Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Mitchell took control of the drone with his wireless controller and steered it directly toward the chopper on the right.

"Keep up that fire!" he ordered as both helicopters swooped down to strafe them.

Shifting the drone's camera to a forward view, Mitchell took the UAV into a dive, then came right up toward one of the gunners leaning out his open door.

The gunner looked up, frowned, as Mitchell throttled up and slammed the drone directly into the guy's head, even as he continued on, bringing the Cypher inside the chopper.

"Zai jian,"Mitchell muttered.

He thumbed a button.

The drone exploded inside the chopper with a small flash and subsequent puff of smoke. Despite the relatively small charges, the self-destruct was still powerful enough to take out both gunners and blind the pilot, who suddenly pulled up, breaking off in an erratic turn.

"Put your fire on him!" ordered Mitchell.

But he'd failed to realize that the second chopper had dropped like a hawk, talons extended to snatch a fish from the water. Streaking now off their port side, the chopper edged closer, the gunner opening fire as Beasley and Smith answered in unison with their MR-Cs, while Diaz released a salvo at the cockpit window.

Ramirez, one-handing his MK14, directed his bead at the smoking chopper, automatic fire chewing into glass and metal.

"Joey!" shouted Smith.

Mitchell craned his head as Ramirez took a round to his left side, near his waist, a round that punched him back, over the gunwale, and into the waves.

"We lost Ramirez!" cried Beasley, his words nearly drowned out by the chopper off their port side, the gunner there now dead, the pilot wheeling off hard to the right.

SAND SPIT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

SEAL Chief Tanner lay on his belly near the last cluster of trees before the long, sandy beach washing out behind them. Phillips was at his side.

The six sailors from the Chinese patrol boat who had launched in the Zodiac must have either spotted them or decided that the infiltrators had used the spit for their exfiltration, because all six of them, armed with pistols and rifles, had come ashore and were combing the forest.

Tanner imagined what must be on their minds. They had just witnessed the destruction of their beloved patrol boat. They had watched their comrades die. Their hearts were hard and aching for revenge.

And damn, Tanner wished he didn't have to confront them, but he and Phillips had no choice. Tanner had thought that they could don their Draegers and simply hide in the waves while these men searched the spit, but if Mitchell was going to double back and bring the fishing boat around to the east side of the spit to pick them up and take them past the gap (well beyond their own swimming capabilities), then these Chinese sailors needed to die here and now; otherwise Mitchell would have yet another firefight on his hands.

Of course, given the radio transmissions Tanner had been monitoring, there was a good chance that Mitchell and his Ghosts would not make it, stranding the two SEALs.

At that point, the best Tanner could hope for was to kill the Chinese sailors, don their gear, and swim out till they ran out of oxygen.

Higher's insistence that nothing be left behind to indicate this was an American operation worked in their favor. However, Captain Gummerson would still ultimately decide whether a security breach was worth risking his crew and his multimillion-dollar submarine.

Phillips lifted his chin, then gave Tanner a hand signal: movement ahead.

Tanner tensed as two Chinese sailors eased forward, not a meter apart, just three trees away.

Tanner gave Phillips another hand signal.

Phillips nodded slowly and raised his pistol.

Taking in a long breath and holding it, Tanner rolled away from his tree, aimed at the sailor on the left, and fired.

FISHING BOAT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

"Jenkins, turn around!" screamed Mitchell. "We're going back for Ramirez."

Even as Jenkins rolled the wheel, throwing all of them to the rail, Beasley and Smith shifted their fire to the smoking chopper, whose pilot was still trying to regain control.

Suddenly, a new trail of smoke unfurled from the chopper's tail rotor, and a fire appeared there as Beasley and Smith whooped and reloaded.

"Get him!" cried Mitchell as they came back toward Ramirez.

Jenkins released the wheel, turning it over to Mitchell, then dove into the water as Mitchell killed the throttle.

Meanwhile, the now-burning chopper began spinning and wobbling away from the boat, and Hume cursed that he didn't have a rocket to finish her off. But it didn't matter. The chopper rolled hard onto its side, the main rotor now perpendicular to the water as Mitchell brought the fishing boat around once more, trying to slow up near Jenkins and Ramirez.

The chopper's rotors began slicing into the water, and it suddenly turned once more as it made impact, the rotors snapping like twigs, the cabin slapping hard, waves of white water cascading up around the craft.

"Got that one, sir!" shouted Smith.

At the same time, the remaining chopper and its single gunner came back around for another pass, and that pilot had all the time in the world to get his gunner on target. Now their searchlight swept up, across Mitchell's wake, and found the two men in the water.

"Jenkins, come on!" cried Mitchell.

Chapter Thirty-Four.

SAND SPIT PIER

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

The moment the second sailor collapsed with a bullet lodged in his head, SEAL Chief Tanner and his partner wove back through the woods, heading west to circle around and come in from behind the remaining men.

Tanner and Phillips now held their pistols in one hand, their SOG SEAL knives in the other, the seven-inch blades powder-coated to conceal glare.

They darted to the edge of a slight clearing and crouched in the brush.

Just ahead, one sailor shouted to another, giving up his position–his last mistake.

With their predator's instincts finely tuned on the forest ahead, Tanner and Phillips moved in for the kill.

FISHING BOAT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Diaz sat cross-legged on the deck and propped one elbow on the gunwale, sighting the oncoming chopper pilot. He roared down at a forty-five-degree angle, lining up on their stern and interrogating them with his searchlight.

Mitchell hollered as the rotor wash finally hit the boat, whipping up a mist that, in the next few seconds, would ruin Diaz's shot.

The chopper's gunner opened fire, and it was Brown who, despite his head injury, held a steady bead on the bird with his light machine gun. He quickly adjusted fire, and the gunner slumped after firing a salvo that stitched across the deck, missing Diaz by an arm's length.

Brown glanced back at her. "You're clear, Alicia! Take him out!"

It was the least she could do for the man she had almost killed.

Diaz froze and tuned out every noise, jostle, and vibration of the boat. She ignored the cuts, stiff joints, and bruises, and even the searchlight's pulsating glare.

Carlos and Tomas were strangely silent, as though she'd finally convinced them that she was their equal. Oh, that was hardly the case, but maybe they, too, were wondering in rigid silence if she could really pull this off.

Her crosshairs lined up, and just like that, she took a shot, squeezing off a second before thinking about it.

Both rounds punched through the canopy and struck the pilot in the chest and shoulder, respectively, blood darkening the side window as the man fell back, then slumped forward.

To her left, Beasley and Mitchell hauled a bleeding Ramirez back into the boat, and Jenkins climbed aboard himself while the chopper continued to descend.

"Oh my God," Diaz whispered, lowering her rifle as the enemy bird pitched even more, engine and slicing rotors blaring, speed increasing.

The deafening noise stole everyone's attention, Diaz knew, and it was Mitchell who vocalized their thoughts: "It's going to hit! Everybody out of the boat!"

SAND SPIT PIER

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Tanner had holstered his pistol when he'd realized he'd had the perfect kill. He called, "Over here," in Mandarin and got the sailor to turn around and come toward him. As the young man passed the tree behind which Tanner huddled, Tanner came around, covered the kid's mouth with one hand while punching his blade into the man's aorta.

The sailor would not die instantly, Tanner knew, so he'd kept his hand over the guy's mouth and withdrew the blade. He drove the sailor forward and came down with a second strike to the spinal cord.

That finished him.

Tanner carefully lowered the body to the ground and stood upright to catch his breath and wipe off the blade on his thigh.

Phillips, who'd slipped off to their right to take out the dead man's partner, called to say his guy was down, but his transmission broke off at the sound of gunfire.

"Phillips?"

He didn't answer. A hollow pang seized Tanner's gut. He cursed and bolted toward his partner's position.

FISHING BOAT

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

They had just finished hauling Ramirez into the boat when Mitchell grabbed him and threw himself and the assistant team leader back over the side.

He wrapped an arm under Ramirez's chin and swam as hard as he could until the horrible sound of the chopper's rotors slashing through the fishing boat made him cry, "Joey, hold your breath!"

Mitchell dragged them underwater as a fireball swept over the water and lit up the waves with a surreal, flickering light, as though he were staring at a fireplace through warped glass.

For a moment, time slowed, and nearly all of Mitchell's senses shut down, but then the muffled cries of his Ghosts and the reverberating chomp, chomp of the rotors as they snapped off wrenched him back to reality and drove him to paddle deeper.

His thoughts reached out to the others, to what would happen to them now as his legs burned with exertion and his wounded arm twinged.

Ramirez began to struggle. He could no longer hold his breath, and Mitchell turned and kicked harder, heading back up.

They broke the surface just a few meters outside a large pool of burning fuel that had leaked from the chopper and boat as both had begun to sink.

Mitchell's earpiece/monocle was still attached to his head, and although the device was waterproof, he only got static.

He spotted Diaz treading water off to his right. "Alicia?"

"I'm all right," she answered. "I see Marcus, John, and Alex. They're okay."

Something thumped into Mitchell's head. He shifted around, saw Boy Scout's body floating facedown. Just a few meters off lay Buddha, faceup.

Mitchell wanted to shake his fists at the universe. They'd been so damned close–and now the ultimate failure. Operation War Wraith would be pinned on the United States because he and his Ghosts had failed to exfiltrate. They would be captured, tortured, paraded in front of the media, then spend the rest of their lives rotting away in a Chinese prison. It was hard to suppress those thoughts while floating in the harbor beside a pool of fire.

Beasley and Smith kicked toward him, clinging to a long piece of the fishing boat's hull. Beasley grabbed Ramirez, who was still conscious but barely moving, and pulled him up, onto the wood.

"Got nothing on the Cross-Com," Mitchell told them.

"Me neither," said Beasley.

SAND SPIT PIER

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Tanner returned fire, nicking the corner of a tree trunk. One of the sailors behind the tree kept rolling out and firing, while the other was on the ground, wailing over his wounded thigh.

Phillips had shot that man, but not before taking a round in his neck, another to the chest. Now he just lay on his back, breathing slowly.

Tanner crawled to his side. SEAL or no SEAL, it took incredible force of will for Tanner to remain composed with his partner and friend lying there, dying.

A pale orange shimmer out in the harbor caught his attention, and he fished out his binoculars. He gasped over floating wreckage, a wall of fire lifting from the black water, and the Ghosts floating at the edge of it all.

Tanner steeled himself. "We're getting out of here, buddy. Time for plan B."

Phillips nodded. "I'm ready."

A round blasted dirt in Tanner's eyes, and he rolled, faced that tree trunk, and returned fire. His second shot was echoed by a groan.

With that, he rose, hauled Phillips into a seated position, then, with the inhuman strength fueled by a massive adrenaline rush, he lifted the stocky SEAL over his shoulder, turned, and double-timed off, back toward the pier.

Only ten steps into their escape it dawned on Tanner that they'd shot five sailors. The sixth was still out there, and that fact sent a chill coiling up his spine.

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

SOUTH TAIWAN STRAIT

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

Gummerson stood in the control room, flinching as every new piece of information came in.

The XO came over, his expression souring. "Captain, SEAL Chief Tanner reports that SEAL Chief Phillips is seriously wounded. Tanner also says he's lost contact with the Ghost Team. We just got some streaming vid from the harbor. The two choppers are down, but the Ghosts are in the water near burning fuel. They've lost their boat."

Gummerson frowned, then studied the images and map overlays on the screen before him and shook his head. "They're still too close. We can't risk surfacing there."

"Agreed, but, sir, how will they get out of the harbor?"

"I want to talk to SEAL Chief Tanner. I bet he's already got a plan."

FISHING BOAT WRECKAGE

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Mitchell clung to another piece of the hull, along with Diaz and Smith. All of them floated there, coughing and spitting salt water as the fires began to die. Beasley had made sure that the bodies of the CIA agents were secured to another piece of wood in the event that some miracle happened and Captain Gummerson decided to risk it all and bring his boat into the harbor and surface.

Hijacking a rickshaw and heading west seemed a real possibility and a not-so-amusing quip now.

All right. The team was looking to him for orders, perhaps his final order as a Ghost Team leader. He would instruct them to paddle toward the piers along Haicang. Xiamen Island to the east was twice as far away. They had no other choice.

He took a deep breath. "Everyone, listen up."

"Captain, wait," said Diaz, staring through her binoculars. "Got a small boat coming from the sand spit. Looks like that Zodiac launched by the patrol boat. One guy on board."

"Who?"

"Can't see him well enough yet."

"Beasley? Jenkins? Target that boat. Get ready to fire."

"Roger that," said Beasley, trying to balance his rifle atop the shattered piece of hull he was lying across.

"Diaz?" called Mitchell.

"He's turned again, coming right at us. Wait. I see him now, but something's wrong. Aw, no."

Chapter Thirty-five.

ZODIAC

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Tanner began to lose consciousness as he piloted the Zodiac toward the Ghost Team across the harbor. The puddles of burning fuel blurred into a sheet of darkness painted with shimmering stars.

At the moment, the outboard's vibration was the only thing keeping him awake–that and the idea that he was the only guy left who could get the team home. He had to hang on for a little longer. He turned slightly, saw one of the Ghosts watching him through a pair of binoculars.

Behind them, the night sky was already washing down from mottled black to purple and pink. They were nearly out of time.

Tanner came within a hundred meters of the group and cut the throttle.

Only five minutes prior he'd loaded Phillips onto the Zodiac. His friend was already dead, and just as Tanner had fired up the outboard, that last Chinese sailor, the one he'd been concerned about, ran onto the beach and began shooting.

Tanner had taken a round in the back but was able to whirl fast enough to tag the sailor before he fired again.

Grimacing in pain and barely able to move, Tanner had levered himself into the Zodiac and had launched.

Now, as he drifted toward them, he tried to raise his hand and wave but instead swam forward into the darkness.

FISHING BOAT WRECKAGE

XIAMEN HARBOR, CHINA

APRIL 2012

"It's Tanner!" cried Diaz, pushing free from the section of hull she'd been clinging to and swimming out to meet the Zodiac.

Mitchell had, over the years, voiced his criticism of SEALs, Force Recon Marines, and air force combat controllers. Army Special Forces were, in his not-so-humble opinion, the most accomplished warriors in the world.

But as he watched the Zodiac drift forward, he choked up with a newfound respect for Tanner and all his SEAL brothers. Tanner's escape from the sand spit was an act of sheer will, determination, and courage in the face of utter defeat, and Mitchell knew all too well what it took to find that courage when all seemed lost.

He spat again, smacked his lips, and rattled off his orders: "All right, Nolan, get in there, see how he is. Beasley, tie up the bodies to the sides, then we help the wounded into the boat. Everyone else hangs off the side. Smith, you take the outboard!"

"Roger that!" he cried. "But you're wounded, too, Captain. Up in the boat."

Within two minutes they were sputtering across the harbor, unable to gain any real speed because of their added weight and friction. The Zodiac had been designed for six, not nine Ghosts, two SEALs, and two CIA agents.

Being dragged through the water was beginning to take its toll on all of them. Mitchell, who was jammed up near the heavy rubber bow, continually checked his HUD and finally got a good signal to the network and picked up a message from General Keating: "Mitchell, if you can hear me, we'll have you out of there in a few minutes, son."

"I hear you, sir!" he shouted over the outboard. "But where's Montana?"

The image glowing on his tactical map confused him; it appeared that the submarine, outlined in yellow with green ID diamond, was on their position as they finally cleared the gap between Gulangyu Island and Haicang.

"Son, she's closer than you think: forty-five meters straight down."

Mitchell almost laughed with relief. "How long's she been there?"

"Too long. Captain Gummerson's taking one hell of a risk, Mitchell. When the drink tab comes, I suggest you buy."

"Roger that, sir. Can't wait to get home."

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

EN ROUTE TO SUBIC BAY

SOUTH CHINA SEA

APRIL 2012

The transfer from the Zodiac to the submarine was handled with speed and practiced efficiency, a testament to Gummerson's first-rate crew. The bodies of Buddha, Boy Scout, and SEAL Chief Phillips were taken away by corpsmen for processing, while the wounded were escorted to sick bay and given additional treatment, including Mitchell himself.

Tanner and Ramirez were both stabilized, their blood replaced by volunteer crew members with matching or universal blood types. Montanathen sailed at maximum speed in the open South China Sea. Captain Gummerson called ahead to have doctors choppered out to meet them once they were in international waters.

As they headed out toward that rendezvous point, the captain came to sick bay to see Mitchell and shake hands with every Ghost, save for Ramirez, who was sedated. "Congratulations, Captain."

"Thank you, sir. I'm sorry about SEAL Chief Phillips."

"We all are."

"Chief Tanner saved us all. I hope I get a chance to thank him before I leave."

Gummerson nodded. "Glad I got my chance to thank you. Outstanding job, Captain." He frowned over a thought. "And what was that stunt you pulled with the Predator?"

"My marksman came up with that one, although she said one of the pilots inspired her."

"Ah, that would be Lieutenant Moch, whom I would not describe as inspirational, but I'll accept that." Gummerson offered his hand. "It was an honor, Captain."

"Thank you, sir. Good luck with your promotion."

Gummerson glanced fondly at the bulkheads and overhead, then pursed his lips and headed out.

KEATING RESIDENCE

NEAR MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE

TAMPA, FLORIDA

MAY 2012

Two weeks after the operation in China, Mitchell was invited over to the general's house for a Sunday dinner hosted by Mrs. Keating (who didn't actually do the preparations; her housekeeper from Venezuela was an excellent cook, according to the general).

They sat on Keating's second-story back porch, overlooking the kidney-shaped swimming pool with adjoining spa and rock waterfall. The mosquitoes were kept at bay by a colossal screen room behind which stood a towering wall of palm trees sashaying in the breeze.

Keating leaned back in his ornate patio chair, puffing on his Cuban cigar. Mitchell, who didn't smoke, sat beside him, clutching the drink the general had thrust into his hand after pouring two.

"You know, sometimes this job lets me slip home to a quiet dinner, then I sneak out here for a drink: Glenfiddich single malt Scotch whisky, to be exact."

"I've never had it."

"Then you haven't lived."

Mitchell breathed in the Scotch, took a gulp, then savored the intense burn until he embarrassed himself and coughed.

Keating chuckled under his breath.

"It's good, sir," Mitchell said, holding back tears.

The general removed his cigar and grinned. "So Congress failed to ratify that sub deal with Taiwan."

"Money talks. We can't afford war right now."

"Me, I would've made it happen. Force the issue in the Pacific, play it out. But then again I'm army. The navy sees things differently."

"Yes, sir. And, sir, I've been wanting to thank you. I understand you caught hell for our noisy exit out of China."

"Damned right I did. But I told the president that regardless of the noise or body count, if who done it remains a mystery, then the mission is a success. The Chinese have already done an excellent job trying to cover it up; there're no answers forthcoming when you're in the right pew but the wrong church."

"Yeah, I saw the story about the patrol boat accident. Haven't heard a word about the castle."

"And you won't. They've already gone in, cleaned out the whole place. Witnesses there are saying the secret police did it, not Americans."

"Good."

"Yeah, but it's not all good. That intel you brought back from the Tigers suggests they had a lot more going on than just taking Taiwan. There's a North Korean connection and a number of links to cybernetic and neuro-science research facilities all over the world."

"Taiwan was just the beginning for them . . ."

"And Defense Intelligence isn't telling us the whole story either, but we do know that DIA mole was killed in an apparent robbery. Gorbatova said he was a good kid."

"He was good to us."

After an uncomfortable moment, Mitchell hazarded another sip of Scotch, then added, "Well, thanks again for the invite. It's not every day us lowly captains get to hang out with generals."

"You can't play that card forever, Mitchell. You need to take that promotion. And by the time you're my age, you'll be dining with lowly captains."

"With all due respect, I prefer to wait."

"Don't wait too long. There's talk of restructuring, and people like you can advance faster than anyone else who's ever come through the military."

"That's good to know. I'm just not ready to leave the field."

"Neither was I."

"All right, boys, come on down," called a female voice from behind them.

"Yes, dear," answered Keating. He cocked a brow at Mitchell. "On your feet, soldier. Chow time."

MITCHELL RESIDENCE

FIFTH AVENUE

YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

MAY 2012

Mitchell stood in his father's workshop, breathing in the heavenly scent of sawdust and longing to get back to some of his own woodworking projects. At the same time, though, he couldn't wait to get out of there because Dad had insisted upon showing him his recently finished coffin, which was propped up on a pair of saw-horses, its waxed surfaces gleaming in the light.

Dad lifted the smaller, left-side door. "She's a beauty, eh, Scott? I used both mahogany and cherry. Look at these inlays."

Mitchell shook his head and sighed. "Dad, I think we should talk about this. I mean, are you all right?"

"I feel great."

"You know what I mean. Jenn told me about all those new appointments. One of my men just lost his father."

It was Dad's turn to sigh. Then a thought took hold, and he grinned and wiggled his brows. "Let's just say I wouldn't trade that secret for all the tea in China."

Mitchell stiffened. "That's an interesting choice of words."

"They had a special on CNN last night about all those Chinese big shots who got whacked."

"Here we go again. You think I had something to do with that?"

He shrugged. "I'm just saying I can keep secrets, too, if I want."

"But if you're sick, we have a right to know."

"It ain't the big Cword, if that's what you're thinking. C'mon, you're taking me out to lunch."

Mitchell frowned. "You're a stubborn old bastard."

"And this is news?" He threw his arm over Mitchell's shoulder and led him out of the workshop.

THE LIBERATOR SPORTS BAR AND GRILLE

NEAR FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA

MAY 2012

Major Harry Hogan was a former Special Forces operator from Boston, Massachusetts, who had been running the Liberator for over twenty years. The bar's name was inspired by the Special Forces motto: to liberate the oppressed, but by no small coincidence back in 1831 another Bostonian by the name of William Lloyd Garrison founded an abolitionist newspaper aptly titled the Liberator.

With clusters of plasma TVs suspended from the ceiling and sports and military memorabilia adorning the walls, the place was a requisite hangout for those who fought hard and played even harder. Interestingly enough, near the front doors stood two mannequins in full combat gear and armed with rubber rifles. They often startled newcomers.

Consequently, Mitchell watched with a grin as SEAL Chief Tanner stepped anxiously into the bar and raised his brows at the sentries who never got tired, hungry, or thirsty.

"Hey, over here," called Mitchell, rising from one of the benches in the waiting area.

"What's up, Captain?" said Tanner, offering his hand.

They shook firmly. "Thanks for coming."

"You sure I'll survive?" Tanner eyed all the army personnel clustered around the bar.

"Well, we've only had a handful of SEALs drop in over the years, but like I tell the young pups, we all belong to the same brotherhood of stars and stripes. We senior guys get it. Takes them a little longer to learn."

Tanner chuckled. "Roger that."

Mitchell tipped his head over to the circular bar constructed of oak and adorned with sandbags, like a massive machine gunner's nest. His Ghosts stood with beers, and as they drew closer, Mitchell recoiled over a night-marish site: Bo Jenkins stood there, shirtless, wearing a bra whose black straps dug deeply into his shoulders.

"All right, pipe down, he's here!" cried Mitchell, gaining their attention. "But before I make my little speech, Bo, I have to ask . . ."

Jenkins blushed. "Uh, sir, I've been trying to find something to enhance my full-figured beauty."

With that, the entire group burst out laughing, and money immediately changed hands. Jenkins had obviously lost a bet, and others had bet upon whether he would go through with the prank.

"All right, give it back," hollered Diaz. "And don't get the wrong idea! It's just a loaner."

"Makes you wish you hadn't saved us, huh?" Mitchell said in Tanner's ear.

At the same time, Smith shoved a tall glass of draft beer into the SEAL chief 's hand and another into Mitchell's.

"Okay, quiet down, you dirty apes. I'm making a toast." Mitchell raised his glass, and the group suddenly fell silent.

In fact, a hush fell over the rest of the bar, and one of the waitresses cut off the sound from the TVs.

Mitchell went on, "So we all know the army-navy rivalry will live on in infamy, especially on the gridiron. But that doesn't mean we can't give credit where credit is due. Tonight we raise our glasses to all those SEALs who serve and all who gave their lives to protect our great country, especially SEAL Chief Phillips. And we're honored to say thank you to SEAL Chief Tanner, who's with us today." Mitchell beamed at the man. "Welcome to our bar. It's your party, Chief. Do you have any orders?"

"As a matter of fact I do, Captain," said Tanner, lifting his voice and his glass. "Bottoms up!"

MCDANIEL HOME

NEAR FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA

MAY 2012

The morning after Tanner's party, Mitchell drove to Rutang's place to find out why his friend hadn't come.

Mandy answered the door, and her face looked more drawn than usual, her long black hair wired with new strands of gray. She gave Mitchell a hug, then said, "He's in the office."

Before Mitchell could move, Mandy grabbed his wrist. "Scott, this is it. You know?" She was shaking, and the tears came quickly. "He was good for a while, but now nothing's working. I have two kids. It's just too hard. I don't know if there's anything we can do. Like I told you, when you guys went to the Philippines, he never came home."

"I know."

She released him, then shuffled off into the kitchen, wiping her eyes.

Mitchell started tentatively into their home office and found Rutang in his chair, checkbook out and paying some bills. "Yo, Tang. What's going on?"

"Hey, Scott." Rutang barely looked up.

"Why didn't you come last night?"

"I don't know."

"You've been sick a lot."

"Yeah."

"I'm worried about you, buddy."

Rutang shrugged. "I'm up and down, Scott. I can't do the medication anymore. Mandy's already talking to a lawyer."

"You can't let her go."

"I don't blame her. I'm just another screwed-up soldier, a freaking medic who can't save himself."

"So you've just given up? Going to sit here and feel sorry for yourself?"

"Scott, what do you want? You pissed off because I didn't come to your little party? Hey, man, it ain't all missions and glory for some people, you know? I don't sleep. I still don't sleep! What part of that do you notunderstand!"

Mandy appeared in the doorway. "If you're going to start screaming, then get out. Just get out." She stormed off.

"Get up," Mitchell ordered. "We're going outside."

Rutang threw up his hands and rose.

Mitchell led him out onto the driveway, and they leaned against Mitchell's Hummer, basking in the warm morning light. "It's going to be a great day."