Ghost Recon gr-1 Read online

  He waited. Repeated the call. Cursed again. "Move!" he ordered Rutang.

  They burst from cover and sprinted off, rounds tearing into limbs and leaves behind them.

  "Ricochet, this is Red Cross. Too late, man. We just lost another two. And I've been hit. I'm bleeding out pretty bad, Sergeant. I can't stop it. You need…"

  The transmission broke off as Mitchell and Rutang found themselves running near a volley of machine gun fire hammering the trees a few meters ahead.

  He and Rutang thudded hard into the mud as the Degtyarev Pechotnyi (DP) light machine gun rattled and brass casings jingled and plopped into puddles.

  For the first time in his life, Scott Mitchell doubted if his courage, skill, and audacity were enough to carry him through. His eyes burned as the senior medic's voice broke once more over the radio. "Sergeant, I'm dying, man. Please…"

  TWO

  BASILAN ISLAND

  SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

  AUGUST 2002

  Captain Fang Zhi, leader of the Taiwanese team, was propped on his elbows and observing the valley below through a pair of night-vision goggles. He had taken his men away from the creek and into the mountains when the first shots had been fired.

  Though frowning over his orders, his team had obeyed without question, and only now did Sergeant Sze Ma, thirty-three, the oldest and most experienced soldier among them, voice his concerns.

  "Sir, I am not doubting you. But I am confused. Why haven't we answered their calls for help? Why have we moved up here, if not to prepare sniper positions?"

  Fang lowered his goggles and regarded the man whose deep-set eyes widened. "You attended the briefing."

  "Yes, Captain—"

  "Then you heard what I said to Major Liang and the Americans and Filipinos."

  "I did. And they said they cannot provide the air reconnaissance you requested."

  "Because it is cheaper for them to use us as bait."

  "But, sir—"

  "Our morale is already far too low, our recruitment numbers dropping. I won't waste good men on an ill-conceived mission. We need a victory here, but the Americans have not planned one for us. They planned to sacrifice us to save a dollar."

  "Sir, they will call us cowards."

  Fang raised his voice. "We are not cowards! And we are not sheep! Do you think they care how many of us die?"

  "But, sir…"

  With his temples beginning to throb, his teeth gnashing, Fang rolled over and burst to his feet, reaching over his shoulder and into his pack. His gloved hand locked onto his sword cane, a one-of-a-kind weapon and family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his father, who had died last year.

  The cane's wooden shaft was slightly longer than an Eskrima stick and had been hand-carved with a tiger-stripe pattern. The blade inside was much more than just a flat sword, its cross section forged to resemble the Chinese character representing a square, side, part, or scheme, but, more importantly, the Fang family name:

  Although the sword's design prevented it from cutting in the traditional sense, whipping strikes produced distinctive welts. Repeated strikes resembled the tiger-stripe pattern of the cane itself. The ultimate signature was the puncture wound from multiple sharpened tips. Fang Zhi's great-grandfather, who had designed the weapon, had wanted his enemies to never forget the Fang name, whose bloodline could be traced to one of the premiers of the Tang Dynasty.

  As he had risen through the ranks, Fang had employed the sword cane to keep his men in line, beating them with the wooden sheath for minor offenses, drawing the sword and whipping them to produce welts for larger transgressions. He reserved the thrusting signature mark for those he wanted to teach the ultimate lesson. Thus far in his career, he'd never had to do that.

  Yet at the moment, his anger had bested him, and the sword slipped fluidly out of the cane. He clutched the round handle, the ornate steel pommel etched with the same character representing the Fang family name. Yes, he could easily bludgeon someone to death with that hardened globe, but it was the sword he raised above Sergeant Sze Ma's head.

  The sergeant scrambled up, raised his hands in defense. "Captain, please!"

  "How dare you question me!" Fang reared back and struck the sergeant in the side of the neck, even as Sze Ma ducked from Fang's advance. Fang followed up with two more heavy blows to Sze Ma's head, dropping him.

  Then Fang stood there, panting, seething, listening to his sergeant whimper in pain.

  Finally, he could take no more. "Get up!" he screamed at Sze Ma. "Get up!"

  Rubbing his wounds, the bleary-eyed sergeant glanced at Fang and nodded. "Yes, sir." Sze Ma got to his feet, stood a moment, then collapsed.

  Fang's breath vanished. He dropped to his knees beside the sergeant, checked his neck for a pulse. Nothing.

  Sze ma. I didn't mean to kill you!

  Then… there it was, a weak but steady pulse. Fang closed his eyes and sighed as Sergeant Gao called, "Captain? Has Sergeant Sze Ma been hurt?"

  Fang opened his eyes, slowly craned his head toward Gao, who was staring in awe at the sword in Fang's hand. "Yes, Sergeant, he has. Get Sergeant Dong here right away."

  Captain Scott Mitchell backhanded mud from his eyes and lifted his chin at Rutang. "I need you to get back to those wounded guys. I'll take out that machine gun. Wait for my signal."

  "And if you don't signal?"

  Mitchell just looked at him. "I will."

  "Sergeant, if they close on us, we won't make it. What the hell happened to the Taiwanese guys? They were right there, just on the other side of the creek."

  "I don't know. Maybe they got hit first. Booby-trapped, just like the captain. I don't know. Just wait for me."

  And with that, Mitchell eased back on his hands and knees, then suddenly bounded off to the left flank, bringing himself around toward that machine gunner's position.

  The jungle had grown considerably darker, every frond, trunk, and limb drawn in silhouette, with only the brief muzzle flashes from the machine gun to determine his path.

  "Hey, is that all you got?" screamed Rutang. "I'm right over here!" He added a few curses in a rather lame attempt to piss off the machine gunner, who might not understand English.

  "Rutang, this is Ricochet," Mitchell cried over the radio. "What're you doing?"

  "Drawing his fire! Get in there and take him out."

  Crazy bastard, thought Mitchell as he ran like a demon through the mud, slipped up behind the machine gunner's position, and drew an M67 fragmentation grenade from his web gear.

  He pulled the pin, stole another glance to judge the distance, then hurled the frag.

  For a moment, he watched the grenade arc through the air, tumbling with almost underwater slowness, as beyond it, the stars began shimmering beyond the broken framework of trees.

  Perhaps it was the heat or his exhaustion getting the better of him, he didn't know, but for a few seconds that piece of metal passing through the sky looked… almost beautiful, excerpted from some hallucination.

  The lone machine gunner broke fire, jolting Mitchell back to the moment, just as the frag struck the ground at his side.

  Mitchell swore to himself. All the guy had to do was turn his head, grab the frag — which was right there— and pitch it away. Two seconds.

  But hallelujah, he didn't notice it. Mitchell took in a breath before the man and his gun exploded in a cloud of mud backlit by fire and white-hot shrapnel.

  "Rutang, go!" Mitchell shouted in his boom mike, although his order was easily loud enough for the assistant medic to hear without equipment.

  The sound of another machine gun sent Mitchell back to his feet. He started toward a narrow passage between trees, picked up the pace, but suddenly tripped and hit the ground hard, losing his grip on his M4A1, though it was still tight in its sling.

  He rose to his hands and knees and glanced back, wondering what the hell had caught his boot and guessing it was probably a tree root.

  One
of the terrorists stood there where the "tree root" should be, his AK-47 pointed at Mitchell's face. "Shoot me," Mitchell blurted out in surprise.

  "No."

  The guy was dark-skinned, gaunt-faced, and heavily bearded, with a black bandanna tied around his neck. His eyes bugged out as he opened his mouth once again to reveal a gap-toothed, evil grin. "Don't move, soldier."

  This guy wasn't just Abu Sayyaf, Mitchell knew. His accent indicated he was the real deal, an Arab, a member of al Qaeda, on the island to help train Abu Sayyaf the way they were helping to train the Filipinos and Taiwanese.

  Mitchell suddenly imagined his own head stuck on a pole, just like that missionary's. They would use him to send another message.

  Mitchell's father, two brothers, and sister back home in Ohio would watch it all on CNN. His torture and murder would break their hearts.

  And his mother, looking down from the heavens, would weep for her son, the boy she had left behind when he was only fourteen.

  "Now… get up," said the Arab.

  "You told me not to move."

  "Get up."

  Mitchell narrowed his gaze and bared his teeth. "No."

  The Arab chuckled under his breath. "Whoa, you are a big man, huh? Big American? When I get you back to the camp—"

  Mitchell rolled around, coming up with his rifle, knowing he'd be a second too late.

  That was all right. They wouldn't take him alive. And they wouldn't take him without a fight.

  He fired a half second after the Arab did.

  However — and this was a big however — he was still coming around as the Arab fired, and only one of three rounds made contact.

  That round pinched Mitchell's left biceps, just as he flinched and lifted his rifle a bit more, directing his bead across the Arab's chest, hammering the bastard with his third and fourth rounds.

  The guy went down, groaning, and Mitchell silenced him with another salvo.

  He sat there a moment, catching his breath, his hand going reflexively for his wounded arm. It looked like a clear entry and exit, not too much blood. But the wound was beginning to burn now, really burn.

  Raging aloud, he got up, one-handed his rifle, and started toward the sound of that second machine gun.

  He fought for more breath as he ran, the air growing thicker, more humid, and there was no dry spot on his entire body. He neared a long ditch where the rain coming down from a small hill had eroded the jungle floor. At the top of that hill came the rat-tat-tat of the second gun.

  "Ricochet, this is Rutang, over."

  Mitchell got onto his haunches, keyed his mike. "Go ahead."

  "You okay?"

  "Yeah, you in position?"

  Rutang's voice began to crack. "Scott, it's freaking horrible, man. I think you and I are the only guys standing. Can't get anyone else on the radio. Billy and Carlos are here, and they're shot up bad. I can't do anything more with them. And it sounds like those Tangos are moving in on us. We can't stay. There's a hill about fifteen meters back, but I can't carry them — not with all the incoming."

  "Tang, listen to me. Calm down. I'll get the other machine gun. When you hear the bang, grab Billy or Carlos and fall back to that hill. I'll get the other guy."

  "Scott, I don't know."

  "Tang, you know everything you need to."

  "Uh, right. Roger that."

  "Okay, stand by…" Mitchell tugged out another frag and started furtively up the hill as the machine gunner opened up, the racket like a jackhammer on Mitchell's brain.

  In the distance, more gunfire echoed, and two more mortars dropped in succession, assumably in the Filipino team's zone. Mitchell wanted to check in with Yano, but there just wasn't time.

  As the last mortar's explosion died off, the shouts rose, growing closer now. Mitchell recognized Tagalog and Arabic, and even a few taunts in broken English: "No prisoners! Only dead bodies!"

  Most members of Abu Sayyaf were just poor Filipino kids who'd been lured away by the Arabs with the promise of money, women, guns, and fun — and really, what was their alternative? Poverty, disease, and the false smiles of foreigners pretending to help? They didn't spend much time mulling over that decision.

  And while Mitchell entertained all of the hypocrisy in his head (after all, he was human), he never, ever let those thoughts affect his mission or his men. Striving to remain apolitical was, in his estimation, the best way to remain sane.

  So if these kids chose to join a terrorist group, then they would suffer the consequences of that decision. There was nothing else to consider.

  Mitchell hunched over as he ascended the hill, his boots sloshing even more loudly through the mud. He cursed at the noise. Slowing his pace didn't help much.

  Consequently, he nixed the "sneak up behind the guy" plan and went for the blitz. He tucked the M67 back into its pouch and stomped forward with pain shooting through his wounded arm. His gaze reached out into the darkness, toward the shifting shadows just meters away, near two trees off to his right.

  There he was. The machine gunner lay on his belly, cutting loose with another burst.

  Mitchell sprinted toward him as the guy broke fire, turned his head, and saw the deranged, mud-covered specter who was about to end his young life.

  Rounds leapt from Mitchell's M4A1 and drummed the gunner into cold, wet oblivion.

  It took a few seconds for Mitchell to remember that Rutang was waiting for a frag to go off, the one Mitchell had tucked back into his pouch. He yanked it out, pulled the pin, and tossed it in the direction of more incoming fire from the grainy green tree line to the east.

  Three, two, one. The frag burst apart, and Mitchell barked into the radio, "Rutang! MOVE!"

  "On my way!"

  Mitchell dropped onto his gut, while pulling out his night-vision goggles.

  Down below, through a maze of palms and rubber plants and vines twisting down across the trees like spiderwebs, he spotted Rutang carrying one of their buddies on his back, swaying hard as he ascended a hill.

  Rutang shifted around a cluster of shrubs but then drew a spate of fire from at least four gunmen positioned in the dense trees about twenty meters opposite him.

  Mitchell ran to the enemy machine gun, took it into his hands, and released a fierce stream to cover Rutang.

  But not thirty rounds into his fire the gun's muzzle began glowing red-hot and smoking, about to melt off. It seemed the terrorist had been firing way too much, not waiting for the barrel to cool between salvos, leaving Mitchell with a gun far too hot to sustain fire.

  Mitchell abandoned the DP and, holding his breath, pressed the goggles to his eyes.

  There was Rutang, still tottering forward, barely able to hold the man draped over his shoulders.

  Suddenly, Rutang took a hit in the calf, and he and their injured comrade tumbled to the mud.

  The terrorists broke fire and got on the move.

  They were closing in to finish the job.

  Mitchell came down the hillside like a barbarian from the days of ancient Rome, wielding a rifle instead of an ax but issuing a battle cry that was as bone-chilling as any member of those Germanic tribes.

  Because he wanted all the fire directed on him, not Rutang. Because he was going to take them all down, if he had anything to say about it.

  And because he only knew how to win a fight.

  He glanced to his left, spotted the first guy coming from the trees, and cut him down with a vicious burst before the fool knew what hit him.

  But the other three terrorists shouted to each other, and in the next heartbeat, Mitchell found himself in a hailstorm of incoming fire.

  "Scott," Rutang hollered on the radio. "Get out of there!

  THREE

  BASILAN ISLAND

  SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

  AUGUST 2002

  With Rutang's cry still ringing in his earpiece, Mitchell launched himself into the air and crashed into a long puddle at the base of the hillside, the water rushing ov
er his head and blinding him for a moment until he came up, rolled onto his right side, and returned fire on the three men now emerging from the trees.

  He dropped one, panned toward the second, but was surprised to watch that guy stagger back, his chest bursting apart.

  Off to Mitchell's right, Rutang was on his gut and directing steady fire toward that guy, emptying his magazine.

  Mitchell clambered to his feet, just as the third and final thug charged toward Rutang's position, knowing that Rutang was reloading. Mitchell rushed to the next tree, froze, tracked the man, and fired, the first burst catching him in the leg. The terrorist began limping, turned back to face Mitchell, opened his mouth to scream, and swallowed Mitchell's next volley.

  "Rutang? Looks clear for now. Hold it there, over."

  "Roger that."

  Taking in a deep breath, Mitchell charged from the tree, racing hard and fast toward Rutang's position on the other side of the narrow valley. He wove a serpentine path, feeling the heat of imaginary fire — until he didn't need his imagination anymore. Another squad of terrorists targeted him from above, AK-47s popping, the trees and mud suddenly alive with fire.

  "Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over!"

  "Go ahead, Ricochet," answered Captain Yano, his voice faint as gunfire boomed in the background.

  "Stand by to receive my new GPS, over."

  "Give me a minute, Ricochet! We're still taking heavy, heavy fire!"

  "Roger that. I'll signal in a few minutes, out."

  Nearly out of breath, Mitchell slashed through a path heavily draped in vines, then came up behind Rutang's position and cried, "Rutang, coming up!"

  "Okay, Scott."

  Rutang lay on his side just behind a pair of small palm trees. He was using the secondary blade of his Blackhawk Mark 1 knife to slice open his pants leg. In his other hand was a big trauma bandage that he summarily slapped on the wound with a gasp and groan. Then he cursed and said, "That hurts."

  "I know, buddy." Mitchell turned his gaze just ahead. "Billy, how you doing?"

  Billy Bermudez, the team's assistant weapons sergeant, lay bare-chested on his back, his young face creased in pain, his M9 Beretta clutched tightly in his hand. A small incision had been made between his ribs and a tube inserted to relieve the pressure. That tube now dangled from the bloody hole.