of trees and waist-high shrubs.

Mitchell knew he'd struck Fang, but the perfect head shot had turned into a slight shoulder wound, damn it. Even with the IWS's aiming assistance, he was no Diaz. He'd been shifting toward the next tree when Fang had returned fire. He crawled forward now, checking his HUD. Fang had retreated into the opposite woods.

"Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. We heard the shots. I have your position. Target is heading north, but there's a big rock wall in his way. He probably doesn't see it yet. Follow him in. You can trap him there."

"Roger that," said Mitchell, already jogging away from the slope. He stomped past Fang's truck and splashed across the road, heading toward the forest.

"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead. Our ETA is two minutes. You want us to hold back with Diaz?"

"Negative. You guys take point and head on to the coast."

"Roger that, Boss."

Mitchell pushed through the weeds and grass, shifted around the next few trees, then the slope grew rockier, steeper, and he reached the next tree and crouched down as he studied the satellite image in his HUD. Fang was close.

The rain fell harder, sifting through the thick canopy, the heaviest drops tapping on Mitchell's shoulders like a nervous buddy trying to get his attention. That buddy began whispering in his ear: "He's over here. No, he's over there. Check that tree. That bush. No, that one."The gun cam's screen glowed softly, and Mitchell wiped off the rain and used it to peer around the next trunk.

No movement. He switched off the camera now, lest its light give up his position.

He took a huge breath and darted from the tree, ascending along mud-covered stone toward the rocky wall ahead. He veered left toward the last few trees.

The satellite image set his pulse racing even more.

Fang was on top of him. Literally. He whirled–and at that moment the grave error he had made finally, inevitably dawned on him.

Mitchell threw himself forward as Fang, who had just climbed a tree and was positioning himself on the lowest, heaviest limb, opened fire.

A round tore into Mitchell's right arm, just above his elbow, and another sparked off his MR-C as he slid forward and rolled, raising the rifle to unleash a volley up through the trees, even as Fang continued firing, seemingly bent on unloading his entire magazine.

Mitchell rolled again, releasing another burst.

Fang screamed, but his voice broke off into a gurgling sound.

Smoke wafted up from Mitchell's barrel. He lay there struggling for breath, the million taps of rain on limbs and leaves droning on.

He squinted up, saw Fang's arm just dangling over the branch.

It was over. Finally over. And Mitchell's only regret was that Fang had not known his killer.

"Diaz, this is Ghost Lead. Bring the truck down. I'm hit, but I'll be there in a minute."

"Roger that. How bad are you?"

He moved his wounded arm. At least he could do that. "We'll see. Just come."

Before Mitchell could get to his feet, something thumped into the mud not a meter from his feet.

He blinked hard through the pain.

The object was a wooden shaft hand-carved in a tiger-stripe pattern: Fang's cane. But there was only the empty sheath. It must have slipped off the sword on its own.

Or had it? Mitchell looked up.

Fang had balanced himself on the limb and drawn the sword high above his head in a reverse grip, tip down. A guttural cry exploded from his lips as he launched himself off the limb.

He came down toward Mitchell like a tiger baring its fangs, and no force in the world could stop him.

With a gasp and a violent shudder, Mitchell reacted, his thoughts shutting down, his muscles taking over.

He rolled out of the way, his Cross-Com falling off his ear just as the man hit the mud and his sword impaled the mire, burying itself to the hilt.

Diaz's voice buzzed from the earpiece/monocle lying on the ground, "Captain, we're in position. Why are you still up there?"

As Mitchell turned to bring his rifle to bear, Fang wrenched free the blade and with both hands batted away Mitchell's weapon, even as Mitchell squeezed the trigger, the rounds going astray. The sword's metal edges struck Mitchell's support hand with such force that he reflexively released that hand from the weapon and held his breath in extreme pain.

Exploiting that opening, Fang dropped to his knees, releasing one hand from the hilt and placing it near the sword's tip. He now used the weapon to drive Mitchell's rifle back into the mud as he straddled Mitchell.

With his still-throbbing free hand, Mitchell struck a roundhouse to Fang's chin, stunning the man into releasing some pressure on the sword.

Now Mitchell pushed forward, driving Fang's sword back just enough to slip his hand free of the rifle.

Seeing that, Fang came back up, and now one-handing the sword, drew back in, preparing for a thrusting blow to Mitchell's heart.