Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Robin Sage training also incorporated the experiences of real-life soldiers like Mitchell, who had designed this particular scenario based upon an experience he'd had in Eritrea. The young Captain Warris was about to be overwhelmed.

Mitchell's breath grew shallow. The truck was about twenty meters from the trigger line now.

Close enough.

He burst from cover, ran onto the road, and began firing wildly at the vehicle, screaming at the top of his lungs, "For my father! For my brothers!"

Behind him, Warris began hollering, "Jawaad, what the hell are you doing? Come back!"

Mitchell kept firing, his paintballs exploding on the windshield of the truck.

Warris hollered even louder, "Jawaad, get back here!"

The truck's driver threw it in park and hopped out, along with a passenger: both OpForland soldiers armed with rifles. They dropped to their bellies and began returning fire, paintballs whirring past Mitchell, who was grinning to himself.

G-chief Jawaad had screwed up the entire ambush.

The ODA team and the guerrillas were supposed to lie in wait until the truck hit the trigger line, at which time one of Jawaad's men would toss a smoke grenade while a simulated claymore exploded, tearing apart the vehicle's front end.

Mitchell had, in his own way, just welcomed his students to Unconventional Warfare 101, where no battle plan survived the first enemy–or friendly–contact.

He continued running at the truck, taking fire from the enemy soldiers, paintballs striking his thighs and chest. He squeezed off a few more rounds and staggered forward, shouting once more about revenge until he dropped to his knees in the mud, fired again, then fell and rolled onto his side, crying, "Help! I've been hit! I'm hit!"

Now it was up to Warris and Williams to gain control of the chaos.

Mitchell lay there and watched as, across the path, one of the team's evaluators, Captain Simon Harruck, rose from the scrub to watch as the sergeant assisting him lifted his small camera to digitally record the event.

Warris ordered his engineers who'd been standing by on the claymore to circle around to the vehicle's rear, while everyone else opened fire on the truck, paintballs thudding and fountaining across metal.

Within five seconds the two enemy soldiers were "dead," and Warris called a cease fire. His engineers were the first on the vehicle and began unloading and busting open crates containing Meals, Ready-to-Eat and weapons caches.

Mitchell got to his feet. "ODA team? Guerrilla team? The exercise is terminated. On me right now!"

It took several more minutes for everyone, nearly thirty in all, to rally around Mitchell in the middle of the road. He shook his head at Warris. "You got two medics. Couldn't spare one to save my life?"

The captain furrowed his brows in confusion. "You ran at the truck, blew the whole ambush. You looked like you were trying to commit suicide."

"And now every G here is pissed off at you for letting me die."

"But you killed yourself."

"No, I was getting my revenge. And maybe that was more important to me than my own life. Or maybe I was trying to show my men how important their cause is. I was trying to teach them how to fight to the death."

"By running into fire."

"Maybe I martyred myself." Mitchell sighed and adopted a more conversational tone. "See, you don't know what these guys will do when it comes down to it. You always have plan B, which involves them betraying you or doing something crazy, like running into the road."

Warris nodded. "But we still accomplished the objective. Truck stopped, cargo seized."

"Maybe not. You put so much gunfire on that truck that you blew it up. Everybody should have held fire. You send out your medic and put your snipers to work to pin down the bad guys."

Warris swallowed, and Mitchell knew that every decision the captain had just made would weigh heavily on his mind. He was already wondering if his career was in jeopardy.

So Mitchell let him off the hook and added, "I know that one second could make the difference between living and dying, but you need to take that second and think, okay, I got a guy running at the truck. He's stopped the truck–which was what the claymore was supposed to do. We got no smoke, but the G-chief has all their attention. Let me get my marksmen on target. And yes, I know you need to make that assessment in one second. But we're not out in the woods because we're afraid of challenges. And for what it's worth, I did the same thing you did–just put tons of steel on target. I never sent the medic. The guerrillas turned it around and blamed me for his death. It took me a long time to win back their trust."

Warris considered that, muttered a "Whoa," then added, "Captain, I appreciate your honesty."

Mitchell offered his hand. "Lessons learned. So now that I'm dead, you need to figure out if you can still negotiate with my Gs and who's in charge–and sometimes even that can be a real headache. And oh, yeah, the Gs are going to loot those bodies, then after that, they might want to chop off their heads and put them on poles. How do you feel about that?"

Warris's eyes grew wide.

Mitchell gave a short nod to Captain Harruck, who began barking new instructions to the group as up ahead, an HMMWV came rolling forward and stopped. "Hi, I'm looking for Captain Mitchell," said the young PFC at the wheel.

Mitchell drew his head back. "Really, because I've been looking for you, Private"–he read the woman's patch–"Morgan."

"Sir?"

"Yeah, I haven't had a hot shower in two weeks. Can you take me to the nearest hotel?"

The private grimaced. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Yeah, I smell. You'll get over it. Just get me to a shower."

"I mean, I'm sorry, sir, they sent me up here to get you. I've been waiting back at your FOB all morning. Just got cleared to come up. I have orders to drive you back to Bragg–no detours."

Mitchell frowned. "Great." He climbed into the Hummer and collapsed into the seat, mud and paint splashing all over the floorboard. "Sorry about the mess."

"That's okay, sir."

He closed his eyes, hating that his driver, the pretty young PFC Morgan, could be Kristen's twin.

When they reached Bragg, Lieutenant Colonel Gordon and Major Grey were waiting. Gordon said they had the general breathing down their necks. Apparently, misery loved company. They ushered Mitchell directly into the nondescript Ghost offices and practically shoved him in front of the video monitor.

On the screen was General Joshua Keating calling from USSOCOM. The general's conservative haircut and tinted glasses belied his history as a Special Forces operator back in Vietnam and during the first Gulf War, where he'd earned drawers full of medals. He had degrees in history and business and had already penned a successful book about the history of Special Forces operations. He was even a graduate of the Harvard Executive Education Program's National and International Security Managers Course, and for the past decade had served in more command positions than even he could probably remember. Earlier in the year he had finally taken over as commander of USSOCOM, his dream post, Mitchell knew.

While some loathed and feared Keating, Mitchell got along with him just fine, in part because the general was a hands-on officer who understood the unique nature of Special Forces operations and considered it his duty to keep in close contact with his men on the ground. Sure, he was an impatient taskmaster, but he was also a straight shooter who never held back a punch. Mitchell found that refreshing.

Keating leaned forward, his breast full of ribbons standing in sharp relief against his starched and pressed class As, the new blue army class uniform having replaced the old green in 2011. "Mitchell, you look like crap."

He pawed self-consciously at the mud on his face. "Thank you, sir. I had another word in mind."

To Keating's right hung dozens of screens displaying maps, intelligence reports, satellite imagery, and live video streams from operators in the field, all of it coming together in a pixilated mosaic fluctuating with a life of its own. Over the general's left shoulder loomed a four-meter-tall, three-dimensional map of the Chinese coast and Taiwan, with green overlays and flashing grid coordinates drawing Mitchell's attention to several locations.

"Don't be a wise guy, Mitchell. I dragged you back from Robin Sage because we got a situation."

"Sir, I've been out in the woods for a couple of weeks. Haven't been online or seen a newspaper . . . but my fortune cookie tells me it's got something to do with that submarine sale to Taiwan."

"You bet it does."

"I see you got China on the big map."

Keating glanced over his shoulder. "Damned right I do, because our little standoff in the Pacific is about to go south real fast."

The general shifted his position to allow a smartly dressed woman in dark blue to appear on the screen. She was in her late forties, with brown hair streaked with gray and a pair of green-framed glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose.

Keating went on: "Mitchell, this is Dr. Gail Gorbatova of the DIA."

"Hello, Captain."

"Ma'am."

"The general wanted me to brief you on an intelligence report we recently received from one of our operatives inside the Chinese government. It concerns an operation called Pouncing Dragon."

"I haven't heard that name in a long time."

"Not since Waziristan, I presume?"

"Yeah."

"We've been tracking that lead for over three years now, and its finally borne fruit."

General Keating, already out of patience, jumped back in: "Mitchell, the DIA's mole has uncovered a group of Chinese commanders calling themselves the Spring Tigers. They got itchy fingers and their sights set on Taiwan. Our intel indicates they'll use this standoff to launch their own attack."

Mitchell shrugged. "Call China. Tip off their president."

"We can't trust them to handle this," said Gorbatova. "The deputy director of the political department is a silent partner. And the Chinese could allow it to happen, then simply blame it on this cabal of renegades. We can't give the Chinese that opportunity."

"Let me ask you something, Doctor. How reliable is your intel?"

"Our operative was recruited years ago. He's one of the best we have inside."

"Well that's good, because I assume when this conversation is over that I'll be staking my life on the accuracy of the information he's given you."

"We have no reason to believe otherwise."

The general jumped back in. "Mitchell, we have a list of every Spring Tiger. We also know they've scheduled a final planning meeting exactly nine days from now–and we have the time and location of that meeting."

Mitchell knew where this was going. "What's the dress? Casual? Or do I have to wear a tie?"

"Oh, it's a formal affair, son. Black tie only. You'll crash that party . . . and Mitchell, we need a clean, surgical strike. No prisoners. Do you read me, soldier?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right, pick a team, get an outload manifest ready, and get to Subic Bay ASAP. We'll have an ISOFAC set up, and by then your target intel package should be updated and ready."

When the general said "black tie," he meant black operation sans paper or electronic trials. They would literally wear black and carry nothing that could identify them as U.S. soldiers. No one would claim responsibility for their actions. Who could? The Ghosts did not exist.

Their Isolation Facility or ISOFAC would allow them to engage in the planning phase of their mission without interruption.

Finally, their target intelligence package, or TIP, would contain timely, detailed, tailored, and fused multisource information describing a host of elements related to the mission.

However, Mitchell didn't need to review their TIP regarding the infiltration phase. Their Black Hawk pilots would be sitting this one out. Mitchell and his people were going to Subic Bay to board a submarine, because that's the only way they could infiltrate the Chinese coast while armed for bear, or in this case, tigers.

Gorbatova's tone turned grave. "Captain Mitchell, I want to remind you that our operative took a huge risk to retrieve this data."

"What's he get in return? You helping him defect?"

"As a matter of fact, we are. I just hope you and your people can make it all worthwhile."

Mitchell nodded, then regarded Keating. "General, I'm wondering why you don't want SEALs on this one? With a sub infiltration, this sounds like a job for them."

"Are you kidding me, son? You don't want the job?"

Mitchell stiffened. "Sir, I didn't say that."

"You implying that I might be biased? That I picked an army unit to prevent World War III because I'm an SF operator myself?"

"Sir–"

"Well, you're damned right I did. You'll have two SEALs to assist with infil and exfil, and a couple of CIA agents to help you get closer to the target; otherwise, it's yourshow, Mitchell. And do me a favor–don't you get yourself killed on my watch. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why are you sitting there? Get cleaned up and get the hell on a jet! I'll update you once you're in the Philippines."

Mitchell bolted from his chair and saluted the general. "On my way, sir!"

The screen switched to the computer's desktop, and Mitchell glanced wearily at Gordon and Grey. "Call the president. Tell him to hold up on World War III until after I've had a shower."

Grey smiled. "Speaking of calls, as soon as you have your list, send it over. A lot of operators are out on R & R, and we'll need time to get them back."

Mitchell nodded. "You got a pen? I already know who I want."

Chapter Nineteen.

TOWN OF BIG VALLEY

MODOC COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

APRIL 2012

Sergeant First Class Paul Smith, Ghost Team rifleman, was home in rural Northern California for a few weeks, and it was not two days into his R & R that his boyhood friend Hernando Alameda called to say that he could use a hand loading about two hundred bales of alfalfa hay onto some flatbed trucks. Hernando had taken over the farm from his recently deceased father, and Smith knew that he was shorthanded, so he couldn't say no to his old buddy.

Hernando was twenty-seven, a few years older than Smith, and he'd been complaining all morning about the difficulties of finding good help. He worked out his frustration on the bales of hay, loading twice as fast as Smith did, both of them sweating profusely. Soon the conversation turned to women, as it always did, and Smith asked about Hernando's longtime girlfriend, Vicki, who had sweet-talked him into financing a brand-new pair of boobs.

"She just dumped me last week," Hernando said between breaths.

"How many times is that?"

"Three."

"You don't need her."

"Nope."

"But you'll be calling later."

"Yup. I'm calling in the loan."

Smith grinned. "Damn that woman."

"Hey, your dad told me he's retiring next year."

"Yeah, I can't believe it. He's been sheriff of this Podunk county for thirty years."

"You ought to take over."

Smith laughed. "I joined the army to get away from all this horse dung."

"You hate us that much?"

"No, but come on, bro, you know my parents. Dad wanted me to be a rocket scientist. And they're both still mad about the whole college thing. But I have my own life now."

"And the army's that much better? You never thought about quitting?"

Smith shrugged. There had been a time, near the end of his fourth year as an infantryman. The service hadn't been as glamorous or challenging as he'd thought. He'd spent the better part of his life outdoors, hunting and fishing. He was a bushman at heart, and a lot of guys from the city used to say he had a sixth sense. They always put him on point, like a bloodhound. And that was great, but he'd grown bored.

"There was a time when I wasn't going to re-up," he told Hernando. "But then I met this Special Forces officer, and things changed."

"He gave you the sales pitch."

"No, he just came in to do some combatives and martial arts training. The guy was amazing. He told it like it was, and to this day I still remember his training philosophy."

"Which was?"

"Well, he thought the mental advantage was just as important as firepower. He told us our training should always be mission-specific. It had to be short, and it shouldn't require us to be flexible like gymnasts. And even though he was shorter and lighter, he dropped me like a bad transmission every time. He was the most professional soldier I'd ever met."

"No kidding. You never told me this story. I thought you just did it. But I was right. He convinced you to re-up."

Smith nodded. "After working with me, he said I was Special Forces material. What he didn't tell me was how the Q-Course would kick my ass, especially Robin Sage at the end. I thought I would die out there."

"What was the guy's name?"

"Captain Scott Mitchell." Smith's cell phone began to ring. He set down his next bale of hay and checked the screen. "Sorry, buddy, I need to take this."

7-ELEVEN CONVENIENCE STORE

DETROIT, MICHIGAN

APRIL 2012

Deciding to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, Master Sergeant Matt Beasley, proudly sporting his dark blue Pistons jacket, climbed off his Harley Sportster and started across the rain-slick pavement.

It had been two years since he'd visited the old neighborhood, and he remembered hanging out at this very store, keeping tabs on the motley crew of characters with nicknames like Old Man Freddy, Busted Head Bob, and Wayne the Wimp.

Beasley had been a latchkey kid with decent grades, though he spent most of his time on the streets, just watching people, occasionally tipping off the police when he saw something that shouldn't be happening in his neighborhood. There had been plenty of opportunities to get involved with drugs and gangs, but Beasley had avoided those invitations. He'd seen too many of those punks get their faces shoved down onto the hoods of police cars. Those same punks often referred to him as the weird guy who never talked. That was fine with him. He was a student of human nature.

Beasley grinned as he locked gazes with a freckle-faced kid about sixteen or seventeen seated on the window ledge, hands jammed into the pockets of his dirty pull-over, black ski cap pulled down over his ears. His long, reddish brown hair wandered down past that cap, and he repeatedly backhanded his runny nose.

He was Beasley, half a lifetime ago.

The kid just looked at him, then averted his gaze. Beasley stepped inside, announced by the store's familiar ding-dong, and went to the coffee machine.

An elderly African-American couple stood at the counter, bickering with the heavyset clerk over their expired coupon for milk; otherwise, the store was empty.

Beasley finished making his coffee, grabbed his paper, and by the time he reached the counter, the old folks were gone. The clerk rang him up, and he left the store.

The kid was still there, watching. Beasley thought of asking why he wasn't in school but decided not to hassle him. Beasley had been on the other end of that conversation way too many times. Nearly slipping on the wet pavement, he crossed to his bike.

And just as he tucked his newspaper under his arm and was about to fish out his keys, something thudded against the back of his head. He glanced ever so slightly over his shoulder, saw the kid standing there, his arm extended.

"This ain't no toy gun. Your keys! Now!" The kid shoved his pistol harder into Beasley's skull.

"Easy, buddy. I was just pulling them out."

"You hand them to me. And you don't turn around."

"Okay."

Beasley drew in a long, slow breath to calm himself. He reached into his pocket, felt the keys, but he didn't grab them. He visualized his move . . . then made it.

Whirling and wrenching his hand from his coat, Beasley struck the kid's forearm with his own, then slid his hand down and ripped the gun from the kid's grip.

Dumbfounded, the kid gasped and stepped back, turned, about to run, then slipped in a puddle.

Beasley shook his head in disgust. "Better stay down, buddy."

Breathless, the kid rolled to face Beasley, tears forming in his eyes.

Beasley gritted his teeth. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know."

"What are you doing with your life? Throwing it away trying to jack me?"

Beasley wanted to tell this punk he was capable of so much more. He wanted to say that he'd sat on that very window ledge, yet he'd gone on to become a Ranger and even a team sergeant with the Ghosts. He wanted to scare this kid straight. But he already sensed his little speech would fall on deaf ears.

Abruptly, his cell phone beeped with an incoming text message, and the kid exploited the diversion to burst to his feet and take off.

Beasley was about to start after him, but something told him to check the phone. He took one look at the screen and muttered, "Whoa."

GOLD'S GYM

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

APRIL 2012

Sergeant First Class Bo Jenkins had just finished his weight training routine and had decided to take a group cycle class. At six foot five, 280 pounds, he knew he looked a little ridiculous on the bike, but that had never stopped him from joining in the fun.

In fact, he always turned the class into a party, hooting and hollering as the instructor, Marcy, played her classic rock songs and his fellow riders, mostly middle-aged housewives, released their stress and angst over living in a place that was dark for way too many months a year.

Marcy was in her late thirties and liked to touch Jenkins's high-and-tight crew cut. He'd once told her that if he applied enough mousse, he could balance a full bottle of water on his hair, and the bottle would never touch his scalp.

She'd grinned. "You are definitely husband material with talent like that."

"Hey, you know, women are always looking for skills."

Now, as he was about to enter the class, his phone rang. It was Aunt Judy.

"Bo, you'd better meet me at the hospital. They've admitted your dad again."

His heart sank. "I'm on my way." He raced to the locker room to grab his bag.

After his parents had gotten divorced when he was fourteen, Jenkins had gone to live with his father in Anchorage, where Dad had become a commercial fisherman. Dad had spent most of his life on boats, and all that hard work and hard drinking had taken their toll. He had liver problems and a host of other issues that were steadily growing worse. And if it weren't for Aunt Judy, who had helped raise Jenkins, he wasn't sure how he'd get through now.

Watching his father slowly wither away was far more difficult than all those missions in the Philippines, Indonesia, Eritrea, and Cuba. They were nothing compared to standing in that hospital room and holding Dad's hand, remembering that he was the one who'd said, "Bo, I think you should join the army. You need focus. They'll give it to you."

Jenkins was the most physically imposing member of the Ghosts, joking that he sprinkled brass casings on his cornflakes instead of blueberries, but he wasn't strong enough to handle this. Not this.

He could barely breathe by the time he left the gym and headed out to his car. The phone rang again. It wasn't Aunt Judy. And Jenkins's heart sank even more. "No, no, no. Not now. Come on, not now!"

MASSACHUSETTS INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY

CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS

APRIL 2012

"Alex, I really appreciate this. Just thought it'd be nice to see another life."

Sergeant First Class Alex Nolan smiled and lifted a thumb to shove his spectacles higher on his nose. It was a nervous habit that occurred every time someone embarrassed him or made him feel awkward. Even a sincere thank-you like the one Hume was offering could trigger the response. "Hey, man, it's cool. And don't feel bad. I didn't get to go here, either."

Nolan's buddy John Hume was a staff sergeant, anti-tank gunner, and demolitions expert with the Ghosts. He'd been in the Fifth Infantry Brigade in Iraq, had been an engineer sergeant on Special Forces teams, had fought in the Philippines and spoke fluent Tagalog, and was one of the first guys to befriend Nolan when he had been selected for the Ghosts as a senior medical sergeant. They were both a handful of years older than the average Ghost and had become fast friends. Hume had opted to spend the first few days of his R & R with Nolan in Nolan's hometown of Boston.

Hume had asked if they could visit MIT, and, after walking the campus, they had headed inside the museum to check out the Robots and Beyond exhibit featuring the work done at MIT's Artificial Intelligence Laboratory.

Despite all the fascinating displays, Hume couldn't hold his attention on anything for very long. His brother Billy had called from San Francisco to say he was upset that Hume hadn't come straight home to see their mother. It seemed that Hume's brother had become the caregiver for their elderly mom. Hume had made a rather terrible faux pas by opting to spend a few days with his buddy first. Nolan could tell his friend was upset and had even let him off the hook by saying it was fine if he had to leave.

However, Hume needed to see MIT. After high school, he'd been accepted and never been more proud of that, but his father had had a stroke, and he'd been forced to take over the family farm in Salt Lake City and had given up on his dream. But then his father had passed on and, after a few years, he'd met an old buddy from high school who'd joined the army and had presented an entirely different path for Hume to consider.

Hume raised his chin at the crowd watching a demonstration of a haptic interface that allowed robots to simulate a sense of touch. "Hey, Alex, these robots are going to take over the world. If they replace me with a robot, then you can forget about your certification and residency, forget all about being a hotshot combat doc and saving guys like me. You need to be a robot repairman."

"No, they'll invent robot medics. You know, we trained with one of those unmanned ground vehicles a few years back. They call them SUVGs. Thing was small but nasty."

"Yeah, I've seen those. I'd like to blow one up–just to say I did."

Nolan chuckled. "You were the kid who stuffed fire-crackers in the frog's mouth."

"No, actually, Dad and I put on some world-class fireworks shows. People came from all over to see them." Hume's voice grew thin. "Dad would've loved to have seen this place, too."

Nolan's phone began to vibrate, just as Hume's began to ring. They checked their screens.

Hume sighed. "My brother's really going to flip out now."

"Dude, we have to be in Subic Bay, and they're timing us," said Nolan, already breaking into a jog. "Come on!"

Chapter Twenty.

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)

SOUTH CHINA SEA

THREE HUNDRED NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST OF

SUBIC BAY, PHILIPPINES

APRIL 2012

The crew of USS Montana, a Virginia-class nuclear fast-attack submarine, was bound for Sasebo, Japan, after a week's monitoring of supertanker traffic through the Malacca Strait linking the Indian and Pacific Oceans. Passage through the strait was the shortest sea route for India, China, and Indonesia, and the key choke point in Asia. To bypass the strait added 944 miles to any ship's transit.

"Emergency deep," ordered Captain Kenneth Gummerson.

Montana's control team immediately initiated a full-power dive toward a depth of 150 feet–deep enough to avoid collision with the bottom of any modern supertanker yet shallow enough to recover from flooding should a collision ensue.

"Worked perfectly, Captain," reported the chief petty officer copilot. "Touch screen control all the way, no need to go to minimum electronic mode and joystick control."

This fourth drill in the last twenty-four hours reassured Gummerson that a computer module swap-out had indeed tweaked the digital interface between the stern plane actuators and the sub's fly-by-wire (FBW) computer.

Gummerson, a twice-divorced forty-seven-year-old victim of long separations and short reunions, had tacked on silver eagles during this operation, but the promotion meant giving up his command. All hands knew their relief commander would be waiting on the pier in Sasebo. Change of command was a bittersweet event for all concerned.

"Incoming flash traffic, CO eyes only, Captain," reported the duty radioman.

Gummerson nodded. "Bring it back to my stateroom after it's logged in."

Minutes later, in the privacy of his quarters, Gummerson carefully studied his new orders:

100938ZAPR2012 FLASH FM: COMSUBPAC TO: USS MONTANA SSN-823 INFO: COMPACFLT USSOC SUBJ: OPORDER 2012-0410-TS-001 TOP SECRET //BT// 1. Upon receipt, terminate current ops, proceed Subic Bay. Arrive NLT 1000 local, 1204082. On arrival Subic onload dry stores, fresh provisions, thirty (30) day deployment.3. Offload Advanced Seal Delivery System (ASDS) and embarked SEAL DET minus two (2) qualified Lock Out instructor/operators.4. Inventory/update all nautical charts, aids to navigation, emphasis littoral east coast China, Taiwan Strait, and environs.5. Embark US Army SPECOPS team, rig for one (1) female rider.6. All traffic FLASH precedence action COMSUBPAC, info COMPACFLT, USSOC.7. Advise originator ASAP any/all mission degrading equipment/personnel concerns.8. Report ready for sea NLT 0001 local, 1504089. Mission details to follow.10. Acknowledge receipt this msg via SLOT11. Admiral Hendricks sends//BT//

Gummerson reread the message, signed for receipt, then smiled broadly. He hoped his relief had decent accommodations in Sasebo, because the man would be waiting a little longer before he could steal Gummerson's boat.

GHOST TEAM ISOFAC

SUBIC BAY FREEPORT ZONE, PHILIPPINES

APRIL 2012

When U.S. Naval Base Subic Bay was shut down back in 1992, the area was slowly converted into a tax– and duty-free zone not unlike those in Hong Kong and Singapore. Despite the naval base's closure, American warships continued taking advantage of the deep, natural harbor in order to resupply and provide their crews much-needed shore leave.

The Freeport Zone was operated by the Subic Bay Metropolitan Authority, and it was with this organization that USSOCOM had negotiated to borrow an old navy office building currently under renovation to become a souvenir shop.

Captain Scott Mitchell stood near the door of what was once a conference room. Beside him sat piles of lumber, table saws, and sheets of drywall. He gazed out through the dust at the eight other operators who, like him, were hot and exhausted but eager to learn more about Operation War Wraith, the Ghosts' answer to Pouncing Dragon.