Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Because only the sword's tip was sharp, Mitchell locked bare hands onto the wet metal shaft, and, with eyes tearing through the excruciating, throbbing pain from his wounded arm, he drove the sword up, over his shoulder, as Fang made his thrust and once more impaled the mud.

Then Fang wrenched the sword back so quickly that it slipped through Mitchell's fingers.

Holding the weapon once more in a reverse grip, Fang reared back, his face contorted in a mask of sharp, inhuman angles, his eyes dark voids that narrowed as he issued an ear-splitting war cry and brought down the sword.

Chapter Thirty-One.

LEAVING HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

What Fang did not realize and could never truly appreciate was that Captain Scott Mitchell was not alone.

His father, mother, brothers, and sister were with him.

Kristen was with him.

His Ghosts were with him–as was every Special Forces operator with whom he had ever served.

Maybe it was their presence that Fang detected. Or maybe it was something else.

But as the man came down for the kill shot with that sword whose tip was already familiar with Mitchell's flesh, there was a moment of recognition in his eyes, as though maybe, just maybe, he realized who was behind the balaclava covering Mitchell's face.

It was only a second of hesitation.

But it was enough.

Mitchell slammed his knees into Fang's back, even as he reached out and knocked the sword to the left while throwing Fang back, over his head. He rolled and clawed frantically through the dirt, toward his rifle, Diaz's voice still rattling from the earpiece/monocle, the rain turning torrential and blown sideways through the trees.

Mitchell seized the MR-C, rolled back onto his rump, and took aim at Fang, who was coming at him once more, clutching the sword in both hands like a baseball bat.

Fang froze. He had a decision to make.

Mitchell blinked the rain from his eyes and wondered if Fang would drop the sword.

Fang was no doubt wondering why Mitchell hadn't already fired. He'd find out in a second.

Slowly, Mitchell got to his feet, as Fang held his ground, his chest rising and falling, his mouth twisting as he flinched from his chest wound.

Holding his rifle in one hand, Mitchell ripped off his balaclava, shoved it into his pocket, and stepped toward Fang, whose eyes widened in shock.

"You . . . you are Mitchell. Master Sergeant Mitchell," Fang said in English. He was unaware of Mitchell's promotions since then, unaware of so much.

"That's right," Mitchell answered. "Let's talk before I put a bullet in your head."

"You will never have that pleasure."

In a blur of movement, Fang adjusted his grip on the sword and turned the tip on himself, ready to plunge the sword into his chest.

Mitchell fired a single round into Fang's abdomen, blood spraying as Fang twisted and fell onto his back, the sword tumbling from his grip.

As Fang turned onto his side to retrieve the sword, Mitchell splashed past him and kicked the blade out of the man's reach.

Then he set down his rifle and seized Fang by the collar, hauled him back into a sitting position.

Fang's head lolled back as he threatened to lose consciousness.

"Fang, look at me!" cried Mitchell. "Look at me."

Fang felt the blood seeping into his chest and lungs. It would not be long now. He'd wanted to deny Mitchell the satisfaction of killing him, but that wouldn't happen.

As he gazed up, past the man's shoulder, he saw eleven sweaty soldiers carrying M4A1 rifles, the rain dripping from their boonie hats.

Was he dreaming? Hallucinating? Had he already died?

Fang remembered some of their names and their call signs all starting with the letter R. Rutang, Ricochet, and Rockstar stood there among the others. And there was Fang's American counterpart, Captain Victor Foyte, shaking his head and glowering at Fang.

Mitchell rose, picked up Fang's sword, and faced Fang as the other men formed a semicircle behind him. "Only Billy, Rutang, and I made it. Everyone else is dead. Did you know that? Do you care? You should have been a politician–because you're not a soldier. We're all brothers in arms no matter where we come from. But you don't get that."

The other eleven men pushed past Mitchell and came toward Fang. The rain began washing the skin from their faces, leaving grinning skulls and bulging eyes. They opened their mouths and shrieked, the noise sending shock waves through Fang's body. He closed his eyes and screamed against them. No! I didn't mean for it to come to this! We would not be pawns. We were soldiers! I am a soldier!

Mitchell shook Fang again, and the man's eyes flickered open. Mitchell held up the sword. "You see this? It's mine now. You have nothing." Mitchell shoved Fang into a puddle.

With a grimace, Mitchell got to his feet, retrieved the sheath, and slid the sword home. He tucked the cane into his pack, took one last look at Fang, lying there, dying, then picked up his earpiece/monocle and started down the hill, just as Diaz, pistol in hand, came running toward him. "Captain!"

Fang knew that if he lost the sword, his spirit would not be in harmony with his ancestors. The sword represented that harmony, and it had been destined for the hands of Fang's own son, the child he'd yet to have. He should have been less focused on his career. He should have found a woman in China and had that son. Now Fang had nothing left, save for one more breath.

"Diaz, I'm right here," Mitchell called, wiping off the earpiece/monocle and slipping it back over his ear. He was too exhausted to feel vindicated, justified, or anything else.

As she approached, her gaze lifted past him. "Nice work, Captain."

Mitchell shook his head. "It should have never come to this. Never . . ."

"Let me see that arm." She tugged out her rescue knife with its secondary blade for cutting past uniforms.

"No time. Nolan will look at it. Let's go." He started forward, lost his balance, and Diaz grabbed his good arm, draped it over her shoulder.

"It's okay, Captain. I got you."

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

"And there she goes, twenty-six million dollars of pure fun," said Lieutenant Moch, as the Predator's onboard camera showed an image of the dark, roiling waves before the screen went blank.

Captain Gummerson turned his attention to Moch's playback monitor. "Show me that fuel barge and that crane one more time before I talk to Mitchell."

"Rewinding now. And there they are, sir," said Moch, rapping a knuckle on his screen.

As Gummerson studied the infrared images, he pointed his finger at one heat source and said, "What is he still doing there?"

"I don't know, sir," said Moch.

Gummerson glanced back over his shoulder. "XO? Tell the SEALs we may have a change of plan."

"Aye, aye, sir."

UNITED STATES SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND

MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE

TAMPA, FLORIDA

APRIL 2012

"All right, son, what am I looking at?" said General Keating to the young intelligence officer seated before the wide-screen display.

"Here's Xiamen Harbor. Right here is the first patrol boat, heading up to the seawall. From what I can tell, sir, the DIA's mole got off that order to the patrol boats, but only one's heading up. The other captain has either been ordered to remain behind, or maybe he didn't receive the second order. Bottom line is we still have one Shanghai to deal with. See him, right there, running along the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island."

"And there's no way my Ghosts can exfiltrate with that guy patrolling the gap."

"It would not be easy, sir."

"And what do we have here?" Keating pointed to a window that had just opened on the display.

"That's video from the Predator, sir. It just hit the network a few minutes ago."

Keating watched as the bird flew up the long, L-shaped pier jutting out from the sand spit where the Ghosts had made their infiltration.

Only now there were two large heat sources down there, and the image zoomed in to a fuel barge tucked up alongside the pier and a floating crane out near the end.

"They just moved those in," said Keating.

"Yes, sir."

"Get the satellite over them. And get me Montana's commander."

"Yes, sir."

EN ROUTE TO XIAMEN HARBOR

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Nolan had already jabbed a needle into Mitchell's arm, numbing the area, and the medic was now in the process of removing the slug with a pair of straight forceps while Brown and Hume balanced dim lights over the incision.

It wouldn't be the first time Mitchell had lead plucked from his flesh, though he hoped it'd be the last. Nolan repeatedly urged Diaz to avoid the bumps in the dirt road as he pushed the forceps into the wound, and she did the best she could, saying they'd reach paved ground pretty soon.

"Almost there, Captain," said Nolan. "I see it."

"That's nice. Just get it out of me."

"And there it is," said the medic, holding up the slug. "I'll save it for you."

"Don't bother. Just stitch me up, thanks."

"It's a one-stop shop, Captain."

The Cross-Com's uplink channel flickered with an image from Beasley's camera. "Bravo Lead here, sir. We just hit the paved road, still heading to the coast. Lights are still out down here."

"Roger that," replied Mitchell. "Check the map. Once you get on the shore drive, look for that overpass we discussed. We'll see you there."

"You got it, Boss."

Brown, who was now up front with Diaz and had donned his night-vision goggles like her, pointed to the road ahead and said, "There's the turnoff."

As she took the left fork, Mitchell's Cross-Com once more flashed with an incoming transmission from the downlink channel. General Keating thumbed his glasses higher on his nose and lifted his voice, "Keating here, Mitchell."

"Go ahead, General."

"Our DIA mole managed to draw off one of those patrol boats, but the other's still out there, running up and down the harbor."

"Sir, he'll tag us in a second."

"And Montanacan't take a shot at him without the risk of being tagged herself, but intel from the Predator has presented some interesting possibilities."

"I'm all ears, sir."

"Intel believes that the patrol boats were put in place by one of the Spring Tigers himself, Admiral Cai. He added harbor security prior to their operation. You got lucky those boats didn't arrive before your infiltration."

"I hear that, sir."

"Cai also ordered in a refueling barge to support the boats, and he called in a crane to load pallets of fuel onto the pier for additional support elements. Have a look."

Mitchell studied the rotating graphic of the eighty-foot-long, self-propelled barge with a squared-off bow and a small control house. A tower with a boom jutting out in a V pattern rose just past amidships. Attached to that boom was a large refueling hose ready to be extended down and outward. The data bar indicated that the barge had a crew of six.

Next appeared the floating crane seated atop a rectangular, rust-laden barge not unlike its land-based counterpart. The crane's boom rose some 120 feet into the air, and written in English on the side of the operator's cabin was the company name: Wuhan Noontide Industries, Inc. The crane had a main operator and an assistant.

"Now Mitchell, I've just gotten off the horn with Captain Gummerson, and we're running this a couple different ways to help get you out of there. With all the injured you have and the two CIA casualties, Gummerson is willing to surface at the last possible second to get you aboard, but he won't do that unless you make it past the gap."

"Which takes us back to where we started."

"Not exactly. Now pay attention, son. We have a lot to discuss."

Chapter Thirty-Two.

SHORE DRIVE OVERPASS

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

While Ramirez was technically the assistant team leader, the shooting pain from his gunshot wound made it difficult to think straight, so he'd placed Beasley in charge. Smith, who'd been hit himself, had done a fine job of taping up Ramirez and fitting him with a makeshift sling, but Ramirez had refused painkillers. He'd wanted his head to be clear. Maybe he'd have Nolan inject him with a local anesthetic when the medic arrived.

Ramirez and Beasley remained inside the idling SUV while Jenkins and Smith had gone down to the docks and loading ramp, just fifty meters ahead to secure the boat.

All of Haicang up to the Xiamen Bridge was still dark, but just across the harbor, Xiamen Island remained brightly–and unnervingly–lit.

Ramirez checked his watch, then pulled up the tactical map in his HUD and zoomed in on Mitchell's SUV. "They should be here by 0410 hours."

"And the sun comes up at what, 0524 hours," said the team sergeant. We need to move."

"Yup."

"You know something, Joey? I don't like this plan." Beasley grinned.

"Neither do I."

They banged fists, the words and act a little ritual often repeated during exfiltration.

Headlights shone behind them, and Ramirez whirled. "Captain's early? But I just saw him on–"

"No," grunted Beasley. "That ain't him. Get down!"

Beasley, who was in the driver's seat, shut off the engine and lowered the window, pistol in hand.

Ramirez clutched his own pistol and hit the window button as the headlights drew nearer.

"Ghost Lead, this is Bravo Lead."

"Go ahead."

"Boss, we might have a problem."

Jenkins had found the fishing boat's engine key in Buddha's pocket, and once down at the boat, he and Smith had climbed aboard, and Jenkins had inserted the key. He didn't start the engine. Not yet. Beasley had ordered them to lay low until he signaled.

"This thing's a piece of crap," said Jenkins. "We'll sink before we're saved."

"And this water is a freaking biohazard."

"You're not kidding. And hey, what if she doesn't start?"

"Dude, don't jinx us."

A flash of light on his peripheral vision stole Jenkins's attention. "Maybe I already have."

"Bro, there's a four-by-four up there," said Smith. "You see him? That ain't the captain! That looks military!"

"Matt, this is Bo," called Jenkins. "What's going on up there?"

Chances were high that the four-by-four belonged to the army and that the Spring Tigers had ordered patrols out during the predawn hours as part of their larger plans. Ramirez held his breath as the truck pulled up behind them and stopped.

The side-view mirror reflected a green truck not unlike the Brave Warrior but with a canvas top and large windows. Two armed soldiers got out and came toward them, pistols drawn.

Ramirez looked at Beasley, whose gaze was trained on his side-view mirror.

"Here we go, bro," Beasley whispered.

Suddenly, more lights wiped across the overpass, and the two soldiers whirled to face yet another military truck turning off the road and coming down toward them.

The second truck rolled to a stop behind the first, and the soldiers turned to face it.

"Joey, now!" stage-whispered Beasley.

In unison they bolted up, hung out their windows, and shot both men, who dropped, even as a third soldier was emerging from the second truck.

Before he could get back inside to take cover, and before either Ramirez or Beasley could fire, the soldier's chest blew outward, and he slumped below his open door.

Ramirez detected movement in the passenger's seat. Yet another troop.

As he shifted his aim, a thump came from the canvas window in back, and blood clouded the windshield.

"Bravo Team, this is Diaz. You're clear now. We're coming down."

"Roger that," said Beasley.

Ramirez turned back into the SUV and slumped in his seat, taking long, slow breaths. "She could've told us they stopped," he snapped.

Beasley frowned. "She does that." He opened his door and started out of the SUV.

"So much for the quiet exit," said Ramirez, joining Beasley outside. They grimaced over the dead soldiers, the fourth lying in a pulp inside the other car.

The sight of death hardly bothered them. The ramifications of those deaths did. "They've lost contact with their unit."

"Yep. We have their attention," said Beasley with a groan. "Give me a hand with these bodies."

Ramirez snorted and gestured with his sling. "One is all you're getting."

SAND SPIT PIER

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Montanahad slipped in under the patrol boat, gliding into the pass between Haicang and Gulangyu Island. She had headed northeast, coming around to the east side of the spit, where SEAL Chiefs Tanner and Phillips locked out and swam ashore.

Tanner had thought it was high time that he and his blond, freckle-faced colleague got more involved in the Ghost Team's exfiltration, and after the captain had briefed them on the mission and asked if they had questions, Tanner had answered, "Sir, SEAL Chief Phillips and I have just one question."

"And that is?"

"We don't understand why Mitchell and his team didn't join the navy."

Gummerson had grinned and dismissed them.

Now they sprinted up from the beach and reached the woods, where they wove a breathtaking path through the trees and neared the pier, just as Gummerson called to say there'd been trouble back at the boat dock. Four soldiers dead. More undoubtedly on the way. The Ghosts were loading up now, but they couldn't sit at the dock. They'd have to putter down the coast a thousand yards or so, slip up to another pier, and wait there, while hell broke loose behind them.

So Tanner and Phillips had even less time to get the job done. Wearing a pair of NVGs, Tanner studied the ferry and crane, just as the operator lowered a pallet of fifty-five-gallon fuel drums onto the pier under the watchful gazes of three members of the barge crew.

Tanner gave Phillips the signal.

They moved in.

FISHING BOAT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Mitchell had ordered Jenkins and Beasley to haul Buddha's body onto the fishing boat and lay him along the rail. Boy Scout lay beside him. The DIA had been emphatic about returning the bodies and not allowing them to remain in China, where they might provide clues that could topple an even larger network of spies still in the country, some of whom also worked for the National Security Agency.

Mitchell remained on the deck at the stern, monitoring the SEALs' progress via his HUD, while Jenkins took the wheel. They chugged slowly away from the pier, everyone down low, weapons at the ready. Dark waves thumped and lapped at the hull, and their foamy wake was quickly swallowed back by the harbor.

About a kilometer ahead, to the southwest, the pier jutted out from the sand spit, and Mitchell barely made out the silhouette of the crane with his naked eye.

"Well that didn't take long," said Diaz, pointing toward the stern.

A pair of headlights came down the shoreline road, and the vehicle appeared, another military truck turning toward the boat docks.

"Jenkins, throttle up a little bit," said Mitchell.

"You got it, Boss."

"Joey, how are you doing?" Mitchell asked, raising his voice over the engine's higher-pitched gurgles and whine.

"Alex gave me that shot," answered Ramirez. "Arm's numb."

"The dragon didn't pounce on Taiwan, but it stepped on us pretty good, eh?" asked Mitchell.

"Yes, sir. But it was worth it."

"I agree," added Diaz. "In more ways than one." She pursed her lips and nodded at Mitchell.

"Captain, I can see the patrol boat," said Jenkins. "And I'm not sure, but I think she sees us."

"Get up close to that pier!" shouted Mitchell. "Now!"

Mitchell brought up his tactical map and studied the patrol boat, red diamonds flashing over its dark outline displayed in his HUD.

A flickering light emanated from the end of the pier, and Mitchell zoomed in on that area, even as Jenkins said, "Fire on the pier, Captain."

"All right, everybody. Stand by. Let's see if they take the bait."

SAND SPIT PIER

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Tanner and Phillips had used a small amount of C-4 to set off one of the fuel pallets on the pier before dropping back into the murky water. Tanner swam toward the crane, while Phillips worked his way around to the fuel barge.

The patrol boat was already en route to investigate. If Tanner were the captain of that Shanghai, he, too, would want to know why his gas station was on fire.

Tanner swam around the crane's floating platform, keeping the crane between him and the oncoming patrol boat. The crane operator and his assistant had run down to the edge of the barge for a better look at the fire, allowing Tanner to climb up onto the platform and race across it to the crane's cabin, where he placed his C-4 then dove into the water, swimming hard and fast back toward the pier.

A minute later he came up under one of the pilings and stole a breath.

He waited another thirty seconds, then began to grow tense. Abruptly, Phillips's head popped up a few meters behind him. "We're all set. Come on!"

Together they swam along the pier, and by the time they reached the shore and huddled beside the first pair of pilings, the patrol boat was drawing up on the crane and barge.

"Ghost Lead, this is SEAL support. Get ready for a big salute to the Chinese who invented gunpowder!"

Tanner knew he'd catch hell for his glib remark over the radio, but he didn't care. He glanced over at Phillips, who was studying the patrol boat through his binoculars.

"They're almost lined up," said Phillips.

"Good."

"Don't move," screamed someone in Mandarin.

Tanner glanced directly up into the eyes of a man, presumably a member of the fuel barge crew, who was pointing a pistol down at them. Where the hell had he come from? How had he been so quiet?

Though his Mandarin was rudimentary, Tanner knew enough to get by. "All right, we will come with you."

"No, you don't move." The man glanced up and began screaming to those still aboard the fuel barge, something about him catching thieves who might be trying to hijack their shipment. He couldn't tell in the dark that they were Americans, especially while they wore their dive suit hoods.

Tanner exchanged a look with Phillips.

FISHING BOAT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Mitchell realized with a start that a third individual was at the end of the pier with the two SEALs, and his attempts to contact SEAL Chief Tanner went unanswered.

He got on the network, reported the news, and General Keating chimed in, "Mitchell, trust those SEALs to get the job done. Just get out of there, son! Move!"

"Jenkins, hit it! Everything she's got!" Mitchell ordered.

"But, Captain, they haven't–"

"I know. Just do it!"

"Sir," called Diaz, who was wearing her own ENVGs. "The patrol boat's slowing, and they've launched a Zodiac with six guys. They're heading for the pier. What the hell are those SEALs waiting for?"

"There's a third guy. Don't know who he is. But we're out of time."

"Mitchell, Keating here," cried the general. "Remember those soldiers you took out? Well, we got new intel. Those guys were part of Admiral Cai's defense plan. And I got more bad news. Seems there's an R44 police chopper in the air–but there's a catch. We've intercepted their communications. Montanatells us it's being manned by Cai's special ops people. He sent his attack choppers up north as part of Pouncing Dragon, so these guys must've commandeered this bird. This isn't the local puppy patrol, Mitchell. These are hardened Chinese fighters up there. ETA to your location: two minutes."

Chapter Thirty-Three.

SAND SPIT PIER

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

SEAL Chief Tanner wouldn't let some punk with a cheap pistol ruin his night. Phillips's eyes said likewise.

In unison, they squeezed the triggers on their remote detonators and rolled under the pilings, out of the barge worker's aim.

The guy fired, the shot ricocheting off the rocks behind them, just as the first pair of detonations resounded so loudly that even Tanner, a veteran of blowing stuff up, was awed by the initial cacophony and blast wave, which threw him and Phillips back against the rocks.

It was the fuel, all that fuel, whose sound and detonation Tanner could not have anticipated.

Then came the reverberation ripping through the pier like an earthquake, tearing up the farthest planks in succession as he and Phillips got back to their feet, dashed below the pier, and came up the other side, where the barge worker had turned to face the dozens of fireballs lighting up the entire spit.

Tanner summarily shot him, then he and his partner raced back into the woods, their backs warmed by fires.

After jogging a few dozen meters, Tanner stole a look back, saw some of the patrol boat's crew members jumping ship and swimming toward the shoreline, even as the Zodiac motored away from the explosions.

Tanner swore and hurried to catch up with Phillips, who had already found their secondary position and was ready for the next detonation.

FISHING BOAT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Mitchell's mouth fell open, and he found himself clambering to his feet for a better look.

Fifty-five-gallon drums burst apart, catapulting others into the air, all part of a hellish fountain swelling up from the pier to spew orange and red showers of burning diesel fuel. Dozens of smaller bursts mushroomed up before walls of black smoke as the stench of fuel and hot metal finally reached them across the water.

SEAL Chief Tanner had been right about the gunpowder remark, but it was the Chinese who had also invented fireworks, and this display rivaled anything Mitchell had ever seen–in combat or otherwise.

The fuel barge itself finally went up in a single, massive blast, the intense, near-white light coming first, followed by a boom that made everyone aboard flinch as it echoed off the opposite shoreline.

Thousand of pieces of flaming debris shot high into the air, like a swarm of bottle rockets, then tumbled down into the dark water, immediately extinguished, the hissing steam fanning out in ringlets as the bow of the barge suddenly appeared behind the flames. That bow tipped up and began sinking, the rest of the boat either gone or simply unseen behind the raging fires.

The crew aboard the patrol boat, which had been gliding up toward the barge, was scrambling on the deck, the boat beginning to turn away from the catastrophe off their port bow.

But then the crane cabin tore apart in yet another thunderclap, shards of metal slicing through the air like throwing stars that tore into the patrol boat's hull and pilothouse as a dragon's breath of fire spread over the deck, igniting crew members who staggered to the rails and threw themselves overboard.

Tanner's placement of the C-4 was sheer artistry. While the debris continued slamming into the patrol boat, the crane's massive boom blew loose from its support fitting and slowly came down with a screech and groan as piercing as it was foretelling.

And if timing was everything, then Tanner's delay had been intentional, because that boom caught the forward corner of the patrol boat's pilothouse like a sledgehammer on a loaf of white bread.

Metal peeled back amid flurries of sparks and flames licking along the surfaces, but the boat's twin diesel engines kept on, dragging and bending the boom with it, waves suddenly rising up over her sides under all that added weight. Suddenly, her bow became entirely submerged, the water streaming up to her antiaircraft guns.

"Captain, I know fireworks," cried Hume. "And the navy's putting on one hell of a show!"

Not a second after Hume finished, the ammo stored in ready lockers on the patrol boat's stern deck began cooking off in dozens more pops, cracks, and bangs that lit up the shattered boat like a rock concert.

The bursting of more fuel drums on the pier, the roar of the still-burning fuel barge, and the creaking of the toppled crane, along with the patrol boat's exploding ammo, combined to form a brilliant beacon of devastation easily seen and heard for kilometers, especially by those situated along the powerless coastline.

And those in the air.

"There he is!" cried Diaz, as they sailed directly opposite of the burning pier. The marksman had already taken aim with her secondary rifle, the Cx4 Storm SD.

"Got him," replied Mitchell, spotting the helicopter, whose doors had been removed to allow gunners to hang out either side.

The chopper's searchlight painted a gleaming puddle in the harbor as thick smoke wafted through its beam. Mitchell squinted as the light momentarily blinded him.

And then, just as the beam shifted, two helmeted soldiers lifted their rifles.

"Weapons free, fire!" ordered Mitchell, cutting loose with his own MR-C, Diaz's weapon rattling a second after his.

The pilot reacted immediately, banking hard left and pulling up, the chopper's belly gleaming with ricocheting rounds for a few seconds until the pilot finally ascended out of the fire.

"Give him more lead, more lead," cried Mitchell, seeing how much faster the chopper was than his team had anticipated.

Jenkins, who was still at the wheel, turned the boat left, bringing them past several long piers crowded by old sampans and a few junks with crimson sails waiting to be unfurled. A trio of more modern ferries was moored behind them. Jenkins made one more turn, now heading directly toward the gap between Haicang and Gulangyu Island.

"He's not coming back," said Smith, lowering his rifle. "What the hell?"

The downlink channel appeared in Mitchell's HUD. "Better step it up, son," warned General Keating. "Remember, Montanawon't surface till you get past that gap. And she won't surface with that chopper up there." The general turned away from the camera. "What is it? Hold on, Mitchell."

"Can't you go any faster?" hollered Beasley.

Jenkins shook his head.

"Aw, man, look at that!" cried Ramirez.

As Mitchell turned toward the bow, Keating appeared once more in the HUD. "All right, Mitchell. You don't have one chopper to deal with–you got two."

And Mitchell didn't need that new intel now. The second bird swept in behind the first, and now both soared back toward their boat, noses pitched forward, gunners taking aim.

If the Ghosts survived this, there was a great lesson to be learned: Never bring an old fishing boat to a helicopter battle.

He cursed then shouted, "Alpha Team, target left chopper. Bravo, take the right. Diaz, go for the pilots. And Smith? Hold fire and deploy my drone!"

Smith dove to the deck and sloughed off his pack. He withdrew the MAV4mp Cypher and tossed it hard like a Frisbee over the side, while the others began firing at the choppers.