wheel.
Mitchell drew his head back. 'Really, because I've been looking for you, Private' — he read the woman's patch—'Morgan.'
'Sir?'
'Yeah, I haven't had a hot shower in two weeks. Can you take me to the nearest hotel?'
The private grimaced. 'I'm sorry, sir.'
'Yeah, I smell. You'll get over it. Just get me to a shower.'
'I mean, I'm sorry, sir, they sent me up here to get you. I've been waiting back at your FOB all morning. Just got cleared to come up. I have orders to drive you back to Bragg — no detours.'
Mitchell frowned. 'Great.' He climbed into the Hummer and collapsed into the seat, mud and paint splashing all over the floorboard. 'Sorry about the mess.'
'That's okay, sir.'
He closed his eyes, hating that his driver, the pretty young PFC Morgan, could be Kristen's twin.
When they reached Bragg, Lieutenant Colonel Gordon and Major Grey were waiting. Gordon said they had the general breathing down their necks. Apparently, misery loved company. They ushered Mitchell directly into the nondescript Ghost offices and practically shoved him in front of the video monitor.
On the screen was General Joshua Keating calling from USSOCOM. The general's conservative haircut and tinted glasses belied his history as a Special Forces operator back in Vietnam and during the first Gulf War, where he'd earned drawers full of medals. He had degrees in history and business and had already penned a successful book about the history of Special Forces operations. He was even a graduate of the Harvard Executive Education Program's National and International Security Managers Course, and for the past decade had served in more command positions than even he could probably remember. Earlier in the year he had finally taken over as commander of USSOCOM, his dream post, Mitchell knew.
While some loathed and feared Keating, Mitchell got along with him just fine, in part because the general was a hands-on officer who understood the unique nature of Special Forces operations and considered it his duty to keep in close contact with his men on the ground. Sure, he was an impatient taskmaster, but he was also a straight shooter who never held back a punch. Mitchell found that refreshing.
Keating leaned forward, his breast full of ribbons standing in sharp relief against his starched and pressed class As, the new blue army class uniform having replaced the old green in 2011. 'Mitchell, you look like crap.'
He pawed self-consciously at the mud on his face. 'Thank you, sir. I had another word in mind.'
To Keating's right hung dozens of screens displaying maps, intelligence reports, satellite imagery, and live video streams from operators in the field, all of it coming together in a pixilated mosaic fluctuating with a life of its own. Over the general's left shoulder loomed a four-meter-tall, three-dimensional map of the Chinese coast and Taiwan, with green overlays and flashing grid coordinates drawing Mitchell's attention to several locations.
'Don't be a wise guy, Mitchell. I dragged you back from Robin Sage because we got a situation.'
'Sir, I've been out in the woods for a couple of weeks. Haven't been online or seen a newspaper… but my fortune cookie tells me it's got something to do with that submarine sale to Taiwan.'
'You bet it does.'
'I see you got China on the big map.'
Keating glanced over his shoulder. 'Damned right I do, because our little standoff in the Pacific is about to go south real fast.'
The general shifted his position to allow a smartly dressed woman in dark blue to appear on the screen. She was in her late forties, with brown hair streaked with gray and a pair of green-framed glasses slipped down to the tip of her nose.
Keating went on: 'Mitchell, this is Dr. Gail Gorbatova of the DIA.'
'Hello, Captain.'
'Ma'am.'
'The general wanted me to brief you on an intelligence report we recently received from one of our operatives inside the Chinese government. It concerns an operation called Pouncing Dragon.'
'I haven't heard that name in a long time.'
'Not since Waziristan, I presume?'
'Yeah.'
'We've been tracking that lead for over three years now, and its finally borne fruit.'
General Keating, already out of patience, jumped back in: 'Mitchell, the DIA's mole has uncovered a group of Chinese commanders calling themselves the Spring Tigers. They got itchy fingers and their sights set on Taiwan. Our intel indicates they'll use this standoff to launch their own attack.'
Mitchell shrugged. 'Call China. Tip off their president.'
'We can't trust them to handle this,' said Gorbatova. 'The deputy director of the political department is a silent partner. And the Chinese could allow it to happen, then simply blame it on this cabal of renegades. We can't give the Chinese that opportunity.'
'Let me ask you something, Doctor. How reliable is your intel?'
'Our operative was recruited years ago. He's one of the best we have inside.'
'Well that's good, because I assume when this conversation is over that I'll be staking my life on the accuracy of the information he's given you.'
'We have no reason to believe otherwise.'
The general jumped back in. 'Mitchell, we have a list of every Spring Tiger. We also know they've scheduled a final planning meeting exactly nine days from now — and we have the time and location of that meeting.'
Mitchell knew where this was going. 'What's the dress? Casual? Or do I have to wear a tie?'
'Oh, it's a formal affair, son. Black tie only. You'll crash that party… and Mitchell, we need a clean, surgical strike. No prisoners. Do you read me, soldier?'
'Yes, sir.'
'All right, pick a team, get an outload manifest ready, and get to Subic Bay ASAP. We'll have an ISOFAC set up, and by then your target intel package should be updated and ready.'
When the general said 'black tie,' he meant black operation sans paper or electronic trials. They would literally wear black and carry nothing that could identify them as U.S. soldiers. No one would claim responsibility for their actions. Who could? The Ghosts did not exist.
Their Isolation Facility or ISOFAC would allow them to engage in the planning phase of their mission without interruption.
Finally, their target intelligence package, or TIP, would contain timely, detailed, tailored, and fused multisource information describing a host of elements related to the mission.
However, Mitchell didn't need to review their TIP regarding the infiltration phase. Their Black Hawk pilots would be sitting this one out. Mitchell and his people were going to Subic Bay to board a submarine, because that's the only way they could infiltrate the Chinese coast while armed for bear, or in this case, tigers.
Gorbatova's tone turned grave. 'Captain Mitchell, I want to remind you that our operative took a huge risk to retrieve this data.'
'What's he get in return? You helping him defect?'
'As a matter of fact, we are. I just hope you and your people can make it all worthwhile.'
Mitchell nodded, then regarded Keating. 'General, I'm wondering why you don't want SEALs on this one? With a sub infiltration, this sounds like a job for them.'
'Are you kidding me, son? You don't want the job?'
Mitchell stiffened. 'Sir, I didn't say that.'
'You implying that I might be biased? That I picked an army unit to prevent World War III because I'm an SF operator myself?'
'Sir—'
'Well, you're damned right I did. You'll have two SEALs to assist with infil and exfil, and a couple of CIA agents to help you get closer to the target; otherwise, it's
'Yes, sir.'
