In the months following the accident, Entwhiler had sent Mitchell several e-mails thanking him for the hope, inspiration, and courage to go on.
Mitchell took no credit for that. It was Entwhiler's indomitable spirit--a spirit that had allowed him to shoulder the load of his accident--that gave him hope and inspired so many others, Mitchell included. Entwhiler was now working as a civilian consultant, teaching other Black Hawk pilots and engineers the skills he'd learned through a joint partnership between the army and the Rockwell Collins Simulation and Training Solutions facility in Huntsville, Alabama.
"Scott, congratulations, man!"
"Thanks, Marc."
"Sorry I'm late. Couldn't get my damned wheels to spin any faster."
"You might remember Sergeant McDaniel?"
"As a matter of fact, I do." They shook hands.
After sharing a few jokes, Entwhiler updated Mitchell with news regarding his personal and professional life. The details weren't as important as his tone. The guy was a nuclear reactor, and when he rolled off to say hi to a few other colleagues, Mitchell glanced over at Rutang, who just looked at him and nodded.
As the night wore on, and Mitchell was twice dragged onto the dance floor to jump and scream along to AC/ DC's "Shook Me All Night Long," he spotted a tall, slender woman with short blond hair seated alone in the back of the room. He'd never seen her before. The woman's black dress fit her like a coat of paint, and her simple pearl necklace seemed to rise up from the perfectly smooth planes of her neck.
Feeling bold and no pain, he drifted back to her. "Hi, there."
Her eyes lit on him. "Hi."
"Hi," he repeated, then realized what he'd done.
"You're pretty friendly."
"Uh, well, it's my party. You're alone?"
"Yes. And I've been waiting to talk to you."
Mitchell grinned and turned back to his friends still on the dance floor. "Oh, man, oh, man. Those guys put you up to this?"
"I'm not a prostitute--if that's what you think."
"No, no, no, I meant--"
"What did you mean?"
He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I bothered you."
She snorted. "I said I wanted to talk to you. Have a seat."
"Uh, okay."
He sat and tried to keep his gaze from her cleavage. Mission failed.
"I'm here at the request of Lieutenant Colonel and General Keating."
"Excuse me?"
She offered her hand. "I'm Captain Susan Grey."
He took her hand. "Lieutenant, I mean Captain Scott Mitchell."
She made a face. "I know."
"I drank a little too much. Sorry."
"We've been watching you for a while, and we like what we see."
He wanted to answer, So do I, but instead said, "Who are you? And why have you crashed my promotion party?"
"Sorry about that. My schedule is incredibly tight, and this was the only opportunity I could find before I ship out tomorrow."
"Where you headed?"
"Classified."
"Sounds . . . pretty classified."
"You're cute, Captain, but only half as witty. I'll cut right to the chase before your mouth gets you in any more trouble. You're a captain now, getting ready to lead an ODA team. Well, we've got something else in mind."
"Again, who are you?"
"I'm sure you've never heard of us, and we prefer to keep it that way. We're D Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group."
"So you're just another company."
"Mitchell, I think you'd be surprised over the differences between us and the average ODA team."
"Oh, really? You guys saying you're better than us?"
"I already did."
Mitchell grinned crookedly. "Prove it."
Grey stood, reached into her purse, and withdrew an envelope. "We will. In here you'll find everything you need."
"Are you making me an offer?"
"Enjoy the rest of your party. See you soon." She wiggled her brows, then quickly left.
"Who was that?" asked Rutang, arriving at Mitchell's side.
"The most conceited woman I've ever met."
"You get her number?"
Mitchell glanced down at the envelope. "Sort of."
EIGHT
OLYMPIC VILLAGE
BEIJING, CHINA
JULY 2008
People's Liberation Army Captain Xu Dingfa dropped his duffel bag in the apartment's entrance foyer, didn't bother closing the door, and collapsed onto one of the beds. He rubbed his eyes and ran fingers through his crew cut.
The elevator had been so crowded that Xu opted to hike up all six flights of stairs to the top floor of his building. As an Olympic gymnast and specialist on the rings and pommel horse, he possessed considerable upper body strength, but he had also worked hard to improve his legs, turning them into sinuous sticks of solid rock. Consequently, all those stairs should not have posed a problem. Yet even he was exhausted, in part from all the adrenaline and anticipation.
Xu was billeted in one of twenty such apartments constructed in the western part of the village dubbed the Residential Quarter, where another twenty buildings rose to nine floors. More than sixteen thousand athletes and officials were staying there, and Xu had encountered at least a half dozen languages within the first ten minutes of arrival.
In two weeks the opening ceremonies would commence, and until then all of the athletes could spend time training and familiarizing themselves with their new quarters--and their new roommates.
Xu's roommate had yet to arrive. The man was from Taiwan and competing on their shooting team, but that was all Xu knew about him.
Taiwan . . . Of all the countries his roommate could have been from . . .
Xu's first thought had been to seek a new room or at least swap rooms with one of his teammates, but in the spirit of the Olympic Games, he thought he would at least give the man a chance. Perhaps they could engage in some interesting political debates.
However, just mentioning Taiwan made Xu's breath grow shallow and his chest tighten. He would never forget the bitterness of his father and the lament of his mother as they spoke of the land they only referred to as Formosa.
He rose from the bed, went to the window, gazed down at the forest that stretched out between the buildings. Hundreds of people milled about down there, with knots of athletes and reporters conducting interviews on nearly every corner.
"Hello," came a voice from the doorway.
"Oh, hello."
A muscular man with short black hair and a fiery gaze stood in the doorway. He would have resembled any other Taiwanese man, were it not for those eyes.
Xu shifted to the man and offered a light handshake. "You are Fang Zhi?"
"Yes, and you're Xu Dingfa."
He nodded. "This is our apartment."
"Yes."
Their exchange was cold, formal, and Xu hoped it might remain that way. Perhaps the less they said to each other, the better.
Fang shifted inside, noted the wrinkles on the bed Xu had chosen, then carefully moved to the other bed. "I will sleep here?"
"Yes."
"So you are in the army? So was I."
Xu frowned. Why had Fang's tone lightened? First those eyes, which suggested he would be anything but friendly, and now an attempt at casual conversation?
"Fang. I must be honest. I was not happy to learn that I would be sharing a room with someone from--"
"I understand. But on the contrary, I was happy to learn I would be sharing a room with you."
"You were?"
"Yes, you are a military officer for whom I have the utmost respect."
Xu drew back his head in disbelief. "I have only known you five minutes, and already you are an interesting man, full of surprises."
Fang's eyes widened. "Yes."
For the next two weeks, Xu trained hard with his team and spent most of his free time with them. However, in the late evenings, when he returned to his room, h
e would find Fang sitting up in bed, reading Sun Tzu's The Art of War or a biography about Confucius. Fang spent little time socializing with his teammates, it seemed.
On the eve before the opening ceremonies, when Xu came home after a night of drinking a little too much, he found Fang, once again, sitting up and reading.
"Tomorrow the games begin--and you have done nothing to celebrate?"
Fang glanced up from his book. "My celebration will come afterward."
"You are that confident of a medal? The Taiwanese team has no reputation for victory. But the Chinese, well, we have done quite well for ourselves in the shooting events."
"I was not referring to the games." Fang set his book on his lap. "Tell me something, Xu. You tolerate me, yes. But there is something more there. Hatred. Why is that?"
Xu took a seat on his bed. "Do you know why I joined the army? The real reason? To liberate your country."
"Why does that matter so much to you?"
"It simply does."
"Would you be shocked to learn that I feel as you do?"
"As I said, you are full of surprises. But I am confused, hearing this from a former army officer such as yourself."
"I did not resign from the military."
"I see. And now you are angry with your country."
"You have no idea."
"Well, I am angry with your country, too."
Yes, the alcohol, which he had been forbidden to drink by his coaches, had taken effect, and Xu felt quite loose with his tongue, so he decided to share the story.
"You see, Fang, my parents once lived in Taipei with my two sisters and one brother. They were outspoken Chinese sympathizers, and one night, during a massive sweep by the military, they were arrested and deported to China with no chance to take my sisters and brother with them."
"So what happened?"
"My sisters and brother had to live with my uncles and aunts. My parents were forced to find work and live here in China, where I was born. For my entire life I have heard this story, and I have never met my siblings. But that is not as important as reuniting my parents with them. They are getting old now, and they want more than anything to be with their children--before they die."
"And you thought joining the army would help? You are a dreamer! A fool!"
Xu bolted from the bed and seized Fang by the neck, tightening his grip. "It will happen!"
"No, it never will. The Americans will always be in the way."
Realizing what he was doing, Xu released Fang and tried to catch his breath. "There will come a day. I promise you."
Fang rubbed his neck a moment, then said, "Maybe I am wrong, Xu. Maybe your parents will see their children again. And maybe . . . I can help you."
Xu cocked a brow. "Why?"
"As repayment for the help you will give me."
"What help?"
Fang leaned in closer and lowered his voice, as though they were being watched. "After the games, I am not going back to Taiwan."
Xu's mouth opened. "I see."
"If you help me, I will do everything in my power to help you and your parents. You have my word."
Xu took a deep breath. Perhaps it would not take much to help Fang. Perhaps if he did, Fang would become an ally for life, a fiercely loyal friend who would, indeed, help Xu attain his goal. How he would do that was not yet clear, but harnessing Fang's energy made Xu feel less like a victim and more like a warrior.
"Fang, I will have to think about this."
"I understand. But it does seem we share a common goal."
"Maybe. But I still do not trust you. Tell me what happened to you in the army."
Fang closed his eyes and bared his teeth. "We were working with the Filipino and American Special Forces teams. The Americans came up with a plan and marched us into the jungle to be slaughtered. I would not allow that to happen. And, for saving my men, for doing the honorable thing of rejecting an unconscionable order, I was rewarded with disgrace and discharge. My family name has been ruined. The news made my mother ill. She is near death. And now there is only one thing left to do."
"Yes," Xu answered slowly. "I understand now. You are right. We do share a common goal."
More than just firsthand knowledge, Fang had direct experience with American and allied Special Forces operations and tactics. This news excited Xu. Fang would be an easy sell to Xu's superiors, and Xu's aiding and abetting Fang's defection would be looked upon as a great deal, an asset to the cause. Perhaps Xu could even help Fang get a commission in the army.
Fang's audacious military cunning, fueled by unbridled hatred and an unquenchable thirst for revenge, would be welcomed by Xu's inner circle of friends, men who thought like him that they must "inspire" the government and military to act more swiftly, more aggressively.
"Yes," Xu confided to Fang. "A select group of my peers has need of a man with your knowledge and talents. You will not be leaving China."
NINE
NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN
AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER
JANUARY 2009
Captain Scott Mitchell, Ghost Team leader, lay prone on a ridgeline approximately fifty meters south of three mud-brick houses standing in sharp relief against a frozen hilltop. Smoke wafted from stone chimneys and fluttered like pennons before dissolving into the night air.
Somewhere in the valley below, within the snow-covered alleys between dozens more homes, a dog howled and firelight flickered from more windows. Then . . . it grew eerily quiet.
Up ahead, Staff Sergeant Joe Ramirez and Sergeant Marcus Brown shifted furtively toward the houses, following a gully that ran up near a lone, leafless tree.
Sergeant Alicia Diaz, the team's marksman, had darted off west toward the opposite hill overlooking the houses to select her sniper's perch.
Mitchell cleared his throat and tapped a button on his earpiece with integrated camera and microphone. "Cross-Com activated."
Attached to that same earpiece was a monocle that curved forward and glowed with screens displaying his uplink and downlink channels, icons representing his support elements, and his rifle's targeting reticle, among other bits of data. While the three-dimensional images seemed to appear in his head-up display (HUD), they were actually being produced by a low-intensity laser projecting them through his pupil and onto his retina. The laser scanned vertically and horizontally at high speed using a coherent beam of light, and all data was refreshed every second to continually update him.
In order to accomplish that task, the Cross-Com system connected via satellite to the entire military's local and wide area networks (LAN/WAN) so that in effect the commander in chief could see exactly what he was doing and speak to him directly on the battlefield. That level of network-centric warfare--all part of Mitchell's Integrated Warfighter System (IWS Beta Version)--was as significant as it was unnerving. No mistake ever escaped his superior's attention.
He thumbed a button on the wireless controller in his hand and switched his HUD to a view captured by the UAV3 Cypher drone hovering two hundred feet over the houses. The ring-shaped drone with central rotor and multiple cameras and imaging systems was small, barely two meters, and newly rigged to operate much more quietly than earlier models.
With his gloved finger, Mitchell shifted the controller's joystick, steering the drone toward the target while switching between infrared and thermal modes in an attempt to identify how many occupants were in each house.
Mitchell grinned in awe.
During the past eighteen months he had fielded some mind-blowing gear while serving in the countries of Georgia and Eritrea, and he never ceased being impressed. Now, not only was he on a mission of utmost importance, but he had been chosen to field-test an early beta version of the Cross-Com system, a program whose funding was already in jeopardy. Despite that, he had made the stern argument that every operator on his team should be fitted with the devices, cost be damned. He thought it invaluable to have all Ghosts equipped with the best technology to have total sit
uational awareness, not just the team leader. He'd won his argument.
Indeed, Susan Grey had been right about the Ghosts. They got what they wanted because they produced results.
Originally formed in 1994, the Ghosts were better funded, better trained, and better equipped than all other Special Forces companies because they had to be. They were the spearhead of all American Special Forces, a quick-response team, first in and last out. While the cliche "the best of the best" made Mitchell wince, it was undeniably true. Every operator had been handpicked, and the organization's existence was classified, compartmentalized. The army did a damned good job of keeping that secret, too, disguising them as just another unit. Mitchell had been in the service a long time, and he'd never heard of the Ghosts until Grey had crashed his party.