“To be in control, right? To feel some power. To put forth that power in a way that yields a tangible and desirable result. Hell, that sounds so academic. Maybe we all got into this because it just makes us feel good. We want to do the right thing for our families and our country.”
“That’s not my story, sir. I got into this to try to be somebody I’m not. I did it out of guilt. I thought I could make things right. I learned a lot. And maybe I’m not the most qualified Ghost for this job, but you can bet I’m the most persistent. I’m disciplined, and I never forget what I want.”
Mitchell crossed around his ornate desk and plopped down hard into the leather chair. He leaned back, pillowing his head in his hands.
“The idea that you’ve been withholding intelligence from us doesn’t just strike a nerve, Captain. It makes me want to squeeze your neck until your face turns blue.”
“With all due respect, sir, there’s a difference between delaying my report and withholding it.”
“Semantics. Your intentions are clear.”
Brent knew he’d regret it, but he raised his voice. “Sir, I just want to fight another day. That’s it. You’ve been the fall guy yourself, so you know what I’m talking about. Once a Ghost, always a Ghost. We know how this pans out.”
The intercom beeped, followed by a voice. “Sir, I have Colonel Grey on vid channel three.”
“Sir, don’t take that call,” said Brent.
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll tell you I’m incapable and insubordinate.”
“And you’re late for a meeting with her,” added the general. “So you’re right, she doesn’t have to tell me how insubordinate you are. I’m witnessing it firsthand.”
“I just want to fight.”
Mitchell told his assistant that he’d return the call. Then he faced Brent and sighed. “Why do I bet on you?”
“Sir, we lost a good man out there, and I’d like to take his brother, my team, and one other sergeant. You give me those people, and I’ll get this Snow Maiden for you.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why do I bet on you — when you’ve already failed? And don’t tell me it’s because I’ll get the warlord. I don’t give a crap about him right now.”
“We weren’t allowed to finish what we started.”
“So pulling the plug on you was premature?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Even after repeated failures? Maybe we cut our losses with you. Why don’t you just back off? Start training the new guys, be the voice of experience. Get back to Robin Sage. I did it for years and found it very rewarding.”
“Because it can’t end like this. I got into the Army for the wrong reasons. I need to finish for the right ones.”
“So if I cut you loose, it’s with the understanding that if we don’t get results, you’ll be moving on to something else.”
“I accept that, sir.”
“So you’re highly motivated.”
“I always have been, sir. I just need good intel. It’s hard to catch up with someone when your intel keeps you two steps behind.”
Mitchell took in another long breath, then scratched his abdomen, reminding Brent of the unique scar he had there, a scar shaped like a Chinese character. Brent had read all about the general’s exploits in the Philippines before he’d been recruited into Ghost Recon. Mitchell had been stabbed with an exotic sword and had, it seemed, developed an unconscious habit of scratching the old wound. Brent had a few scars himself, and yes, they sometimes itched and drove him mad. “You’re putting me in a difficult position,” he finally said.
“Yes, sir.”
The general thought a moment and grimaced. “They’ve already given the mission to Boleman. He’s one of the best operators we’ve got.”
“I’m sure he’ll get over it, sir.”
“He’s highly motivated, too.”
“Yes, sir. Ask him if he knows where Sayyaf is. .” Mitchell smirked, then got into Brent’s face. “You’re a real con artist, huh?”
“No, sir.”
Mitchell widened his eyes. “Tell you what. I’ll put you back out there. I’ll expect to have Sayyaf in custody within twenty-four hours.”
“My intel is good.”
The general actually swore under his breath. “They’re going to question this decision, but here I am, God help me, giving you one more shot. Last one. All or nothing. Hail Mary pass. Do you read me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re right. Boleman won’t take the risks you will. He’s too worried about his next promotion. You strike me as the kind of guy who doesn’t give a crap about that.”
“Born in the mud, die in the mud, sir.”
“You won’t be getting credit for Sayyaf’s capture. Nothing.”
“I don’t care, sir.”
Mitchell smiled, then rose. “Make no mistake, if she gets away, your field days will be over. I will say that teaching at the JFK was some of the most rewarding work I’ve done.”
“I’ll probably wind up there either way, sir. Hopefully later and not sooner.”
Mitchell came across his desk. Brent wondered if he would extend his hand in a shake. He didn’t. “You’re dismissed.”
Brent snapped to and saluted. “Thank you, sir. And sir, one last favor?”
Mitchell returned the salute. “Are you kidding me, Captain?”
“Major Dennison and Colonel Grey—”
“I’ll talk to them. But you sure as hell better prove me right.”
“Or I’ll die trying.”
The general gave a curt nod. “Very well.”
Brent practically ran outside to the parking lot and got immediately on the phone with Schoolie. “Saddle up, fat boy, but don’t tell Boleman yet.”
“Holy… you did it?”
“I just need to call one more player.”
The Mucky Duck was a neighborhood pub and restaurant located in the heart of Captiva Island. Its owners had adopted a bright green duck as a mascot/logo, and the place had become a tradition for vacationers since 1976.
Brent found Thomas Voeckler seated at one of the sun-worn picnic tables located right on the beach. Voeckler enjoyed the shade of a large umbrella with a Corona beer logo and was nursing one of the same while staring across the Gulf of Mexico. In the far distance, the dorsal fins of passing dolphins rose above the waves, and a salty tang clung heavily to the air. It was easy to see why the man found this retreat to his liking.
With his own beer in hand, Brent arrived at the table and sat opposite the Splinter Cell, part of him wishing he could spend a few weeks on the island.
Thomas noticed him and frowned deeply. “Aw, dude, you drove all the way here? You’re wasting your time. I told you on the phone I’m done.”
“You have to look me in the eye and say that.”
Voeckler turned, looked him in the eye. “I’m done.”
“Okay,” said Brent, pretending to rise.
“And you’re leaving now?”
“I got my answer.” Brent started away.
“So what makes you think you can catch her this time?”
