Ghost Recon gr-1 Page 11

  "You haven't been here the whole time?"

  "Nope. I saw you pull up."

  "And then what? You came running out? You trying to avoid me?"

  "You?" He chuckled under his breath. "You know I hate all that hello crap. Damn house is so noisy with everybody here."

  "Nice to see you, too. What are you making?"

  "A tortoise table."

  Mitchell's mouth fell open. "A what?"

  He grinned. "Just kidding. Your sister forwarded me a couple of your e-mails way back when. All those weekends out here with me, and you're not even building furniture anymore? Doghouses and turtle houses?"

  "I just finished up a real nice piece for my company commander. It's a custom footlocker for stowing military mementos. I even engraved it."

  "Yeah, well I'm working on a nice box myself. Figure I'll save you kids a lot of money once I croak."

  "What do you mean? You're not… you're building your own coffin?"

  His eyes widened. "Absolutely."

  "Dad, is there something you want to tell me? I thought the stress test went okay."

  "It did."

  "So what are you doing? Tommy's getting married tomorrow. Does marriage make you think about—"

  "No. It makes me think about your mother. About missing her. That's all. I'm happy for your brother."

  "You don't think this is weird?"

  "It's morbid, yeah. But weird? Nah. It's smart. We'll save a lot of money, and I'll go out in style, in a box I made. You can't beat that."

  "Whatever you say." Mitchell shifted up to his father and gave him an awkward hug. "They're making a pot roast."

  "I know. I say we eat, get drunk, and you can tell us all about your missions. You got any juicy stuff? You meet any beautiful frauleins who are double agents?"

  Mitchell chuckled. "Dad, it's all pretty boring."

  "Uh-huh. And speaking of frauleins, you know Tommy's fiancee just hired an accountant — and she got invited to the wedding."

  "And I should care because…"

  "It's Kristin."

  Mitchell slumped. "Oh, man."

  "You haven't seen her in a long time."

  "And I don't think she'd mind a few more centuries."

  "Whatever happened between you two is water under the bridge. She's still single, and she teaches one of those kick-step whatever classes at the gym, too."

  "How do you know? You've been talking to her?"

  "She did my taxes this year. Gave me a good deal."

  "But Dad, you know how it is. It never works out."

  "One day it will. And I guess I'm just selfish, Scott. What can I tell you? Maybe you can fall in love with her, quit the army, and come back home so your old man can enjoy a few more years with his firstborn son."

  "That's your plan?"

  Dad wiggled his brows, then he frowned as his gaze lowered to Mitchell's bottle. "You come all the way out here with just one beer?"

  "Take a break, Dad. Come on. You can build your coffin another day."

  "Okay, but at the wedding, just don't ignore Kristin. Dance with her. Talk to her."

  Mitchell gave a reluctant nod. "I'll try. Hopefully she won't draw blood."

  FIFTEEN

  MITCHELL RESIDENCE

  FIFTH AVENUE

  YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

  OCTOBER 2011

  The dinner conversation focused mainly on Tommy, who had been wise enough to have his bachelor party the weekend before his wedding. It had taken him three days to recover, Mitchell had learned. At least he hadn't come home with any new tattoos, just a world-class hangover.

  Afterward, they'd had coffee and a triple-layer chocolate cake that, according to Jenn, weighed over five pounds. Mitchell had fended off their questions about his work, saying only that it was not as glamorous as they imagined.

  Finally, they retired early for the evening. Mitchell would sleep in his old bedroom and, as expected, Dad still hadn't changed a thing. The dog-eared and fading Metallica and Michael Jordan posters still hung from the back wall; the Atari 2600 game console still sat atop Mitchell's dusty old Zenith; and the Uncle Sam poster — I Want You for U.S. Army — was still tacked to the wall above Mitchell's bed.

  In fact, Dad had left all of the kids' bedrooms untouched. Mitchell assumed that all the memorabilia made Dad feel less alone. Jenn had been arguing with him for years to get rid of everything, sell the old house, and get a nice little house in The Villages, Florida. Dad would have none of it. He still had a few more years to go before retirement, and with work and his woodshop, he was "too busy to even think about that."

  Even Mitchell's comic book collection still sat in plastic milk crates inside his closet. He thumbed through the stacks, pulling out an issue of DC's Sgt. Rock and another, Marvel's The 'Nam, both among his favorites. He brought them back to the nightstand.

  After stripping down to his T-shirt and boxers, he sat on the bed and looked around. He could never have imagined that the little boy sleeping in this tiny room would, years later, travel around the globe. He was just a small-town kid who had joined the army because he couldn't afford college and had planned to use his GI Bill benefits to help pay for tuition once he got out. He and thousands of other guys had the same idea.

  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 me cry."

  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. Al
l 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.

  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 Daily resting 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 submarin
e 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.