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Action-packed and intense from beginning to end, this prequel novel sets the stage for the hit video game Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon Wildlands.At the tip of the spear of the US Army's unconventional warfare response forces stands a group of highly specialized and incredibly skilled Special Forces soldiers: the Ghosts.INDIVIDUALLY, THEY ARE GREAT. TOGETHER, THEY ARE UNBEATABLE.When a group of renegade Venezuelan soldiers seize control of the no-man's land in the middle of the Amazonian Jungle, the Ghosts are tapped to get the US citizens being held hostage there out safely.Newly promoted to team lead, Nomad finds himself going in-country with two new squadmates, little preparation, dubious intel and no backup. Still, they have no choice but to go in half blind as time is running short for the captives.And when faced with a difficult choice deep in enemy territory, the Ghosts must learn to stand together as a team, or fail.Action-packed and intense from beginning to end, this novel sets the stage for the hit video game Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon Wildlands.
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Seitenzahl: 435
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a review
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Interlude – Weaver
Chapter 6
Interlude – Midas
Chapter 7
Interlude – Weaver and Nomad
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Interlude – Holt
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Interlude – Nomad
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
DARKWATERS
DARKWATERS
BY RICHARD DANSKY
TITAN BOOKS
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Tom Clancy’s Ghost Recon Wildlands: Dark Waters
Print edition ISBN: 9781789094039
E-book edition ISBN: 9781789094138
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Steet, London SE1 0UP
First Titan edition: February 2020
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, andincidents either are used fictitiously, and any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, orlocales is entirely coincidental.
TM & © 2017, 2020 Ubisoft Entertainment. All RightsReserved. Tom Clancy’s, Ghost Recon Wildlands logo,the Soldier icon, Ubisoftlogo are trademarks of UbisoftEntertainment in the U.S. and/or other countries.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any meanswithout prior written permission of the publisher, nor beotherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other thanthat in which it is published and without a similar conditionbeing imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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For my mother, Irene Dansky, who always wantedme to write something with a happy ending.
GHOST, n. The outward and visible sign of an inward fear.
—Ambrose Bierce
GHOSTS, THE: Designated The Group for Specialized Tactics, they stand at the tip of the spear of the US Army’s unconventional warfare response forces. Highly specialized and incredibly skilled Special Forces soldiers, they are called The Ghosts. This reconnaissance and direct action unit is made up of the absolute best of the best of the US military. They are the first unit deployed into dangerous situations and the last ones to leave when things get rough. And if they do their job right, no one will ever know they were there. Over the years, the faces have changed, but the unit—and its legend—has endured.
There weren’t supposed to be Vympel in Ukraine.
That was Nomad’s first thought as a hail of bullets scythed through the air over his head. Then again, he thought, as he slid down into a roadside drainage ditch for cover, there weren’t supposed to be any Ghosts running around Donetsk, either, so in a weird way, that made things even.
Which, of course, wouldn’t help him stay alive if the Russian special forces got the drop on him again. Up on the right was a vast, overgrown field, grass and weeds poking through a parking lot’s worth of burned-out and shelled cars. On the left was a field command center for “independent” pro-Russian forces in eastern Ukraine. It was built out of a jacked-up doublewide and a couple of piles of sandbags. On the roof was a jury-rigged satellite dish; out back was a laboring generator.
And inside, where Joker and Sage were supposed to rendezvous with the objective, he could see muzzle flashes.
He tapped his PTT button. “Sage. Joker. I’ve got multiple contacts out here.” Another barrage of bullets passed overhead, punctuating his statement with a series of sharp cracks as they flew by. “Gimme a sitrep. Do you have the package?”
“Negative, Nomad, package is down, Joker’s hit but not bad.” Sage’s voice was calm, even as Nomad heard gunfire and breaking glass crackling over the link. He was the squad leader, by dint of experience and because he never got rattled by anything, up to and including having a tank drive through his front door. That’s what had earned him his callsign, which he insisted on using instead of Ghost Lead. “Got contacts of our own. Can you cut us an exit out the back door?”
“Sage, this is Weaver. I’m seeing a half-dozen hostiles closing on your position from the east, another two moving toward Nomad. Exfil vehicle is in position, route Bravo to exfil is still clear.” Weaver was the squad’s sniper, a laconic, matter-of-fact presence currently parked a half-klick away up a wooded hillside. A scarred and shaven-headed African-American man, Weaver was the team’s pessimist. Tall and lean, with a close-cropped beard and graceful piano-player’s fingers, he was a former SEAL. He was also fond of telling everyone how easy he found serving in the Ghosts—“At least it’s dry most of the time”—and how he found his current assignment a vacation, all things considered.
“Roger that. Bravo it is. Get the company off Nomad’s back, then you two cover us. We’ll hold here till you do.”
“Copy that. You gonna need Nomad’s help with the package?”
Sage’s voice was grim. “Not unless he brought a sponge.”
Behind him, Nomad heard a splash and then hurried footsteps. A quick look over his shoulder told him that one of the Russians had leapt down and was pursuing him directly. He turned and fired wildly. None of the shots hit, but the Russian soldier had to dive for cover in the dirty water that covered the bottom of the ditch. Nomad turned and ran.
“Weaver? What have you got for me?”
“Bad news. Guy behind you is picking himself back up and climbing out of the ditch. His buddy’s headed up the left side along the road so he’s picking up ground on you—oh hell, grenade!” he called out. “Get out of there, now!”
Even as Weaver gave the warning, Nomad saw the tumbling grenade arc overhead to land maybe twenty feet ahead of him. It hit with a muddy splash, and Nomad made a desperate lunge over the side of the ditch. He cleared the top and pressed himself flat against the dirt just as an explosion rocked the trench, sending shrapnel screaming down its length and a geyser of muck and water into the air.
“Nomad! Status!”
“I’m fine.” He rolled to his feet and saw his original pursuer barreling down on him, already firing. Clumps of yellowed grass and mud kicked up as Nomad ducked behind one of the burned-out cars that dotted the field. Metal sparked and screamed as more rounds bounced off or punched through. Nomad returned fire, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the second Vympel leaping the ditch and moving toward his flank. If he stayed where he was, one or the other would get a clean shot.
He turned and squeezed off a round at the grenade thrower, causing the man to drop to the ground. As he did so, the first Russian advanced, closing within thirty yards of Nomad’s position. Nomad ripped off a couple of shots in his direction, enough to make him duck behind the chassis of a thoroughly dismantled Lada before returning fire. Taking advantage of the respite, Nomad fell back, angling away from the ditch to get as much of the wrecked car’s bulk between him and his pursuers as he ran.
“Weaver! Got a shot?”
“Negative, you keep dropping them into cover every time I draw a bead. Got an ace up my sleeve, though.”
A tire half-hidden in the grass nearly caught Nomad’s toe. Instead, he leaped over it, exposing himself for an instant to hostile fire. Both pursuers missed the opportunity he gave them, squeezing off long bursts that once again went high. Bad marksmanship for Vympel, Nomad thought, and then a chilling realization struck him. “Hey, Weaver, how big’s a Vympel squad?”
“Usually six, but it varies. Why?”
“How many you got eyes on?”
“Eight”
“Oh, hell.”
And then there were four more Russians, all wearing the uniform of a local “independent” unit, rising out of the grass ahead and shouting in Russian at him to surrender. That’s why the chasers had been aiming so poorly; they’d been herding him to where their friends could wrap him up. A Ghost captured on the ground where no US troops were supposed to be would be a huge PR coup for the Kremlin and a black eye for the Pentagon, and God help the poor sap who got taken.
Like he was about to be. “Weaver, you got anything?”
“Get down.”
“What?”
“I said, get down!”
Nomad threw himself on the ground, praying he wasn’t going to land on the jagged end of an antique gear shift. In front of him, the Russian soldiers began shouting, some aiming at him, some turning to the right…
…where a quadrotor drone, moving at speed along the top of the grass, was zeroing in on their position. Even as the Russian spotted it, it rose and then trained a vicious-looking barrel on them. Before they could scatter, the drone opened fire, blasting away on a strafing run just above the heads of its targets. Before the first had hit the ground, the last was already falling.
More shots rang out, the two pursuers shifting their aim from Nomad to the drone. With their attention elsewhere, Nomad popped up to a crouch and took careful aim at the first soldier, partially hidden by rusting metal cover. A moment of calm, a squeeze of the trigger, and down the man went.
The second Russian realized the danger of his position. One last burst clipped the drone, making it wobble in its flight. A thin stream of smoke leaked out of one of the rotors and the device sagged in mid-air.
“Weaver?”
“The runner’s yours. Let me bring baby back in so the Donetskis don’t grab her for salvage.”
Nomad was already in full sprint. The Russian had a good head start on him and was running smart, zigzagging erratically and using what cover he could.
Nomad didn’t pursue him directly. Instead, he ran straight for the nearest wreck, the remnants of an SUV, and crouched behind it. “Weaver, where is he?”
“Cutting left,” came the reply. “He’ll pass through the opening between the Lada and the Renault in about five seconds.”
“That’s all I need.” Nomad picked out the Lada, pivoted right, and sighted down the barrel.
A running figure appeared, silhouetted in the space between the two cars.
Nomad squeezed the trigger. The Russian fell.
“Clean kill, Nomad.”
“Thanks, Weaver. Drone landed?”
“Yes.”
Sage’s voice cut through. “We need to get out of here.”
“Do it quick, Sage. I’m seeing two moving on the door you want to bust out through.” Weaver sounded unusually grim. “And what looks like three rooster tails from vehicles a couple klicks east-northeast. Roads are shitty, but they’re still gonna be here in five minutes, tops.”
“Nomad, wait till they close on the door, then open fire. Weaver, target whichever one is further from the door. On my mark, you drop him, then haul ass for transportation.”
“Roger that. The truck’s 300 meters upslope.”
“Get there fast. We’ll be coming out that door like a bat out of hell. Nomad, you cover us till we can all rendezvous with Weaver, and then we head for Bravo. You copy?”
A chorus of “Rogers.”
“Okay, then, we’re moving. Come on, Joker, time to go.”
The Russians were moving, too, a pair creeping up on the side door of the bullet-riddled trailer. One nodded to the other, who carefully shot out the windows next to the door. The other reached down to his belt and pulled out a grenade.
“Incoming!” Nomad barked into the comm. “Looks like tear gas, not frag!” A tinkle of broken glass punctuated the alarm, and then the hissing of escaping gas fuzzed over the channel.
“Weaver, take the shot! We’re coming out! Nomad, open up!”
Dangerously exposed, Nomad unleashed a long burst at the two Vympel soldiers. They immediately turned to return fire as Nomad crouched and ran, bullets mowing down the long grass around him. At the same time, the door of the trailer burst open, billowing clouds of white tear gas. Before the Russians could open fire, they both dropped; one from a sniper’s bullet from behind and the other from a stream of fire from inside the door. Then two figures came staggering out, one supporting the other, who was bleeding from a leg wound.
“Weaver, you got visual on us?”
“Negative, Sage, I’m getting that truck you asked for.”
“Roger, we’ll move to the road. Nomad, status?”
“Pretty busy right now!” A burst of enemy fire drove him back against the far end of the mobile HQ, and he ducked around a corner.
“They’re waiting for their friends to show up.”
“Keep ’em honest as long as you can. Weaver, ETA?”
In response, the roar of an engine came over the comms. “On my way.”
A red Toyota pickup, its sides marked with gray primer, burst out of the trees on the hillside above the site, bucking down a shot-up road that was as much dirt as chewed-up asphalt. Sage and Joker, coughing like fiends, hurried toward the road.
“Nomad! Thirty seconds! Say goodbye and fall back to the road!”
“Roger that!” He peered around the corner and nearly got his head taken off by a burst of enemy fire. He returned blind fire, then pulled back his weapon and grabbed a frag grenade off his belt.
The truck was almost to their position now, fishtailing wildly on the rutted road. Nomad pulled the pin on the grenade and tossed it around the corner, then threw another one into the now-deserted HQ for good measure as he ran. Up ahead, he could see the truck slowing to a stop, the passenger-side door already open and Sage getting ready to drag Joker inside.
“Come on, come on!” Weaver was shouting as Sage lifted the groaning Joker, then slammed the door and settled into firing position. Nomad ran for the truck, the twin explosions behind him shoving him forward as something inside caught and blew the satellite dish clear off the roof. Weaver swore furiously as he negotiated the truck into a three-point turn, then Sage opened fire as the pair of surviving Russians came around the corner Nomad had abandoned, guns blazing. They both dropped, one of his own accord, the other with a pair of holes in his chest, then Nomad was vaulting himself into the back of the truck. He landed hard, then sat up and reached out to pull Sage in.
“We’re in! Go! Go! Go!”
Weaver floored it, dirt and rocks spitting up from the rear wheels. The enemy trucks were getting closer now, men hanging out the windows and firing wildly, but the uneven road didn’t do their aim any favors and the bullets went whizzing harmlessly past.
“We’ve got five kilometers to a friendly checkpoint.” Sage ticked it off as matter-of-fact as if they’d been going for a Sunday drive. “Even Vympel aren’t going to push that, not right now.”
“You say so,” Weaver replied. “You go with that theory, I’m just going to drive fast. And Joker’s out of commission.”
“Copy that.” Sage and Nomad hunkered down in the back of the pickup, the rear gate offering some protection as they lobbed grenades out to cover their retreat.
The last Russian stood his ground even as the shrapnel from the grenades blew past him. He opened up with a final, desperate burst at the fleeing truck before the blast took him and he fell backwards, gun firing wildly into the air.
The hollow sound of metal punching through metal rang out through the truck, and then Nomad was rising up from behind cover to see what, if anything, was left behind them.
What he saw was dust, and bodies rapidly fading in the distance.
“The pursuit is over,” he said without turning. “Looks like it’s a clean run to—” and then Sage groaned and went down.
“What the hell’s going on back there?” Weaver demanded.
Nomad turned and dropped to get a closer look at the squad leader. What he saw was blood, and Sage clutching his side in pain. “Sage is hit! Just go!”
It was bad, Nomad could see at once. A round in the side, another in the shoulder. Body armor had stopped a couple more, but the two that got through were going to be more than enough if Sage didn’t get medical help immediately.
“Evac helo is inbound on that LZ!”
“Tell them we’ve got two wounded, one urgent, and they need to be ready to dust off as soon as we get there.” Nomad began stripping Sage’s gear off him. If he could get to the wounds, if he could apply direct pressure, if they got to the LZ fast enough…
He looked up over the cab for a moment, his fingers red with his squad leader’s blood. Safety seemed very far away indeed.
A gentle hand on his shoulder nudged Nomad awake. He looked around, seeing not the withered grass of a blasted Ukrainian field, but rather the interior of a hospital room. Off-white walls, pale winter light coming in through tall vertical windows, masses of beeping equipment hooked up to an unconscious figure in a hospital bed with a dozen tubes running in and out of him.
Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, his memory supplied. The hospital in Germany where they sent the emergency cases. And that was Sage in the bed, with enough holes in him to let him do a serviceable impression of a character in a blockbuster movie plot.
“Major Perryman. How’s he doing?”
Nomad turned. He hadn’t heard anyone refer to him by his title and actual surname in awhile. Standing in the doorway was Coray Ward, better known as Weaver, his face a mask of concern. He looked as tired and haggard as Nomad felt.
“What’s this major bullshit, Ward? Sage was in surgery for eight-plus hours. I’ve been with him since he got out. Docs say he’s got a fighting chance, but…”
Nomad’s voice trailed off. “Fighting chance” was doctor-speak for “Hell if we know,” which was a long way from “He’s gonna make it.”
Weaver nodded. “Best thing for him to do is sleep, then. Sorry I can’t say the same for us.”
“Hmm?” Nomad stood and stretched, his back making popping noises like a kid shooting off a cap gun. They made an odd counterpoint to the electronic beeps and hums coming off the machines keeping Sage alive.
Weaver gestured down the hall. “The Old Man wants to talk to us. To you, really, but he knows it’s a package deal.”
Nomad rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “The Old Man’s in Georgia. Or did we get airlifted back to Benning while I was asleep?”
“Nope. There’s a room down on the first floor set up for teleconference, on the entirely sane notion that people here might want to talk to people back home without a nine-hour flight as a prereq. We’ve got priority on the room as soon as you finish your Sleeping Beauty routine.” He made an exaggerated sniffing sound. “And maybe take a shower. You smell like the bottom of a Ukrainian sewer.”
“Drainage ditch,” Nomad replied tiredly. “All right. Meet you down there in twenty.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Weaver turned to go, then looked back over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. I would have let you stay there and sleep, but if the Old Man’s calling us here, after what just went down, it’s not because he wants to hear about the weather.”
“Just for once, it would be nice if he did.” Nomad stooped and grabbed his backpack from where it sat on the floor next to his chair.
“Shower’s down the hall to—”
“To the right, and then you make a left. Not my first time here, Coray.”
Ward put up his hands in a gesture of mock defensiveness. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you in twenty. Just hoping I don’t smell you before then.” He turned and walked off. Nomad watched him go, then headed towards the bed. Sage’s eyes were closed, his breathing was shallow, and his skin was a clammy bluish-white.
“You look like shit, buddy,” Nomad said softly. “Now get better so you can get up and kick my ass for saying that, okay?”
The only response was the slow hiss of the air compressor and the quiet beeping that promised Sage was still alive.
* * *
The briefing room at Landstuhl was nicely decorated, which led Nomad to think it wasn’t normally a briefing room at all. One wall was dominated by a huge television screen. There was a table with a couple of chairs set up in front of it, and then behind that, a few couches and chairs in haphazard array. Everything in the room was beige, except the walls, which were pale green, and dotted with landscape photographs from various places where American forces were deployed.
When Nomad arrived, he felt almost human. His riotous beard, already showing a couple of gray hairs here and there, was neatly combed, and his cheeks were practically red from all the scrubbing he’d done to get the stench of the mission off him. He’d changed into clean fatigues, if not neat ones, and a pair of cheap sunglasses protected his weary eyes from the harsh fluorescent lighting.
Weaver was already seated at the table, in fatigues so neatly pressed they looked like they’d just come from the dry cleaner. His boots were spotless, unlike Perryman’s, and he had a cup of tea in front of him. Ward was reading something on a Military Rugged Tablet and snickering. To Perryman’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Financial Times. It’s always good for a laugh.”
“Gotcha.” Perryman dropped into the seat next to him. “How do we turn this thing on?”
In response, Weaver put down the MRT, swung his feet to the ground, and picked up a remote control. He mashed a few buttons, and then the screen filled with the familiar sight of Lt. Col. Scott Mitchell, the Old Man. Mitchell had led the Ghosts through more missions than Nomad could count before the Pentagon had kicked him upstairs. Now he headed the Group for Specialized Tactics, watching over the Ghost teams like they were his own children.
“Major. Master Sergeant.” Mitchell acknowledged both men with a curt nod. He still looked like he could roll in the field at a moment’s notice, but there were lines around his eyes now, and there was an increasing amount of gray in his close-cropped hair.
“Lieutenant Colonel. What can we do for you?”
“You can give me an update on Sage, for starters. How’s he doing?”
“Still out, sir. Doctors think he’s got a chance.”
Mitchell sat back in his chair. “That’s better than I was expecting, at least. He’s a good man. And Joker?”
Weaver leaned in. “His leg’s torn up pretty thoroughly. He’s not going to be walking for a while, but he’ll recover.”
Frowning, Mitchell consulted a sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him. “Glad he’ll be all right, but that timetable’s not what I was hoping for. You want to tell me what happened out there, Major Perryman?”
Nomad coughed. “It’s all in the preliminary report, sir.” Mitchell slapped the papers in his hand against the table. “I know what’s in the report. And I asked you to tell me, in your own words, what happened to put Joker and Sage out of action, and one of them at death’s door. Now talk to me.”
Nomad shot a look at Weaver, who was keeping his eyes straight ahead, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Son of a bitch had already talked to Mitchell’s CSM, I’ll bet. Nomad grimaced. He’s gonna enjoy watching me squirm now that it’s my turn.
“Sir. Our objective was to exfil a colonel in the Donetsk Separatist Sparta Battalion, said colonel having expressed interest through channels in switching sides and providing intel confirming an active and formal Russian presence in and around the DPR.” Nomad coughed once. “I mean, we knew they were there, but bringing back formal proof would have made it a whole new ballgame.”
“It would have given Moscow something new they could deny and would have left the strategic analysis for the eggheads who get paid to do it. Continue.”
Nomad stiffened in his seat. “We reached the rendezvous point. Did a sweep of the area and it read all clear. Everything looked green.”
“Joker and Sage advanced into the field HQ to meet with the package and escort him to safety, while Weaver and I secured the perimeter. Our contact had assured us prior to deployment that he’d order hostile patrols out of the area before our arrival, making this a clean and easy exfil.”
“And was it?”
“Negative. When our people got there, the package refused to come along with Sage. He attempted to subdue the package to enable transport, at which point the package chose to shoot himself instead. At the same time, we had contact with enemy personnel who had presumably been tipped off by the package and who had been waiting to ambush us from prepared positions.”
“Interesting.” Mitchell leaned forward. “And you didn’t spot them during your sweep?”
Nomad grimaced. “No. They were well hidden, and the majority remained at safe distance until we arrived. Clearly the ambush had been planned well in advance, and their positions had been extensively prepared.” He thought for a moment. “We’re lucky they didn’t just booby-trap the field, or that would have been that.”
“If they did that, they wouldn’t have been able to take you alive. And that did seem to be their aim, yes, Major?” Nomad nodded. “That’s what it seemed like. On the bright side, I was able to confirm these troops were in fact Russian Vympel operators wearing Sparta Battalion kit and insignia.” He stopped and turned to Ward. “Did I leave anything out?”
Weaver shook his head. “Nope. They knew we were coming; they were in place and well camouflaged. Drone sweep didn’t see them either, so like you said, they’d taken the time to do some serious prep—and they waited until we were at our most vulnerable to hit us. In my opinion, sir.”
Mitchell sighed. “I’ll start hunting for leaks on our side, but it sounds like someone with a Moscow mailing address got to the package before we did. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Yessir.” Nomad sat for a moment in uncomfortable silence. “Shall I continue?”
Mitchell shook his head. “Not necessary at this time. The rest, like you say, is in the report. I was more interested in seeing how you described a mission that, by any reasonable definition, turned into a soup sandwich. We’ll do a more thorough debrief when you get back, but right now, we’ve got something else on our plate.”
“Sir?”
“I’m sending a package through to your MRTs. You’ll want to study it on the flight back home. In the meantime, how much do you know about southwestern Venezuela?”
Weaver raised an eyebrow. Nomad coughed. “Not much, sir. Am I going to need to correct that?”
“You might want to. The short version is that in 2008, Venezuela and Colombia nearly had themselves a shooting war down that way, and while everyone kissed and made up for the cameras, the real deal was a lot messier.”
“Define ‘messy’?”
“Venezuelan regulars dressed as rebels hooking up with FARC irregulars and moving into permanent encampments on the wrong side of the border messy. They’ve mostly been laying low, but they’ve never gone away. And now, they’re starting to make themselves interesting.”
Nomad and Weaver exchanged worried looks. “‘Interesting’ usually means someone shooting at us, sir.”
“With all due respect,” Weaver chimed in, “why is this our problem?”
Mitchell smiled, lips pressed together. “I’m getting there, Master Sergeant. As you might have noticed, the Venezuelan government isn’t terribly fond of the United States right now. It’s also dealing with an economy that looks like Godzilla just walked through the middle of it, which means that certain things are falling off the table. Like, say, paying the soldiers nobody knows about who aren’t supposed to be there. And once those soldiers stopped getting paid, they got other ideas, because they had numbers and guns in a place that’s damn near impossible for any legit authority to project force into. Basically, they’re looking to carve out an autonomous state down there for reasons passing understanding, and there’s no one available to stop them.”
Weaver leaned forward. “I repeat my question, sir. What the hell does this have to do with us?”
“The good news is that we’re not being tasked with solving this. As far as the Pentagon’s concerned, this is an internal dispute, and we’re not getting involved. The bad news is, though, that there’s a couple of groups of American citizens in the territory these jokers are claiming, and they’re being held for ransom. All quiet and back channel stuff, you understand, but somebody down there wants some hard currency to tide them over until the narco-cash starts rolling in.”
“What sort of hostages are we talking about here?”
“Two small groups. A small biological research lab’s scientists trying to find a cure for cancer by dissecting rare orchids and an archaeological expedition looking for God knows what. Washington wants them both back before the story explodes all over the news and people start screaming for full-bore intervention. The remoteness of the region where the hostages are being held has helped us keep a lid on this thing—not a lot of good cell reception down there for Snapchat selfies—but it’s not going to stay buttoned down forever. Which means someone has to go in and get those people out.”
“Sir.” Nomad stared at the screen, his face carefully neutral. “Half this squad is fighting for their lives. Weaver and I have not yet even been formally debriefed on our previous operation. You cannot be seriously telling me that we are going to be tasked with getting those people out.”
“Not the squad, Major. You. And Master Sergeant Ward. And the rest of the squad—your squad—will be filled out when you get here.”
“Sir, I am happy serving under—”
“Zip it.” Mitchell suddenly looked very tired. “This is not optimal, and we all know it. You’ve been bucking for your own team for a while now, but this sure as hell wasn’t the way you wanted to get it. But right now we’re stretched thin. Every single one of our teams is deployed, but when the White House calls, you don’t turn to NCA and say ‘Sorry, we’re busy.’ I’ve the greatest confidence in you. Your flight leaves at 1100 hours. Read the package. We’ll talk more when you get to Benning.”
The monitor switched off, leaving Weaver and Nomad facing a blank screen.
“Congratulations?” Weaver raised an eyebrow. “I guess you’re the man now.”
“This is bullshit,” Nomad replied. “You don’t throw a squad together like this and send them in-country on something this hot, and you don’t do it when half your operators are still washing dust off their boots from the last op.”
“Are you saying you didn’t earn this?”
“I’m saying this shouldn’t be happening. Doesn’t matter what I earned or didn’t. You saw the Old Man. He’s not happy about the op either, and if he’s not happy, you and I should be scared shitless.”
Weaver shrugged. “Oh, I am. But we’re still doing this. Which means I’d rather go in thinking about the mission than about how we’re potentially getting screwed. It’s not like we haven’t been dropped in some shit before.”
The two men stared at each other, and then the tension was broken by a small ping. “I’m betting that’s the briefing report,” Weaver said, as he stood and stretched. “I hope it’s long. Cause it’s a long-ass flight to Georgia.”
* * *
Weaver only snored when he wanted to. Nomad had come to that conclusion long ago, and the flight back to the States was backing it up with more evidence. Put Weaver in the field, and he slept like a cat, one eye open and barely breathing. Put him someplace where it was safe to annoy a friend—say, during a ten-hour ride on a C-17 back to the US—and he suddenly turned into a two-legged sawmill. It was, Nomad decided, a gift.
He, however, was not so blessed. The last time he’d slept on a plane, someone had tried to introduce a Stinger missile to one of the plane’s engines with extreme prejudice over Anbar province. The pilot had pulled a heroic maneuver and dodged the missile, but the resultant chaos had convinced Nomad that the best way to spend a flight was wide awake and with his seat belt firmly fastened.
Lt. Colonel Mitchell had been as good as his word. The package that had been pushed to his MRT before takeoff was depressingly thorough in terms of the tactical and strategic importance of the operation Mitchell had suggested he’d be leading, and it also came with the jackets for the two additional Ghosts who’d be attached to the squad.
Looking them over, Nomad didn’t recognize one of the names. That in and of itself was mildly unusual. While there were more operators now than there had been before they’d been shuffled under JSOC, it was still a small, elite group, and sooner or later everyone trained—and drank—with everyone else. Squads were squads and you didn’t go in-country with everyone, but you at least put in the time back at base to gain a basic familiarity.
But Rubio Delgado, callsign Midas, was new to him. Nomad read his file carefully. Midas reminded him of Sgt. Scott Ibrahim, a first-generation American who’d been serious about love of country and giving back through service. According to the jacket, Midas had a strong spiritual side, and at one point had seriously considered joining the Roman Catholic priesthood. The desire to do more than he could from the pulpit, however, was too strong to resist, and he’d sworn a different oath instead. Most of his deployments had been in Central and South America, and Midas was known to prefer negotiation to gunplay. Not that he was bad in a fight—there was a cheerfully gruesome report of his skill with his preferred sidearm, the Serbu Super-Shorty sawedoff shotgun, tucked into the file— but he was definitely more thoughtful, both about what he was doing and about collateral damage to civilians, than most. Midas’s preferred weapon was a Magpul ACR with an M203 underbarrel grenade launcher, an odd choice considering how many Ghost operations relied on stealth, but the jacket indicated he’d just been elevated to the unit. Maybe he’d learn.
Then again, Nomad would have killed for an M203 on the last op. Maybe the kid was onto something, after all.
Dominic Moretta, callsign Holt, was a whole other kettle of fish. Nomad was familiar with him, though they’d never been on an op together, and for that at times he’d been grateful. Holt was older than Midas. He’d enlisted at eighteen and earned his Sapper and Ranger tabs in the Ranger regiment before he’d been legal to drink. He was a gearhead and had a bit of a rep as a practical joker and more of one as a ladies’ man. The trick with Holt, one of his previous commanders had helpfully mentioned, was to have someone shooting at him at all times. Then, he’d take things seriously. If not, God help anyone trying to give him an order. He came from a military family, with his father and both grandfathers having served. Holt had decided early on he wanted to do the same, a resolve that was only strengthened when it became clear that enlisting was the fastest and safest route out of the crumbling Louisiana town where he’d grown up. Defensive as hell about his roots, Holt had long since made it plain he was never going back.
Weaver cracked one eye open. “You been through the scouting reports yet?”
In response, Nomad held up his MRT, with Midas’s picture prominently displayed. “Just going over them now. It’s going to be an interesting fit, especially with the fresh meat. I’d prefer going in-country with someone a little saltier.”
“I don’t think we’ve got the time to wait for Holt to settle down or Midas to get more experienced. But like you said, there’s some talent there. I made a couple of calls before we climbed on board, tried to get the unofficial word on these guys, and what I got back was good. Holt’s a goddamned wizard with a drone, and Midas, well, the guy’s a total straight arrow but he’s got drive like a stock car on a straightaway. You get these two to buy in to your dubious leadership skills, and we’re going to be just fine.”
Nomad laughed. “I like it better when you’re snoring. The sounds coming out of your mouth make more sense.”
Ward harrumphed. “If you don’t wish to take my wise counsel, Major, that’s on you. But it could be a lot worse. A hell of a lot worse.”
“Thanks for checking.” Nomad unbuckled his seat belt, then stood and stretched. “Believe it or not, that does make me feel a little better about all this.”
“Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” Weaver gave a huge, theatrical yawn. “You going to get any shut-eye before we hit ground?”
“Naah. You know I can’t sleep on planes.”
“Then aren’t you going to be a bundle of joy when we touch down in South America. I’m half tempted to go full B.A. Baracus on you.”
“Who?”
“Television character from the eighties. Don’t look him up. I want this to be a surprise. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Ward closed his eyes and turned his head, and loudly resumed snoring.
“Lucky bastard,” Nomad muttered. He cast a jealous glance at his sleeping friend, then went back to studying the report.
The two newcomers to the team were already in the room when Weaver and Nomad arrived, still shaking off the weariness of the flight. Nomad instantly recognized each of them from the photos in their jackets. Midas, the taller of the two, was seated at the far end of the room, looking about as relaxed as an overwound watch spring. Clean-shaven, dark-eyed, and with his hair tied back in a ponytail, he looked the two late arrivals up and down with detached assessment.
Holt, on the other hand, was thoroughly at ease. Physically imposing with piercing blue eyes and sharp features, he had his feet up on the conference table. A pair of scratched Oakleys sat next to Holt’s footgear, the sort of shades Nomad knew from experience were equally useful in the field or for disguising bloodshot eyes and life-threatening hangovers.
“Nice boots,” said Weaver, and sat down next to Holt. “Kicked a lot of shit in those?”
Holt stared at him appraisingly. “Four continents’ worth. Hoping we’ll get sent to Antarctica this time so I can make it to five.”
“No such luck, gentlemen.” Lt. Col. Mitchell walked into the room, trailed by his intelligence officer, First Lieutenant Kirk Graham. The two had been working together so long that at this point, it seemed like Mitchell didn’t even have to ask questions out loud; whatever he needed, whether it be tactical field reports from Balochistan or market analysis of Chinese pork belly futures, Graham had it in his hands instantly. As such, despite the fact that he hadn’t done fieldwork in years, Graham had acquired the callsign Wizard, lovingly bestowed in recognition of his skills.
Mitchell took a seat at the head of the table, Graham sliding in next to him with his laptop already open and fingers dancing furiously. Nomad settled in on the left side halfway down, folded his hands and waited.
“First things first, people. Holt, feet off the table. Save the badass act for the new recruits who are impressed by that sort of thing. We’ve got business to attend to.” There was an unusual edge to Mitchell’s voice, frustration that filled the room with tension. “Any bullshit about taking out penguins so Holt can get another stamp on his luggage is sadly off the mark.”
“I take it the situation hasn’t changed, sir?” Nomad asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Holt’s eyeroll, an expression that eloquently said “ass-kisser.”
“We’ve got less time, if that counts as a change.” Mitchell rubbed his eyes. “Look, I know in a perfect world Weaver and Nomad would be rolling off active right now to recover from that shit show in Donetsk. And Midas, you’d have a very different assignment for your first time out as a Ghost. But we don’t deal in wishful thinking. As much as I’d love to leave you four alone to meet cute, there’s no time for that. This isn’t a permanent assignment, so no one get their shorts in a twist, but considering the situation we’re in and the manpower we’ve got available, this is how it’s going to have to play out. Anybody has a problem with that, they can walk—and keep on walking—right off base. Do I make myself understood?”
“Sir.” It was Midas who spoke. “Is there a chance this will become a permanent assignment?” His glance took in the room, lingering briefly on Weaver and much longer on Nomad.
“There is a chance. There is also a chance that by the time we pull you back out of the jungle, intelligent dinosaurs will have reclaimed the earth. Let’s just say that for this op, I’m grading on a curve. Lieutenant?”
Graham smoothly picked up where Mitchell left off. “Ghost lead for this op will be Major Perryman. You’ve got twenty-four hours to bone up on what you’re getting into, then we’re putting you on a cargo jet bound for Manaus, Brazil. In Manaus, you’ll be transferred to a light aircraft that will drop you in Amazonas State along the Rio Negro, a town in the Cucuí district where you’ll rendezvous with Captain David Protasio of C Op Est. He’ll be your support on this mission. Brasilia’s made it very clear to the White House they do not want a shooting war popping up on their northern border, particularly since there’s a good chance it could spill into their territory. Moving force en masse into that part of the country is like trying to force-feed tofu to an alligator. We’ve already got a man in the city—town, really—arranging logistics and coordinating with Protasio’s people. There will be a craft waiting for you. Your ammo, fuel, and kit are already headed upriver from Manaus.”
“Craft? You mean ‘boat,’ right?” Holt didn’t sound impressed. “We’re crossing the border by boat?”
“The other options were, A: March sixty miles through trackless and impassible jungle with zero landmarks and spotty satellite connectivity with the hope that you could then march the hostages back out that way before they dropped dead of exhaustion, or B: Swim up the Rio Negro while keeping your powder dry. There’s one airstrip in that whole region; it’s in hostile hands; and it’s not long enough to take anything bigger than a Piper Cub anyway. Anything else, or can I continue?”
Holt opened his mouth to retort but Weaver beat him to it. “First rule of standing in a hole is ‘stop digging.’ Holt, put the shovel down.”
That earned Weaver a glare, but Holt said nothing, and after a minute, Wizard tapped a couple of keys on his laptop and nodded. Behind him, a giant screen flared to life, showing a satellite image of terrain so green it looked like AstroTurf. “The good news is, you’re not being tasked with shutting this down by yourselves, taking out separatist command structures, or really doing anything that could end up on the front page of the morning papers in Caracas or Bogota.” The map refocused; this time there were borders drawn, and the image centered on the long, dark line of the Rio Negro as it ran south toward the Amazon. Two red dots appeared on the map, close to the water. “We’ve got credible intelligence of American citizens being held here and here by the soldiers of what’s now calling itself the Revolutionary Free State of Amazonas.”
“Begging your pardon, Lieutenant, if these guys are such a threat, why have I never heard of them?”
“Good question.” Wizard sounded pleased for the chance to expound. “One, media’s crap at reporting anything international, double crap for reporting anything in South America that isn’t about sports, and triple crap for reporting on international politics unless the US is directly involved. Two, intel from that deep backcountry is incredibly difficult to come by. Best you can do is have stringers in Manaus and wait for locals to come in along the river and talk. There’s no infrastructure, no comms network, nothing. Hell, there’s barely any people. So it’s a big dark spot on the intel map most of the time simply because you can’t get an asset out there except under dire circumstances.”
“But now they’ve decided to kidnap Americans, which will put them on the map.” Nomad frowned. “I don’t see the percentage in it.”
“We’ve got two possibilities. The first is the one Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell relayed to you, which is that they’re taking a page from their neighbors in FARC and moved into the kidnapping-for-ransom business. Hard currency for hostages is a sweet deal. And then there’s the one we’re really sweating.”
“Which is?”
“That it was a mistake. That they took those hostages by accident, maybe some local commander deciding to be a hero, and now they’re stuck with them. They can’t let them go because that shows weakness and they can’t keep them. Which means that sooner or later someone’s going to make a bad decision, and then this thing blows up all over the news.” Graham rubbed his eyes in unconscious imitation of the Old Man. “We’ve been able to convince the families to stay quiet so far, but if anything happens—or if someone gets antsy— then all bets are off.”
“This is a goat rodeo.” Weaver pushed back from the table. “You’re sending us down there half-prepped with a Frankenstein’s-monster squad just to avoid some bad press? That’s not what any of us signed up for, Colonel.”
“We’re sending you in because this thing could very easily blow up into a regional war on our doorstep.” Mitchell’s voice was cutting. “If we don’t do anything and the hostages are killed, then suddenly we’ve got half the country pushing us to send a significant military presence to yet another part of the map we’ve got no interest or business being in, antagonizing both Venezuela and Colombia in the process. Those two have a hard enough time getting along, and now we’d be adding a possible US incursion to the mix? No thank you, Master Sergeant. That’s what we’re really racing to stop—the cascade of interconnected crap that’s going to grow out of this if things go bad.”
Holt frowned. “And if the op goes bad and we get caught, it all blows up anyway.”
Nomad turned to him. “Then I guess we’d better not screw it up. You up for that?”
“You’ve got no idea what I’m up for.”
“Enough.” Mitchell stood and stared each man down in turn. Holt looked away, grinning. The rest met his eyes. “I cut you a bit of slack because you’re Ghosts and I expect you to know how to be grownups when the time comes. I remember Buzz Gordon drinking Klaus Henkel under the table, and then Susan Gray doing the same thing to him. I remember Astra Galinsky kicking Joe Ramirez in the balls so hard he walked around crosseyed for a week after he made some dumb-shit crack about Russian training methods. And I remember being a young smartass and trying to tell Will Jacobs his business and getting my head handed to me on a plate with a side of fries because of it. But it was always about the mission, no matter what else went down. If you knuckleheads can’t get that straight, then the hell with you. I’ll go to Venezuela myself and get this done. Alternatively, you can get your heads out of your collective asses, stop the pissing contests, and actually get ready for this double-decker soup sandwich I’m handing you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yessir.”
“Roger that.”
There was silence for a moment, then Mitchell glared ferociously. “No more digressions. Just give them the basics and let them have the rest for homework.”
“Colonel.” The Wizard cleared his throat. “These suggested positions correspond to last known locations for the hostages. This,” he said, highlighting the one farther south, zooming in on the image to show higher resolution images of trees, “is a biomedical research station. Small team, largely involved in sample collection in hopes of squeezing new drugs out of the local plants.” Three pictures popped up on the screen, two women and a man. The image at the left, a headshot of a sharpfaced African-American woman with graying hair, was highlighted. “Dr. Kathleen Crotty’s the head of the team. RIT undergrad, Stanford PhD, taught at UMich and Notre Dame before landing a tenured position at Washington U in St. Louis.” The other two images lit up in turn, a younger African-American man with a round face and a serious expression, and a slender, smiling blonde woman with hazel eyes and a tasteful stud in her nose. “Gilbert Stanton and Melanie Carpenter. Dr. Crotty’s graduate assistants. He’s in charge of logging the specimens and prepping them for transportation, she’s logistics. They’ve been in-country for about two months, brought there by a local guide who’s been resupplying them at a rendezvous point on the east side of the Rio Negro. A week ago, Carpenter failed to show for the meet. Instead, there were a couple soldiers with a message—Crotty and her team were prisoners of the Revolutionary Free State of Amazonas, and that someone needed to send along a lot of money to free them.” A new picture popped up, the three researchers looking very frightened standing in front of a small row of tents, while armed soldiers with casually slung weapons framed them in the shot.
“The guide went back downriver with the message and the pic, and our friends at the base in São Gabriel de Cachoeira got it back to us. The interesting thing in this image, though, isn’t the hostages. I mean, they’re interesting and they’re important, but there’s something else here. Specifically, this guy.”
The screen zoomed on one of the soldiers on the left, a tall man with a hatchet face and a thin mustache. He seemed relaxed and in control, unlike the other soldiers who were obviously tense, clutching their weapons with white-knuckled fingers. They looked like amateurs. This other guy looked like he’d been there before.
“Who’s that?” Holt drawled.
“Glad you asked. That, near as we can tell, is Colonel Gilberto Urbina, ranking officer for the Amazonas group. Ex-SEBIN, ex-509th Special Operations Battalion. A real charmer. A couple of years back he got crosswise with his superiors and the next thing you know, he drops off the radar. Turned out they’d assigned him to sloth-watching duty down in Amazonas, presumably to get him as far away from the seat of power as possible.”
“SEBIN?” Nomad asked.