Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

But army life suited Mitchell. The camaraderie, the loyalty, and the pride he felt were unlike any he had experienced in civilian life.

One night at the hospital, just a few days before the cancer had taken Mom, she had held his hands and said, "Scott, just remember, you are a very special boy. You were not born to live an ordinary life. Do everything you can to make the best of it. I know you will make your father and me very proud."

He never forgot those words, and he often thought that his mother somehow knew what would happen to him.

Mitchell shut off the main light, flicked on the small reading light on the nightstand, and settled down for a good read before turning in.

There were two things about the wedding that Mitchell dreaded, and he was about to get past the first.

He stood in his dress blues beside Tommy and his new bride, Rebecca, along with over one hundred guests in the banquet hall. With a flute of champagne in one hand, a microphone in the other, best man Mitchell cleared his throat.

"All right, everybody. I'm Scott, Tommy's older brother, and for those of you who know me, I'm not much of a speech maker. We soldiers leave that to the politicians. But I did want to share a little story with you." Mitchell pulled from his breast pocket a few index cards and stole a glance down for his prompt. "When Tommy was in third grade, he used to get a lot of homework. And he'd sit at the kitchen table and start crying about it."

That drew aws from the women and a big roll of the eyes from Tommy.

Mitchell continued: "Nick and I used to make fun of him, but then we started talking, making him realize that he spent so much time crying about the homework that he could have finished it in that same time. I guess what I'm trying to say is that Tommy's always been the most emotional one. Dad likes to call him high-strung. And maybe he does wear his heart on his sleeve, but no matter what he does, he always puts his heart in it. That's why I know that he and Rebecca are going to have a great marriage. We Mitchells do everything to the best of our ability, and Rebecca, I'm sure you already know that, otherwise you wouldn't be marrying this knucklehead. And while it's true that Tommy still hasn't stopped crying–but now it's over bills instead of homework–he's become a great man who will make a great husband. Tommy? Rebecca? Here's wishing you all the love and happiness in the world."

Mitchell had barely finished his champagne when the music suddenly returned and a hand locked onto his wrist. "You bastard, you made mecry."

He glanced up into Kristen Fitzgerald's watery eyes. One dreaded duty down, one dreaded encounter to go.

"Dance with me," she demanded, hauling him out on the floor before he could set down his empty flute. She wrapped her arms around him.

Thankfully, the DJ was playing a ballad. All he had to do was rock back and forth while becoming intoxicated from the champagne and Kristen's perfume.

He had been avoiding her all night, despite Dad's nagging, and she'd done the same.

But a breakdown was, of course, inevitable.

Because in Mitchell's expert opinion, she was as spectacular as ever. Her strawberry blond hair curved back into an elegant bun, and her diamond stud earrings flashed brilliantly. The maroon gown with shawl complemented every angle of her athlete's body.

"You smell good," she said.

"I took a shower."

"I hate you," she suddenly blurted out.

"I know."

"Don't step on these shoes. They cost me over a hundred bucks."

"Okay. You're trembling."

"Shut up." Her gaze dropped to his medals.

"What are you looking at? They're just a bunch of medals."

"Right." She came in closer, put her head on his chest. "Feels like we're back at the prom."

"Yeah, I slept in my old room last night. And, uh, can I ask you something? Why are you being so nice to me?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I like it."

"Really? Don't get used to it."

"Look at my father over there. He's watching us like a hawk."

"He's a good guy."

"I'm worried about him. He's building his own coffin."

"He's an eccentric."

Mitchell nodded. "You know, if we stay out here any longer, they're going to start talking about us."

"I know. When are you flying out?"

"Tomorrow morning."

She lifted her head and locked gazes with him. "After this is over, you're coming home with me."

"I am?"

"You questioning my orders?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then be quiet and listen to me complain. I can't believe after all these years you still haven't learned to dance."

They were tipsy but hardly drunk by the time they left the banquet hall. Kristen drove them in her little white sports car back to her condo, a two-bedroom affair that was also home to her two cats.

She had lots of big, country-style furniture and had an affinity for plaid. The place felt homey and clashed with her sophisticated gown and hairstyle.

"I need to be back to the house by oh seven thirty," he said. "I have to get to the airport, return my rental car, and make my flight."

"Tomorrow's Sunday. Don't worry about it. I'll get you there."

"Kristen, I shouldn't be here. All we're doing is torturing ourselves."

She pulled her hair out of the bun and shook free her long curls. "No. It's not like that at all."

An hour later, they lay in silence, just watching the shadows shift across the ceiling as headlights filtered in through the long windows.

She leaned over and began tracing the scar on his belly. "What happened here?"

"Stupid accident in my shop."

"It's a strange-looking scar, like one of those Asian tattoos or something."

"Why aren't you married?"

"I don't know. Maybe the same reason you aren't."

"Your job takes you all over the world for years at a time?"

She hissed. "You know what I mean."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's our luck."

"My dad thinks I'll fall back in love with you, quit the army, and stay here."

"I don't think that's what he wants for you."

"Oh, yeah it is."

She shook her head. "Back in April, when I went over to the house to drop off his taxes, I caught him out in the shop, staring at a picture of you. He's got it hung on the wall above his workbench."

"There's no picture there."

"There was. Your dad showed me a red, white, and blue ribbon on your uniform. He said it was the Silver Star. He said you had to do something very special to earn that."

"So that's why you were looking at my medals?"

She nodded. "We have a saying around the office. Do you know why J. Edgar Hoover hired only lawyers and CPAs when he formed the FBI? Because of our meticulous attention to detail, our curiosity, and our persistence."

"What are you really trying to say?"

"I'm saying that after I talked to your dad, I went online to the Silver Star registry, saw your name there twice."

"Yeah?"

"Then I clicked on the citation block."

"Really?" Mitchell began to tense. Had the army actually left that door open? Impossible.

"Yeah, and all they said was 'classified.' "

Mitchell relaxed. "Everything's classified."

"You should be recognized with much more than just medals."

"It's not about recognition. It never was."

She leaned over and ran her fingers along the side of his face. "Scott, I've had a lot of time to think about what happened to us."

"Me, too. More than you know."

"I always asked why, and then, last April, when I talked to your dad, I finally got my answer."

"Really?"

"Yeah, that's why I brought you here. Not to torture us." She took his hands in hers.

"Aw, man, please don't cry."

Her voice cracked. "I want you to know that I get it. I used to think you were selfish. You loved the army more than me. But that's not it at all, is it?"

His own eyes burned. "Sometimes I wonder, if I don't do it, who will?"

"I know. Those that can–do."

"Yeah."

"Most people have no idea what duty really means. I never did."

He nodded. "Sometimes it's so hard."

"I can't even imagine." She squeezed his hands. "But listen to me. You can't stop. Because we need you."

She dropped him off at the house by 0710, and before heading inside to wake up everyone and say his good-byes, Mitchell skulked his way back to the workshop, Special Forces style, and went inside.

He crossed over to Dad's main workbench, saw a nail in the brown wall and a rectangular square where the paint looked darker and was not coated by a layer of dust.

Indeed, a picture had hung there. Mitchell opened one of the bench's side drawers and found it.

So Dad had remembered the picture at the last minute and had rushed out to the shop to hide it. He was proud of his son but too self-conscious to show it.

Mitchell slipped the frame back into the drawer and smiled. Kristen had given him much more than she knew.

This was a homecoming he would never forget.

Chapter Sixteen.

THIRTY-FIRST GROUP ARMY HEADQUARTERS (NMR)

SPECIAL OPERATIONS FORCES OFFICES

XIAMEN, CHINA

FEBRUARY 2012

Special Operations Forces of the Nanjing Military Region of China were code-named the Flying Dragons, and consequently People's Liberation Army Colonel Xu Dingfa had suggested back in 2008 that the operation be called Pouncing Dragon, since colleagues from his old Special Forces group would play a key role in the attack on Taipei. The name had remained unchanged for all that time.

At the moment, he was seated in his office, sharing a cup of morning tea with his most esteemed colleague, Major-General Chen Yi, commander of the entire region. Only a select few were aware of Chen's visit, and Xu understood why the general did not want to discuss matters electronically or over the phone.

"As you predicted, the time is drawing near," Xu said, lifting his chin at a copy of the Beijing Dailyresting on his desk. "They completed their negotiations yesterday morning."

Chen smiled knowingly, his lazy left eyelid barely moving. "Spring comes early this year."

Taiwanese officials had announced that they had reached an agreement with the United States to forgo three diesel submarines for one new-conversion Ohio-class SSGN. The Ohio SSGN was capable of ripple firing 154 Tomahawk Cruise Missiles. No modifications were needed to Chingshan, Taiwan's recently completed secret submarine pen carved into a mountainside on the east coast. This was the first nuclear submarine the U.S. had ever considered selling to a foreign government, though Xu knew that the sale was subject to ratification by Congress.

If all went well, their government would deem the sale a provocative act and deploy additional ground troops to its military facilities from Shanghai to Xiamen.

Live-fire and force-on-force concentration exercises, along with aggressive amphibious operations exercises would commence immediately.

Moreover, the country's Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA)–the phrase coined to outline the military's desire to build a smaller, more technologically advanced force–had resulted in the creation of many more high-tech units designed to target enemy communications and computer systems as well as jam the guidance systems of precision-guided munitions.

These smaller, better-equipped units, along with Xu's Special Forces teams, were exactly what the Spring Tiger Group required to initiate the first stage of its plan.

Tigers born in spring were on their own after the second year, the third spring, but Xu and his group had been waiting much longer than that to exact their will when others in Beijing were too cowardly to do so. The time had drawn near for the East and West to vie for supremacy in the Pacific.

"General, we will continue to monitor the situation very closely. I trust you will notify me when it is time to prepare for the final session."

"I will send the usual courier." Chen's attention turned to the photograph on Xu's desk. "And you may tell your parents that it will not be long now."

Xu nodded. After a long night of drinking, he had, quite regretfully, shared that most intimate story with the general, whose own lifelong frustration with the government motivated him to act. Chen stood. "I have a very busy day and a plane ride this afternoon. I will be meeting with the deputy director tomorrow."

Deputy Director Wang Ya of the Central Military Commission's General Political Department advised one of the most senior members of the PLA. Wang was a zhengzhi junguan(political officer), a graduate of the Chinese Academy of Military Science, a member of the State Council appointed by the National People's Congress (NPC) at the thirteenth National Congress. Chen would speak with the group's most powerful ally in the compound in western Beijing. From the beginning, Wang had offered his strong but silent endorsement of the Tigers' activities. When the time came, Wang's influence would be invaluable.

"General, thank you for coming. I will await your message."

"Excellent. And remember, when the time comes, we will need to move very quickly."

"I understand, sir."

As he showed the general out, Captain Fang Zhi was waiting for him in the outer office.

Fang hurriedly entered and said, "Have you heard the news?"

Xu grinned. "Hours ago, my friend."

"Do you think the time has come?"

Xu hesitated.

During the past four years he and Fang had become close friends. Neither of them had performed very well at the Olympic Games, but it was there that they had forged a relationship.

Once Xu had managed to secure a commission for Fang in the PLA, he had very slowly, very carefully, introduced Fang to his colleagues. Fang had, indeed, shared intimate knowledge of American and allied Special Forces operations and tactics. But Fang had still come from Taiwan, and Xu had been warned by Chen and others that Fang should never be fully trusted.

Consequently, Fang was quite aware of the group's existence and its membership, but he was not part of its inner circle and unaware of the exact nature of its plans. His task, as always, would be to lead the security teams whenever the group convened.

Xu finally answered, "Has the time come? I don't know. It's true we've been waiting for a long time, but conditions must be perfect. Don't forget the other opportunities that have come and gone. We must be patient."

"I understand."

"However, I would like you to go up into the mountains, meet with those elders, and see if we might secure that meeting place we discussed."

"Do you have an exact day and time?"

"Not yet. But I want you to see how quickly they can accommodate us."

"I will take care of it immediately."

With his heart pounding, Fang Zhi left Xu's office and climbed into his Brave Warrior, a new four-wheel-drive off-road vehicle that resembled a smaller version of the American Hummer and was painted olive drab. He left the Group Army Headquarters, heading east for the inland mountains.

Soon the paved roads turned to dirt, and he rumbled past the cold streams and brown forests that would soon warm and return to their lush green. In some areas where the houses were completely shaded by trees, the only signs of civilization were the power and phone poles lining the path.

The road grew steeper, more tortuous, with large limbs overhanging the truck. Fang had only visited the site at night, and he took a moment to marvel over the beautiful countryside. This was his home.

His only wish was that Xu would finally trust him. He sensed the secrets in his friend's tone, and for the past four years, Fang had bided his time, hoping he would eventually be allowed to join the Spring Tigers as an equal partner. He might lack the higher rank of the others, but he was and would continue to be a valuable consultant on the enemy's tactics, techniques, and procedures.

Fang knew he shouldn't resent Xu if that never happened. His friend was under the pressure of his colleagues, and so it was up to Fang to continue to prove his worth and loyalty.

He drove for nearly two more hours, heading down into a remote valley where a lone Hakka castle, surrounded by steep mountains and thick forests, sprang up from the earth like a quartet of nuclear missile silos: rings with hollow centers.

The Hakka people had, over the course of centuries, migrated from Northern China to settle in the south. They had a long and rich history, and most notably, a unique form of architecture: round, earthen castles constructed of clay, ash, and bran. These structures rose as high as four or five stories, and some had been in place for over one thousand years.

As Fang neared the castle, the four round buildings with mushroom-shaped rooflines grew more distinct, along with a central square structure that also contained a courtyard. Nearly one hundred people lived and worked around the castle. The ground floors were reserved for storing food, cooking, eating, and socializing, while the upper floors were used as living quarters. The youngest people resided on the top floors.

The main entrance was through a central gate, similar to the castles of Europe, and what Fang appreciated most about this particular castle were the tall wrought-iron doors that offered added security.

It had been Fang's suggestion to work out a deal with the Hakka to borrow their castle for meetings. The location was remote, easy to secure, and should the worst ever happen, the group would be surrounded by civilian shields, which could give an enemy pause.

Additionally, the Hakka, who were well paid for allowing them to use their facility, treated every member of the group like emperors. Most importantly, they were discreet, which had been a difficult challenge at other locations.

As Fang drove up the long path, then turned down the road, children playing along the embankment stopped and ran after his truck.

By the time he reached the gate, he'd drawn a small crowd of little ones, and one of the fourteen village elders, Huang, a gray-haired stick of a man whose pants were buckled high above his navel, shooed the children away and came toward Fang as he climbed out.

"Is this new?" asked Huang, his eyes widening as he ran fingers over the Brave Warrior's hood.

"You like it?"

"Very much."

"Perhaps I can get you one."

"No. I don't believe it."

"Believe it."

"All right. Now come inside for tea. You have no choice." Huang smiled tightly.

Fang followed him through the open gates and into the central courtyard. He glanced up at the women pinning clothes on lines strung between the curving balconies.

"I assume you've come to plan another meeting?" asked Huang as they crossed the yard.

"Yes."

"Well, the other elders have grown squeamish about all this. And the helicopters make too much noise."

"So your price has increased?"

Huang paused, turned back. "Yes, it has. And I will need one of those trucks."

Fang tensed. "I'm sure we can reach an agreement."

They turned into a narrow hallway that took them into a modest-sized eating area with wooden tables and fireplace.

But before Huang could fetch them tea, Fang glanced back, making sure they were alone.

Abruptly, he drew the sword cane he kept buckled to his side, reared back, and struck a solid blow to Huang's shoulder, knocking the old man to his knees.

Huang gasped, one hand going to his wound. "Fang! What are you doing?"

Fang lifted the sword, balancing it a hairsbreadth away from Huang's nose. "I'm reminding you, old man, that we are not to be threatened. We've made you a generous deal. And I will get you that truck, but our price is the same."

"All right. All right."

"You tell the elders that they should remain squeamish, because if they change their minds, I am unsure what terrible things will happen here."

"Fang, you don't have to do this."

"It would seem I do. Now then, I won't be staying for tea. Tell the others we will be coming soon." Fang pulled a cell phone from his hip pocket and placed it on the ground beside him. "Keep this turned on. Keep it with you at all times. I will call. Be ready. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Fang's sword hissed as he slid it back into the cane, then he offered a hand to Huang, who glanced at it, then finally accepted. "You see?" Fang asked with a broad grin. "Everything's better now."

Chapter Seventeen.

CENTRAL MILITARY COMMISSION (CMC)

MINISTRY OF NATIONAL DEFENSE COMPOUND

BEIJING, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Captain Zuo Junping, the twenty-eight-year-old military attache to Deputy Director Wang Ya, crawled out from beneath his stack of intelligence reports and greeted the leonine Major-General Chen Yi. The general had flown up from Xiamen three times in the past month and had remained in Beijing for a week, meeting daily with the deputy director.

That one commander from a single military region could gain so much of the deputy director's attention might have struck outsiders as odd were it not for recent events.

Since the U.S. had announced the sale of that submarine to Taiwan nearly thirty days prior, the entire Nanjing region had been at the highest military alert, and the office had been flooded with intelligence. The PLA's "training" exercises in the Taiwan Strait, along with the repositioning of troops, had resulted in the U.S. deploying a second carrier task force to the area as the American president continued to rattle his saber and caution the Chinese government about making any moves against Taiwan.

In response, China's air force had repositioned fighter and aircraft bomber squadrons, and on recommendation of Deputy Director Wang, the commander of the PLA Navy had ordered two Shang-class nuclear fast-attack submarines from its North Sea Fleet at Qingdao to the East Sea Fleet. That action doubled the number of Shang-class subs under operational control of ESF Vice Admiral Cai Ming, a fact quickly publicized online via the PLA Daily English News.

And just today, after a long month of uneasiness, the president, vice president, and premier of Taiwan, obviously threatened by China's significant show of force, had agreed to declare martial law. Chinese agents and sympathizers were being rounded up and imprisoned while the government and the Pan-Green Coalition–composed of the Democratic Progressive Party, the Taiwan Solidarity Union, and the Taiwan Independence Party–now threatened to declare Taiwan's independence from mainland China.

The Americans had a metaphorical term for such a situation; they called it a powder keg.

Zuo showed the general into the deputy minister's office, closed the door, then returned to his chair. He wrung his hands and thought of slowing his pulse. It was just another day. Nothing to worry about. When it was over, he would return home to his little apartment and relax with a bottle of Tsingtao and a pack of cigarettes.

Life had been much easier back in the United States. Zuo had done his undergraduate work at Shanghai Jiao Tong University, earning an engineering degree. The following year he had enrolled in a joint program with Drexel University in Philadelphia to earn his graduate degree.

While in the United States, he had stayed with a host family whose son was an army captain, and they had developed a strong friendship. Moreover, Zuo's perceptions of America and American culture were transformed during his four years of study. A country he had once described in a school paper as the home of the corrupt and selfish had become something very different.

His home.

Knowing that Zuo would return to China to perform his "sacred duty" as a citizen and serve in the military, representatives of the U.S.'s Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA) had recruited him as an operative with the promise that if he worked for them for no less than six years, they would help him defect and become an American citizen.

Zuo had agonized over the decision for months, but finally he had agreed.

After returning to China, he had assumed his military duties and also taught classes at the Chinese Academy of Military Science, where Deputy Director Wang had discovered him teaching the Citizen-Soldier in American Society course. Wang had been impressed by Zuo's scholarship, public speaking abilities, and keen sense of humor. Despite Zuo's youth and lack of experience, Wang had taken him under his wing and become his mentor. Wang's own ego was bolstered with every success that Zuo achieved.

Indeed, Zuo's remarkable ascension in the PLA was beyond his American employers' wildest dreams, and they had made him offers to extend his contract for another four to six years (he had already worked five). It seemed the higher Zuo rose, the less chance he would have of actually leaving the country.

Consequently, he had turned down their offer and had responded with one of his own: begin plans to get him out of the country immediately. If they did so, he would turn over intelligence he had gathered for the past two years on an operation known as Pouncing Dragon, one the DIA had queried him about in 2009, when they had first heard the phrase in Waziristan.

Zuo told them he had names, dates, and a forthcoming meeting day and time, but he would not deliver them unless they got him out of China. He was waiting for their reply.

As much as it pained him to abandon his post and leave his mother and ailing father behind, Zuo knew that the United States was where he belonged.

And he knew that if he remained at his post much longer, the deputy director would eventually discover his activities and, on a cold, dark night while Zuo was sleeping, a man would come into his apartment. They would call it robbery.

The deputy director clearly had a lot to hide, and Zuo's eavesdropping had yielded some puzzling blanks in his routines that left Zuo even more unnerved about the boss's connections and influence.

On the third Tuesday of every month, at exactly one in the afternoon, Wang made a phone call to a number in Geneva. And at least twice per month he took a clandestine lunch meeting outside the office.

Zuo wondered if the deputy director, like Zuo himself, had his own agenda. Zuo had considered asking the DIA if Wang was actually working for them. How ironic that would be, but no, that was hardly the case.

With a shivery sigh, Zuo returned to sorting and compiling his reports. In two hours he would need to brief the deputy minister on what was currently happening in the Taiwan Strait. However, Wang would only be half listening as he watched CNN via satellite and interrupted Zuo to decry the inaccuracies of the American media.

That night, as Zuo returned home to his apartment in a heavy rainstorm, he spotted a man in a dark blue raincoat huddled in an alcove across the street from his building.

Zuo hesitated a moment to squint through the storm and realize that his DIA contact was waiting for him.

Lo Kuo-hui was about Zuo's age, and he, too, had been an international student studying in the United States and had been recruited by the DIA.

Zuo crossed the street and reached the alcove, where he lowered his umbrella to shield them both from the wind. "I thought it would take longer."

"Not with what's happening now," said Lo.

"So?"

Lo grinned weakly. "They have accepted your offer. But they need your intelligence first."

"What guarantees do I have?"

"None, unless the intelligence is good."

Zuo reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet, and produced a small flash drive the size of his thumb-nail. He handed it to Lo. "Tell them to review this. They can verify the GPS coordinates by satellite. The data is current as of today. Any changes that occur are beyond my control, but I will update them as I learn more."

"Very good. I hope this all works out for you."

"What about you?"

"I leave tonight. My work for them is finished."

"And they are getting you out?"

"Yes."

Zuo sighed. Maybe he could trust the DIA after all. There had always been lingering doubt. "Who will I meet next?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure they will send someone. Good-bye, Zuo." Lo turned up his jacket's collar and rushed off into the rain.

Chapter Eighteen.

ROBIN SAGE

" PINELAND "

NEAR FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA

APRIL 2012

Captain Scott Mitchell tucked himself tighter into the underbrush as the sputtering whine of a diesel engine broke the morning silence. The mud road just ahead wove away like a rusty red bloodstain through the forest.

A moment later, the old truck with a tattered tarpaulin covering its flatbed rounded a cluster of pines and jostled forward, trailing rooster tails of clay.

Mitchell, dressed in black civilian clothes with a black shemaghon his head, clutched the paintball gun replica of a Beretta Cx4 Storm rifle.

Today Mitchell's name was Jawaad, and he was the local guerrilla chief, or G-chief, in this part of "The People's Republic of Pineland," a fictional country whose unassuming name suggested a land of trailer parks rather than a war-torn nation. For the past six months, insurgents from OpForland, a country of political and religious unrest, had been smuggling themselves across the border to terrorize Jawaad's village. They had killed his father and two brothers.

Jawaad was here to strike back at the insurgents, liberate his country from oppression, and send a message to the enemy. He was here for revenge. To that end, he and his guerrillas, or Gs, had linked up with Operational Detachment Alpha 927, a twelve-man team of American Special Forces soldiers who had armed and been training them for the past two weeks.

In point of fact, the entire scenario was part of Robin Sage, a nineteen-day field training exercise (FTX) and the final phase of the eighteen– to twenty-six-month-long Special Forces Qualification Course taught at the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. The name Robin Sage was derived from Robbins, a nearby town, and from the man who had developed the exercise, Colonel Jerry Sage, one of the school's original commanders.

The exercise was conducted throughout fourteen counties and put operators through a grueling series of unconventional warfare situations in which they had to rely upon every aspect of their training, from mission planning to execution. Robin Sage was the final exercise before graduation and assignment to one of the operational Special Forces groups. To the men taking the course, passing the exercise meant everything.

But they had to make it past Scott Mitchell first.

Being the G-chief, Mitchell had already made it clear to the detachment commander, Captain Fred Warris, and the warrant officer, CW2 Baron Williams, that this was his show, and those guys had initially argued over that. Out there in the real world you sometimes had to trust the local chief you'd only known for a month, because if you didn't, you'd never get the job done. What's more, sometimes you had to let him lead because it was his fight and his honor at stake. That was difficult for many operators to accept, men who thrived on being in control.