Ghost Force (39 page)

“The Brits did it last time off South Georgia,” replied Admiral Bergstrom. “Which means we could do it. Just don’t want to get too near the Falklands coast and wind up on the goddamned Argentine radar.”

“No. We definitely don’t want to do that,” said Arnold. “But we do have a time problem. The longer we leave this, the better organized the Argentinian defenses will be. So we’ll leave it to you to move quickly.”

“Oh, Arnie. One thing more. To conduct an operation like this we’re going to need kit, especially bombs, sticky bombs and C-4, that is. We’ll need enough gear and food to let them live off the land, but they can’t carry it all—not with a parachute drop into the ocean.”

“No. I was talking to the President about that. I think we’ll go for HALO and drop some stuff in, soon as they pick a safe landing area.”

“Okay. That’ll work.”

“One other thing, John. Who’s gonna lead this thing? We need a very special guy, an experienced veteran commander who won’t make mistakes.”

“My guys don’t make mistakes, Arnie.”

“I know they don’t. But this operation is very sensitive. It’s got to be carried out by ghosts. By a Ghost Force. Ghosts with hammers in their hands.”

Admiral Bergstrom turned to the President. “I think I mentioned, sir, we’re being briefed by a poet.”

“Yes, I’d noticed,” chuckled Paul Bedford. “But I’m loving this conversation, so keep going, get me off the hook with the biggest oil company in the country.”

“Well, do you have any thoughts about a Team Leader?” asked Arnie.

“I’ve got one thought, okay? I know who I’d like. But I can’t get him. He retired a while ago. But we got a couple of pretty good instructors who’ve been on missions. I’ll probably recall one of them.”

“Okay, we’ll leave it to you…but can you tell me the name of your first choice?”

“I don’t think so. He left the Navy in rather controversial circumstances.”

“Oh, did he now?” asked Arnold Morgan, slyly. “Wouldn’t be running a racehorse farm, would he? Not the great Commander Rick Hunter?”

“I wish,” said Admiral Bergstrom.

1930, TUESDAY, APRIL 19
HUNTER VALLEY FARMS

Rick and Diana were checking the stallion covering lists. There was a busy night ahead for three of the youngest sires, and big horse vans were already lining up in the lower driveway, bringing in wildly expensive blue-blooded mares from local farms.

At the same time there were six mares who had been in residence for several weeks expected to foal tonight. Rick and Diana usually had dinner at around eight o’clock, and then pulled on their jackets to tour what Rick called the Springtime Battleground, where the fortunes of the farm for another year were more or less decided.

The major yearling and foal sales later in the year were, of course, the principal source of income, but the mares had to go in foal first, and reputations of young stallions were on the line long before any of their progeny made it to the racecourse.

Rick, who was once described as the fittest man who ever wore sea boots, had just completed two hours in the gym he had built in the basement of the house. He worked there four evenings a week, and also ran a hard five miles on the other three days. When he left the Navy three and a half years ago, he had vowed to remain at the peak of his fitness for as long as possible. Thus far he had never faltered.

He and Diana often rode out around the farm together, and they were both used to long walks through the paddocks, looking at various yearlings and mares. But today had been trying. Diana was still extremely upset about Douglas, and had not wanted to venture out
despite the invention of mobile phones. Her husband had been restraining her from calling Hereford again.

“Leave it,” he had told her. “The SAS CO will most certainly call when he hears something. And Admiral Bergstrom will definitely be speaking to them. He promised.”

But Diana could not be comforted. Her only thought was of her lovely Douglas somehow dead on some frozen landscape in the South Atlantic, soldier unknown.

And when the phone rang at 1941, she almost jumped out of the chair. The call identifier showed California, and it was indeed Admiral Bergstrom for Rick Hunter.

“Good evening, Admiral,” said the ex–SEAL Commander. “Any news?”

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Mike Weston in Hereford, and he says they are sure that Douglas and his team are still alive. Otherwise the Argentinians would have included them on the lists of the dead. Hereford HQ believes they have declined to surrender, because they apparently did complete a highly destructive part of their mission—according to Colonel Weston, it was the only big hit the Args took on the Falkland mainland.”

“Jesus. You mean they really are on the run, through those mountains, trying to get out?”

“I do. And Mike Weston did remind me the Argentinians might very well be after them in a determined way.”

“That’s less good news,” replied Rick.

“It is, but Weston said it would be a helluva good soldier who managed to kill one of that group. Apparently Doug Jarvis has seven trained killers with him. Hereford say they’re not worried and expect to hear something positive any day.”

“Well, that’s a relief, Admiral. I guess the only problem is the sheer weight of numbers the Argentinians can throw into a hunt, right?”

“That, Ricky, is the problem. They are the SAS, and they are reputed to be indestructible. Trouble is, there’s not many of them, and they may be against a determined enemy.”

“I guess right now there’s no plans to go in and try to save them?”

“Well, certainly not from the defeated and battered Brits. But I
think we may have to do something to help…the Argentinians after all have stolen all that ExxonMobil oil and gas…by the way, you wouldn’t consider giving us a hand, would you?”

“Who, me? What do you mean?”

“Well, Rick, I won’t pretend we’ve ever really replaced you, because we haven’t. And everyone was real sorry when you resigned your commission, although we understood. I just wondered if you’d consider helping us save your brother-in-law.”

“Jeez. That’s one hell of a question.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Well, I can’t see the harm in talking about it. But I can’t come out there, not in the foaling season.”

“How about I come visit you?”

“Sure, any time.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Okay. What time?

“Guess I could leave around six a.m. Get in there around four hours later, 1300 for you.”

“Fine. I’ll meet you. Blue Grass Field, Lexington. U.S. Navy jet, right?”

“I’m gonna be there, Rick. See you tomorrow.”

Diana, who had been waiting on the other side of the room, said, “Who’s coming?”

“Admiral Bergstrom. You’ll like him. He’s head of the U.S. Navy’s Special Forces.”

“But he hasn’t found Douglas?”

“No, but he’s on the trail. The SAS are certain he’s not dead. And John Bergstrom is working on a plan to get them all out. The Brits, who’ve surrendered, can’t do much.”

“Why does he need to come here?”

“Wants to talk to me about it. He and I worked on several missions together.”

“But you’ve retired from the Navy and all that stuff.”

“Kinda hard to replace a top man,” grinned Rick.

1300, WEDNESDAY, APRIL 20
BLUE GRASS FIELD
LEXINGTON, KENTUCKY

Rick Hunter was not tired, which was surprising since he had hardly slept all night. Twice he had been up and out to the covering shed, where a young stallion was not only playing hell but, much worse, was refusing to cover a mare, for which the farm was charging $150,000.

A couple of the more youthful stallion men were about to give up when the boss arrived. “I know he’s difficult,” Rick had told them, “but unlike any of you, that stallion often earns three hundred thousand dollars a night…I don’t care if he demands a candlelit dinner, a string quartet, and a bottle of Chateau Latour for him and the mare…
If he does, then go get it for him, hear me!
But get that mare covered.”

Somehow they persuaded the stallion it was not that bad an idea, and twenty minutes later he agreed. Rick went back to bed, and spent the remainder of the night thinking about his life as a U.S. Navy SEAL—the training, the stealth, the terrible danger, the attacks, the supreme fitness, the camaraderie.
My God, what days they were…could I still do it?…Just one more time? Was John Bergstrom joking when he asked me? Christ, guess I’ll find out before too long
.

And now he could see the Lockheed Aries coming in to land. The airport was quiet, and he watched the U.S. Navy aircraft come screaming out of the west, over some of the most famous thoroughbred racehorse pastures on earth. He watched it flare out when it reached the runway, and touch down gracefully. The pilot had, after all, probably spent a lot of his working life landing on aircraft carriers. Blue Grass Field was a lot more steady.

Five minutes later he was shaking hands with his old boss, Rear Admiral John Bergstrom, the unrecognized head of SPECWARCOM, walking without uniform through the airport, like just a visiting horse breeder.

They exchanged the warmest greetings, and a thousand memories surged over them both. And by the time they had driven back to Hunter Valley, it was clear in Rick’s mind the Admiral wanted him to be a part of the mission to bail out the Falklands for the Brits and the oil companies.

He also had the distinct impression the temporary loss of Douglas Jarvis was precisely the impetus the Admiral needed to try and persuade him to join the mission. By the time they pulled through the big stone gates of the farm, Rick only understood John Bergstrom wanted him to be involved, but whether as a mere planner or instructor he was uncertain.

He decided to ask the big question before they entered the house. “Sir,” he said, “are you going to ask me to join you in the back room and help plan the assault?”

The Admiral hesitated. “Not quite.”

“You mean you want me to join the guys on the mission, and do whatever we need to get those Argentinians into line, and the SAS out of there?”

“Rick, I want you to command it.”

“Who, me?” he replied, stunned at the dimension of the request. “But I’m not even in the Navy.”

“As an ex–SEAL Commander, you could be back in by this evening. Guys like you have special rules in Coronado. I am perfectly empowered, any time I wish, to re-recruit one of my best men for a specific mission. Particularly someone with a record like yours.”

“Sir, you realize I would have to decline this out of hand were it not for the…er…complication of Diana’s brother?”

They were still sitting in the car, the Admiral enjoying this rather optimistic chat, Rick Hunter frozen to the spot with apprehension and God knows what else. Every instinct told him this was nuts, that he could not leave the farm at this time of the year, he could not just pack up and go on some diabolically dangerous mission with the SEALs, and perhaps get himself killed.

And yet…and yet…the thrill of combat, the overpowering sensation of working with top guys against an almost certainly inferior enemy. Oh, boy, how often had he dreamed it, tasted it, remembered the desperation, the fear and the triumph, and the friendship and the laughter.
Hell
, he thought,
once a SEAL always a SEAL
.

He thought of his Trident, his own personal badge of courage, tucked in his shirt drawer, the little badge he still polished when the mood took him. He thought of the work underwater, the rush of adrenaline when he and his boys blew up two warships in Burma. And
what about that power station they’d knocked down, and the getaway, under Chinese fire? Jesus Christ, he’d remember that day ’til he died.

John Bergstrom was smiling, as if he knew what his finest ever SEAL was thinking. “Nothing like it, old buddy, is there? Nothing quite like it.”

“Nossir. There’s not. How long?”

“A few days’ training. Then two weeks max, in and out.”

“How do we get in?”

“Submarine, then inflatables to the beach, a totally deserted beach.”

“Sir, it’s gonna take a submarine two weeks to get down there. How come you’re saying two weeks start to finish?”

“You’ll fly down, and join the submarine.”

“Where?”

“In the middle of the ocean. We’re planning a drop zone in the Atlantic a hundred miles north of the Falklands.”

“Jesus, sir. I’ve never gone in by parachute.”

“I know. That’s what the three days’ training are for. You know the rest better than I do.”

At that point, Diana came out of the house walking toward the dark green four-wheel-drive, off-road vehicle that bore the logo of Hunter Valley Thoroughbreds.

“I’m sure it’s very private,” she said and smiled. “But you might be more comfortable inside. I’ve made you some coffee and there’s some lunch when you’re ready.”

She walked toward the passenger’s side, looking extraordinarily beautiful in tight jodhpurs and boots, with a white shirt and light blue cashmere sweater.