Ghost Recon (2008)

  "Drone's confirmed their positions. You seeing this?"

  "Roger that," said Diaz.

  "Got it, sir," added Ramirez.

  "Okay. Ramirez and I got the center house. Diaz, cover that door of the first. That guy comes out, he's yours."

  "Standing by."

  Mitchell loaded a fresh magazine into his pistol, then said, "Ramirez? Move out!"

  Boots digging deep in the snow, they drove up the hill and reached the middle house, entirely out of breath. They weren't wasting time with the lock now. Ramirez drew back and kicked in the door.

  Mitchell rushed in, knowing that their targets were on the left side, near the fireplace. Both men had rolled over, sat up, and began screaming at Mitchell, who shot the first one even as Ramirez cried, "Shut up!" and silenced the second.

  Diaz had the option of aiming via the reticle in her HUD or choosing the traditional method of sighting the target via her rifle's attached scope. The choice came into play now because the IWS allowed her to zoom in on the target and actually see him behind the door.

  A flashing red outline appeared, indicating the insurgent's exact position despite the wood between him and Diaz. She had range, wind speed, and direction--and most importantly--the talent and desire to drop the very last man standing between them and completing the mission.

  She wouldn't give him the luxury of opening the door and taking a last cold breath. Holding hers, she squeezed the trigger. The Dragunov thumped, the sound echoed by a distant crack from the door as her round penetrated the wood and pierced the man behind it.

  The red outline turned white. "Ghost Lead, this is Diaz. Third guy is down."

  "Roger that. We're out of here. Fall back on me."

  Diaz rose and tried to shudder off the chills. Her blood felt icy, and her joints ached. She was beginning to lose sensation in her toes. "The cold is my friend," she muttered, resorting to survival school mantras drilled into all operators.

  Shouldering her rifle, she picked her way down the hill toward the others, their position glowing in her HUD. She smiled to herself as Carlos and Tomas shook their heads in disbelief over what she had just accomplished.

  Carlos was now helping run the ranch with Dad, and Tomas had gone on to become a distinguished professor of agriculture at Iowa State. However, whenever they got together, Diaz would gaze into their eyes and always see the jealous twelve-year-old still lurking inside.

  She reached the bottom of the hill, just as Captain Mitchell called their chopper: "Black Hawk Two-Niner, this is Ghost Lead. En route to pickup zone. Terrain's rough. ETA twenty, thirty minutes, over."

  "Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner. Roger that. We're on our way."

  Carrying an approximately 180-pound man about a hundred meters to the next hill was within Mitchell's capability. Carrying the same man a full kilometer over rocky, snow-covered terrain in subzero temperatures, in the wind, was being unrealistic, but Mitchell gave it a shot nonetheless. Because it was Rutang, his friend.

  Mitchell lasted about three hundred meters before he had to stop. He and Diaz unrolled one of their portable stretchers, velcroed Rutang into it, then sought the smoothest paths they could follow while dragging him through the narrow pass, utilizing the stretcher's built-in harnesses.

  The delay only lasted a couple of minutes, but Saenz and Vick appreciated the break.

  When they reached a large boulder to their left, marking the top of the pass, they paused to recon the barren valley below, where their Black Hawk would land. Now Mitchell paused a moment to bring in the UAV3.

  As the drone whirred overhead, Mitchell zoomed in with the cameras, and suddenly red diamonds began to appear in the hills. There were two at first, then three, four, a dozen--maybe more now--all moving along a trail leading directly toward them.

  "Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner," called the pilot, who was no doubt observing what Mitchell saw via the network. "Hold position. The zone is hot."

  But it was already too late for a stealthy escape by the pilot and his crew.

  They'd been swooping down and immediately drew a storm of small arms fire from the insurgents on the ground.

  "Get them back," Mitchell ordered the others. "Back behind the rocks." Then he called to the pilot. "Black Hawk Two-Niner. Zone's too hot! Pull out. We'll need more support, over."

  "Sorry, Captain. None available. We're all you got. And we didn't come all this way to leave you behind."

  TWELVE

  NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN

  AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER

  JANUARY 2009

  The MH-60K Black Hawk was the Special Forces variant of the army's front-line utility helicopter and designed to take ODA and Ghost teams on long-range missions deep into enemy territory. In order to do that, a pair of 230-gallon external fuel tanks had been mounted on either side of the fuselage, beneath the rotor, and at the moment, Mitchell watched as those tanks were being targeted by the insurgents below.

  With the awe-inspiring grace of its namesake bird, the pilot throttled up the pair of General Electric engines and banked hard out of the line of fire. He made a complete circle then dove, bringing his chopper to bear on the targets below. The pair of M134 7.62 mm mini-guns mounted in the crew doors wailed and stitched blazing, tracer-lit paths through the snow as the Taliban fighters dove for cover.

  Those gunners continued putting serious steel on target, but one carefully aimed rocket-propelled grenade from the bad guys could end it all, as it had back on Basilan Island. Their pilot was taking one hell of a risk for Mitchell and his team.

  "I don't believe this," cried Ramirez. "The zone can't be hot!"

  "Bad intel," said Brown. "After all that. Bad intel."

  "Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner. I'm heading for a ridge just west your position, twenty meters. I'll hover there."

  "Roger that, Two-Niner."

  The Black Hawk came out of its dive and made a climbing turn to the south as the gunners broke fire.

  All along the mountain trail ahead, muzzles winked, as though a long cord of short-circuiting wire had been stretched over the rocks and ice.

  "Everyone, listen up," snapped Mitchell. "Those guys weren't waiting for us. They're on a rat line, coming back from A'stan. They were probably in the caves till now. We just got bad timing. Diaz, you and I help out those door gunners. Brown? You and Ramirez get 'em on board. Ready people? Here he comes!"

  As the Black Hawk roared by, and a fresh wave of gunfire pinged off its fuselage, Mitchell craned his head and realized that Ramirez and Brown were taking the CIA agents. "No!" he cried, pointing at Rutang still strapped into the stretcher. "You get him first."

  "Roger that," hollered Ramirez.

  "That how it is, Captain?" shouted Agent Saenz. "You decide who lives and dies?"

  Mitchell gave the man a look, then regarded Diaz. "Move out."

  He sprang from cover and broke left, with Diaz right behind. They picked their way along a stretch of broken boulders and snow, then dropped behind a narrow spine of mottled rock, able to prop up on their forearms.

  Mitchell's HUD began to light up with so many targets that he thought the IWS had crashed. He estimated near thirty now, and who knew how many more to come.

  "I'm hunting for the RPGs," announced Diaz, ready to shoot any Taliban fighter shouldering a rocket meant for the chopper. "Got one. Taking the shot!"

  Were it not for his HUD, Sergeant Marcus Brown would not have seen a thing through all the whipping ice and snow. Superimposed over those gray curtains was the green, glowing outline of the chopper, its ID flashing: Black Hawk 29.

  He and Ramirez hauled Rutang up and over a few rocks, then fought their way through gusts tugging hard on their shoulders, threatening to topple them.

  The chopper was just ten meters away now, its gear floating precariously a meter over the spiny ridgeline. There was no level spot to land, and the pilot had come in as low as he dared, with his nose pitched up, his main rotor slicing the air j
ust a few meters away from the mountainside. The scene reminded Brown of that YouTube video he'd watched of a Black Hawk crashing on Mount Hood, and now those whomping rotors began to seriously unnerve him.

  As they reached the chopper, the door gunner, who had already ceased fire, lowered a harness, and Brown and Ramirez rushed to get Rutang fitted. If the pilot had been able to descend just a little more, they could have avoided the delay, but you played the hand you were dealt, and once they had Rutang buckled up, they gave the gunner the signal. Rutang rose via winch toward the open bay.

  Brown and Ramirez headed back for the CIA agents. One down, two to go. While there was no time to discuss it now, Brown wanted to speak with Ramirez about the captain's decision to take Rutang first. Brown and Ramirez could have evacuated both agents in one shot, then come back for the medic. It wasn't a big deal, but if something happened in the interim, it was better to save two than just one.

  Or was it more important to save your friend than a couple of CIA agents, who they all knew could turn on you in a heartbeat if that furthered their agenda?

  Brown had worked with Mitchell before, yet this was the first time the captain had revealed personal bias during a mission. With Mitchell it was always cut-and-dried: the mission and the team came first. Brown called that professional bias. Still, Mitchell could have ordered Brown to take Rutang and Ramirez to grab one of the agents. Brown could have dragged the medic, albeit slower than two guys could. But Mitchell was all about them double-teaming his buddy. Even the CIA guy had called him out on it. Interesting.

  Diaz's round hit the Taliban insurgent squarely in the chest, and it appeared as though he had swallowed a grenade. The RPG he'd been shouldering hurtled away like a boomerang, trailed by what was left of him.

  People often asked if the grim nature of her job ever got to her. They'd ask about how the military prepares you for killing people. She didn't talk about that. She just did her job like she'd been taught. She removed targets and did everything she could to detach herself from the emotions. She thought of the operators to her left and right, her friends. She ignored the fact that the men she killed could have families they'd be leaving behind.

  But was it possible to kill with no guilt, no remorse? Maybe for some.

  It was Diaz's subconscious that got the best of her. There were always demons who rose from the bogs of night and marched through her quarters, dripping blood and growling that they'd returned for revenge.

  She'd bolt awake, chilled and soaked in sweat. But she knew that this came with the territory. Adapt and move on, she always said.

  Diaz probed the mountain once more, spotted a second guy lifting his RPG.

  At the same time, Ramirez reported that he and Brown were nearly at the chopper with the two CIA guys. That was good, but if Diaz didn't tag this next guy . . .

  As she homed in, the din of gunfire and helicopter engines narrowed into her breathing, only her breathing, as though she wore scuba gear and was back at the reef in Cozumel.

  Right now, as far as she was concerned, there were only two people in the entire world, and she would reduce that number by exactly one.

  The reticle hovered over the guy. He wore a heavy woolen pakol pulled down over his ears. He was turning toward the Black Hawk when Diaz took her shot.

  At the very least she anticipated a puff of smoke from his chest, perhaps a small amount of blood.

  Nothing. She had missed.

  What the hell?

  Carlos and Tomas screamed with glee in her ears.

  A cold panic rushed up Diaz's spine as she resighted the man and fired, but it was already too late. Yes, he died, but his RPG was already airborne.

  Ramirez glanced away and grimaced as Agent Vick, who was seated in the snow next to his partner Saenz, finished coughing and puking.

  "Glad you came back," said Saenz. "We know where we stand with your captain."

  "We evac the most seriously wounded first," Ramirez said through his teeth.

  Saenz grinned and snorted. "Whatever you say, soldier." He regarded Vick. "Look at him. All this running around and the drugs . . . we're getting sick."

  "And you're getting out of here," Brown said, hauling Saenz to his feet.

  Ramirez got behind Vick and struggled against the big guy's considerable girth. "Promise me something," he said in the agent's ear. "You won't throw up on me, will you?"

  Vick began coughing again.

  "Oh, man," moaned Ramirez, guiding the man forward. "Here we go."

  The captain and Diaz, along with one of the chopper's door gunners, did an outstanding job of keeping the insurgents along the mountain busy while Ramirez and Brown ushered the agents out of there. The pilot had pulled off his spot and now wheeled overhead to engage the enemy. But once he saw them nearing the ridge, and Ramirez gave him a shout to confirm that, he swung around and descended.

  With the Black Hawk in its deafening hover, they seized the harness and line. Vick got buckled in and went up first. Saenz followed, and even as he was halfway up, just a meter from being pulled in, he took a round in the shoulder, making Ramirez curse and holler for the guys up top to move faster.

  Then a flash came from the corner of Ramirez's eye: one of the Taliban fighters had launched a rocket-propelled grenade.

  Ramirez screamed over the radio for the pilot to lift off.

  As the engines roared, he and Brown dove from their little ledge, dropping at least two meters into a huge snowdrift below.

  Just as Ramirez was swallowed in all that white, the RPG hammered into the mountainside, heaving up fountains of rock and shrapnel.

  And yet the snow kept coming, shielding Ramirez at least a little, large pieces of snow and ice resembling foam rushing over his head as he slid down several more meters and came to a jarring halt.

  Brown stopped with a blast of snow beside him.

  Ramirez flailed his arms, relieved that he was buried only a quarter meter deep in the snow. He sat up as the chopper arced overhead through the starlit night, with Saenz just now being hauled into the bay.

  Brown crawled next to him, his face barely visible behind his new camouflage suit of snow. "We're supposed to be dead."

  "Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner. I have your package on board, coming back around to pick you up."

  "Negative, negative," replied Mitchell. "It's getting even hotter down here."

  "Roger that. I got another valley directly east of your position. Got it marked on your tac map."

  "Stand by." Mitchell ducked behind the rock and with a voice command pulled up his tactical map so that it filled his entire HUD. He spotted that second valley indicated by the pilot's flashing green designator. He zoomed in, saw how the more level ground provided a good LZ and that it put a hillside between them and the oncoming Taliban fighters. "Black Hawk Two-Niner, put down in that valley, and we'll rally on you."

  "On our way, Ghost Lead."

  "Okay, people, we're pulling out," Mitchell said over the radio. "Fall back on me." He glanced over at Diaz, who was just rising from the rock, getting ready to move.

  Out past her, a figure rose from the ridge about thirty meters off, lifting his rifle at Diaz as a red diamond and outline appeared around him.

  Mitchell cut loose with silenced rifle fire directly over Diaz's shoulder, dropping the guy as she turned and gasped. "Whoa. I owe you big time, Captain."

  "I'll settle for a beer."

  "You got it."

  They charged off along the hillside, meeting up with Ramirez and Brown, then all four started up through the rocks, threading their way to the top. Sporadic fire tore into the ground ahead.

  A brilliant yellow square lit up in Mitchell's HUD, indicating the chopper's new position in the landing zone, and he turned left, taking them along a much steeper embankment, the snow giving way beneath his boots.

  Ramirez, pulling up the rear, opened fire and cried, "They're closing on us!"

  Mitchell picked up the pace. The hill led them towar
d a pair of lone trees, then it would drop off again and roll out into the valley and the helicopter beyond.

  He aimed for the trees, wary of every step.

  Suddenly, Brown cried, "Diaz!"

  Mitchell craned his head, just as Diaz, who'd lost her footing, went tumbling down the hill. She'd been smart enough to tuck her arms into her chest, but while that helped avoid a break, it made her a more streamlined barrel, and down she went for more than a dozen meters until she finally stopped, facedown, unmoving.