Ghost Force

owner.'

'You mean he owns you…or a racehorse operation, or both?'

Diana laughed. 'Not me, mostly because he's seventy-six years old and has been married four times. But he has some very nice horses in training in Chantilly. And he'd like to start a breeding farm.'

'And he's hired a very beautiful young Jarvis to carry him forward,' smiled Rick. 'Come on, let's go see that filly…'

And so they had strolled out to see the baby racehorse, and then gone for a cup of coffee, then, later, lunch, then much later, dinner. They talked on the phone and met at the autumn sales in England and Ireland.

They never did announce an engagement. They just decided to get married. Diana was thirty, Rick thirty- eight. And they were both completely in tune with the rhythms and the ebb and the flow of the thoroughbred racing season. They were students of the form book, experts on pedigrees, both with a keen eye for the conformation of both young and mature horses.

Rick Hunter could scarcely have wished for a more perfect wife. Diana was relatively wealthy, very beautiful, and vastly well-connected in Ireland, especially at the world's most important racehorse breeding empire of Coolmore in County Tipperary, where her family had been sending mares for thirty years. In turn, as chatelaine of Hunter Valley Farms, no horsewoman could have filled that role better than Diana Jarvis.

Rick did not often see her upset. And he hated to see it now. But he understood how close she and Douglas had been, and he knew how unnerving it was to be uncertain whether a close relative was dead or alive.

He climbed out of bed, and took her in his arms. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll make a couple of calls and see what I can find out. I'm coming downstairs in a minute. Let's have a cup of coffee…give me ten.'

When he reached the kitchen, he could see she was still hugely upset. She poured the coffee and managed to spill some of it on the table, just as Dan Headley poked his head around the door, saying, 'Hi, Rick. That Storm Cat mare just foaled, thank Christ. Colt, dark bay, white blaze like his dad. He's standing…hey, Di, what's up? He been beating you up again?'

All three of them laughed at this. Rick, the iron-man gentle giant, who had been known to weep at the death of a favorite Labrador, said, 'Di's just a bit upset because her brother's been posted missing in action in the Falklands. But no one's saying he's been killed or wounded, which normally means he hasn't.'

'That's Doug, right? The SAS Captain?'

'That's him, Dan. Tell her he's probably okay.'

'Well, Di, those Special Forces Regiments keep very strong tabs on their guys. I'd say if anything had happened they'd sure as hell know. How many guys are with him?'

'Seven troopers, all veterans. None of them on the POW lists, or the killed and wounded lists.'

'SAS?' said Dan Headley. 'They're on the run. And now that the Brits have surrendered, I wouldn't worry yourself. Chances are the Argentinians won't catch 'em anyway. Hey…remember that Special Forces helicopter that crashed on the Magellan Strait in the last Falklands War? There were six or eight SAS guys in there, and they all just vanished. But every one of 'em got back to Hereford. Christ knows how. I just read a book about it.'

Diana was marginally consoled, and she felt better speaking to these two former U.S. Navy warriors. But she still asked her husband to make a phone call to anyone who might be able to reach Douglas.

0830, SAME DAY

SPECWARCOM HQ

CORONADO, SAN DIEGO

It was a pressure day for Rear Admiral John Bergstrom, Commander Special War Command — Emperor SEAL, that is — lord of the most feared fighting force in all the U.S. armed services.

His old friend Admiral Arnold Morgan had been on the line at 0700 checking if he was able to fly immediately to Washington. His new wife, Louisa-May, wanted him to attend a performance by the Bolshoi Ballet in Los Angeles this evening, and there was a general buzz around the SEALs' California base that the U.S. government was likely to intervene in the Great Britain — Argentina negotiations over the Falkland Islands.

At 0845, his private line rang again. Arnold Morgan was calling from the White House, where he was ensconced with the President.

'I don't know why the hell they don't just make you President and have done with it,' said the SEAL boss.

'Out of the question,' replied Arnold. 'I'm just helping out. Remember, I'm officially retired.'

'Sounds like it,' said Admiral Bergstrom. 'Peaceful days in your twilight years. This is your second call this morning. I guess you're planning to start a war somewhere.'

'Well, only in the most limited possible way.'

'Don't tell me. It's the Falklands, right? The U.S. government cannot afford to let this bunch of Argentinian cowboys rampage all over someone else's legal territory.'

'Well,' said Arnold, disliking the concept of being second-guessed by the suave and shortly-to-retire SEAL chief, 'I'll just say you're kinda on the right lines.'

'And what would you and the President like me to do? Send in a couple dozen guys and chase 'em back to Buenos Aires or wherever the hell they live?'

'Again, John, I'd say you were on the right lines. But both the President and I would like you to come in and have a private visit with us here in the Oval Office.'

'Tomorrow okay?'

'Tomorrow!' roared Arnold. 'This afternoon would be pretty damn late…'

'Okay, okay. I'll leave now. Take off in one hour, which will get me into Andrews at 1750.'

'Thanks, John. We'll have the helo waiting at Andrews. See you at 1800.'

'Bye, Arnold.'

'Jesus Christ,' said Rear Admiral Bergstrom, picking up the phone to dial his soon-to-be-furious new wife. But before he could do so, his private line rang again, and not many people had that number. So he always answered.

'Admiral, this is a voice from the past, Rick Hunter from Lexington, Kentucky.'

'Hey, Commander Hunter!' John Bergstrom was genuinely pleased to be talking to the best Team Leader he ever had, a combat SEAL who had carried out three awe-inspiring demolition missions — one in the heart of Russia, another way behind the lines in Red China, and one in the middle of a brand-new Chinese naval operational base in the steamy jungles of southeastern Burma, or Myanmar, or whatever the damn place was now called.

'Now this is an unexpected pleasure,' said Admiral Bergstrom. 'I often think about you, Ricky. For a lot of years I believed it would probably be you taking over the helm when I finally vacated this chair.'

'Can't say I haven't missed it. Just guess I didn't feel quite the same after they court-martialed Dan Headley.'

'No, I understood then, and like a lot of other people, I still understand. It was a source of the greatest regret to me that Lt. Commander Headley was driven out, and you went with him…'

'Sure. But life goes on. Dan's fine now. He and I run my family's thoroughbred farm, Hunter Valley, out in the Blue Grass. We still have some fun.'

'Fun like you had when you worked for me?'

'Nossir. Not that much.'

John Bergstrom chuckled. 'Ever thought about coming back?'

'Not more than about twice a day.'

'Well, let me ask you this — if that damned court-martial four years ago had never happened, how long would you have wanted to stay a Navy SEAL?'

''Bout a thousand years.'

Both men were silent as the tragedy of the past seemed to sweep over them. 'You were the best, Ricky. The best I ever saw…'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Now, perhaps you better tell me what you wanted from me?'

'Sir, a year ago I married an English girl, Diana Jarvis. Her brother Douglas is a Captain in Twenty-two SAS. I've only met him twice, but he's a real good guy, an ex-para, won a Military Cross in Iraq.

'And right now he's somehow trapped on the Falkland Islands with his troop. Listed as missing in action. I