Ghost Recon gr-1 Page 12

  "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."

  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 depu
ty 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.

  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 shemagh on 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, ha
d 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.