Ghost Force (40 page)

She held out her hand to Admiral Bergstrom, and cast him one of those half-smiles that had bewitched some of the wealthiest men in England. “Afternoon, Admiral,” she said confidently. “I’ve heard much about you. All good.”

“Diana,” he replied, “so far, I’d say you make a perfect wife for the best commander I ever served with.”

“I’m trying my best,” she said, “as a foreigner.”

“People from New York are regarded as foreigners around here,” Rick chimed in. “Folk from Newmarket, like Diana, are more or less regarded as natives.”

“Where’s Newmarket?” asked the Admiral.

“England,” he said. “Racehorse capital of Europe. Diana’s family has been raising and training thoroughbreds there since before America was invented.”

“Then I’m doubly impressed,” said the Admiral, smiling. “Beauty and background, the unstoppable combination.”

The three of them walked back to the house together, and it was the Admiral who brought up the subject of the missing Douglas Jarvis. “I’m really very sorry to hear about this, Diana,” he said. “But at least Hereford has a much clearer picture now.

“It seems Douglas and his team carried out the demolition part of their mission a short while before the Royal Navy and the British landing force surrendered to the Argentinians. He was apparently operating in a remote part of East Falkland and was out of touch with his command center in the aircraft carrier, which was, of course, sunk.

“So while the free world shuddered at this British setback, Douglas and his men were stuck up the side of some mountain, with no idea what just happened. In Hereford’s opinion, they are keeping their heads well down, since they were apparently the only group that did inflict serious damage on the enemy. Under those circumstances, no Special Forces Commander wants to surrender.”

“So the SAS are more or less certain they’re not dead?” asked Diana, her face clouded with worry.

“Oh, no one thinks they’re dead. It’s just a matter of getting them out.”

“But who will get them out now the British have surrendered?”

“I’m afraid that may be us, Diana. The U.S. had some serious oil and gas interests in those islands, and no one’s very thrilled the Argentinians have seen fit to grab it all.”

“Gosh, you’re not talking about a new invasion, are you—by the Americans?”

“Quite the opposite. But we may send a small team of Special Forces down there and take a careful look at what’s happening. Since I talked to Rick, I more or less decided we’d hook up with Douglas and his guys and perhaps they could all leave together. U.S. submarine.”

“Oh, that would be marvelous. I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been. I’ve hardly slept since I heard he was posted as missing in action.”

“Yeah, it’s a kind of sinister phrase,” replied John Bergstrom. “And in this case, I consider it unnecessary. There’s no evidence whatsoever that Douglas is even missing, never mind in action. But the Brits’ principal radio satellite hookup is on the bottom of the Atlantic, so they can’t talk to him.”

Diana had really warmed to the SEAL chief and his reassuring words. But in the back of her mind she wondered what he could possibly be doing here in the middle of Kentucky, in the middle of the foaling season, having arrived in a private U.S. Navy jet, to speak to her long-retired husband. And a tiny warning bell was ringing in her mind.

Long used to making firm decisions in the purchase of racehorses that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, Diana Hunter decided on a direct approach. She went into the kitchen and collected a tray bearing a large, engraved silver coffeepot, a breeder’s prize Rick’s father, Bart, had been awarded after a Hunter Valley–bred colt had won the Travers Stakes at Saratoga.

There was a fine framed oil painting of the colt on the wall behind the Admiral. And out beyond the west-facing portico, in the stallion barns, the same hard-knocking racehorse was trying to make a name for himself in the less strenuous career bestowed only upon those who could
really
run.

“Admiral,” she said as she poured the coffee, “why have you come to see us? What do you want Rick to do for you?”

John Bergstrom knew that to hedge or evade would be absolutely fatal. This very smart English girl would pick up those vibes in a split second. “Diana, I want him to come to Coronado with me and help with this mission.

“Rick has a vested interest. He wants success as much as I do. Partly for me, for old times’ sake, but mostly for you. He wants to get Douglas out of there, and my command has the people, the backup, and the necessary power to achieve that.”

He smiled at her and added, “By the way, I have not really asked him yes or no. Perhaps you’d like to do that for me.”

Diana Hunter had to sit down. But before she could gather herself to speak, John Bergstrom added, “If Rick accepts, we’ll get Douglas out. If he declines, I hope we’ll get Douglas out. That’s the difference.

“You’re married to a Special Forces Commander who’s one of the best there’s ever been. They didn’t give him that Distinguished Service Cross for nothing.”

Lamely, Diana said, “What Distinguished Service Cross?”

“It’s the second-highest decoration in the United States armed services, right up there with the Medal of Honor. Rick has it, bestowed upon him by the President. I don’t just want him, Diana, I need him…and so, in a way, do you.”

“Rick,” said his wife, “do you want to go? Do you think you ought to go?”

“How can I not go?” said the big ex–SEAL Team Leader. “How could I live with myself if somehow Douglas died? I’d always think I could have saved him. And, strangely, so would you.”

“But what about the farm? We’re so busy.”

“Dad will come back to work for three weeks. He and Dan could manage. If necessary, Dan’s father would step in. Hunter Valley and its staff would cope, like they always have. And anyway, I’d rather lose a couple of foals than Douglas…wouldn’t you?”

Diana did not answer. But she turned again to Admiral Bergstrom. “Do you mind if I call you John?” she said.

“Not a bit.”

“Then, John, will you please tell me, how dangerous is this?”

“It’s like everything. The better you plan, the more you think about the problems and the solutions, the greater your chances of success. Frankly, I am not too bothered about my guys getting killed by the Argentinians, because it won’t happen. They’ll have a ton of backup, by air and, if necessary, by sea.

“If it came to a choice between flattening Argentina’s Mount Pleasant garrison and everyone in it, or losing my guys in battle, there’s only one answer to that. ‘Good-bye, Mount Pleasant.’ This is a mission where we must be careful, but it’s not nearly so dangerous as the last three operations Rick commanded.”

“Well, I seem to be in a bit of a spot,” said Diana. “If I object, and Douglas dies, it’s true, I’ll always think it was my fault for stopping Rick going in to save him. But what if I lost them both? What if neither of them came back? Again, I would not forgive myself for letting him go…”

“Di, the issue is Douglas,” said Rick. “And we’ve got to try. I can’t just sit here and do nothing when I have the Commander of SPECWARCOM sitting right here damn near begging me to lead this mission. I think all three of us in the room understand that…especially you, Di…now tell me, do I go with your blessing?”

“Yes, Rick, you must go with my blessing. But God help you both.”

Commander Hunter then turned to face his CO. “Sir, you must ask me formally.”

“I understand,” said Admiral Bergstrom. “And I will do so. Will you, Rick Hunter, accept a new commission in the U.S. Navy, and, with all the privileges and responsibilities of your former rank of Commander, lead the U.S. Navy SEALs in the forthcoming operation to the Falkland Islands?”

“Affirmative, sir.”

1500, THURSDAY, APRIL 21
SPECWARCOM HQ
CORONADO

“Hello, Admiral Morgan? Hi, John Bergstrom here. Just wanted to tell you Commander Hunter has agreed to return to the Navy for one single mission and lead the operation to the Falkland Islands.”

“Has he really? Hey, that’s terrific, John. Well done. Silver-tongued bastard.”

“Wasn’t much trouble, Arnie. He misses it all like hell.”

“Don’t we all? Where is he now?”

“He’s right here, and still as fit as anyone on the station. He slotted right in, just like he never left. Some of the guys who’ll go with him still remember him pretty well. Some of ’em are still in awe.”

“So am I, John. How the hell he ever got out of that mess in Burma, I guess we’ll never know.”

“I just felt so much better with him in charge. He has a way with the guys. They always feel that serving under Commander Hunter you got a darned good shot at getting out alive. They’ll follow him into hell if they have to.”

“I know. By the way, how does he feel about the air drop into the ocean?”

“I’ll tell you later, he’s just starting a two-day airborne course right now.”

“You worked out an assault landing plan yet?”

“Sure have. The guys move out of the submarine and straight into Pebble Island. They fix bombs to every one of the fifteen fighter aircraft on the ground, with six-hour delayed fuses. Then they get out, by boat, back to East Falkland. That way they make the Args concentrate their search forces up there in the wrong place. Go in with a bang. Immediately get ’em off balance.”

“Commander Hunter okay with that?”

“It was Commander Hunter’s plan.”

1500, THURSDAY, APRIL 21
NAVAL AIR STATION
NORTH ISLAND, SAN DIEGO

Rick Hunter gazed up at the scaffold from which he was, in a few moments, going to jump. It looked high, thirty feet to the platform. He could see the big fan up there and two SEAL instructors reading off a list.

There was a slight knot in the stomach of the veteran Commander. Standing here in this huge aircraft hangar, waiting his turn, was not much short of an ordeal.

Most of his younger colleagues were already experts, having completed the compulsory course at the new SEALs airborne training facility—regarded since 2009 as essential for modern Special Forces. But Rick had never done any parachute course, mostly because, as the most powerful swimmer on the base, he’d been too busy underwater.

And now the instructors were getting ready to begin the first jump.

“Okay, sir, come on up.”

Rick walked to the iron ladder and began to climb. At the top he stepped onto the platform and looked over the edge.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “It looks damned high.”

By now they were buckling the harness around him, checking the line that was attached to the fan. “Okay, sir,” snapped the dispatcher.
“All set. You’re going to do about half a dozen of these, so let’s get the first one over. It’s dead easy…step to the edge and jump out when I say Go.”

Rick stepped.
“Go!”
yelled the instructor, slapping him on the shoulder. And against all his better judgment, Rick leapt into space, falling down dead straight until the fan above whirred, and then slowed him right down, ten feet from the ground. He didn’t even fall when he landed.

Another instructor moved over to unbuckle him. “Knees together…feet together for the landing,” he snapped. “Remember, sir, that’s what we’re doing, practicing landings.” Rick was so pleased to be on the ground, alive, he actually smiled.

And, by the end of the afternoon, he was more or less perfect. But because of the time pressures, he was scheduled to face the Tower, which was more than twice as tall, thirty minutes from now.

From the bottom, it looked high and flimsy, and Rick stared straight up the iron ladder. The instructor said, “Okay, Commander, up you go. And don’t worry about this, it’s a cinch.” But halfway up the ladder, Rick made the mistake of looking down. He had to admit he was scared shitless.

“Look up, sir…keep looking up…”

He heard the voice, pressed on, and reached the platform.

“Okay, sir. Harness on, all set…now remember what we’re doing. We’re practicing the exit from the aircraft, the flight drill, and the ocean landing drill…now get your lead foot firmly on the step, left arm at forty-five degrees…hold on to the scaffold, there, sir. Now, right arm across the reserve chute…that’s it.”

Rick looked down, and he might as well have been on top of the Empire State Building. People actually looked smaller.

“Right, sir…nice firm step…jump clear…and Go!”

Rick closed his eyes and went, forcing himself once more into space.

“That’s good, sir. Nice and strong, then the landing position as we lower you down…that’s very nice, sir. Keep looking around, eyes up, then down, don’t want you crashing into the guy below you, okay?”

The high fan whirred and bit, slowing the jumper right down. “Looks good…very nice…” called the instructor on the ground,
as Rick landed gently. “Three more of those, you’ll be ready for the balloon.”

That took place at 0700 the following morning, Friday. And Rick found himself staring up at an enormous balloon anchored in the sky, thirty feet above the ground. Way below it, at the bottom of the cable, was a flimsy-looking standing metal cage. It was big enough to hold six people.

Rick, the lone pupil, was guided in by the dispatcher. The single bar that served as a door was slammed across, and, on the signal, the cage began to move upward with the balloon, its cable being slowly released, unwound from a winch truck.

“You’ll feel it tilt all the way up there,” said the instructor. “When it clicks off at the top, the angle will change and we’ll level out at eight hundred feet. That’s when we’ve arrived.”

For the first time, Rick debated whether he might right now declare his nerve had gone. He was more or less struck dumb by fear, but he could control that. Through the low metal-grid rails, he could see the ground slipping away beneath him, as the balloon rose to the dropping height.

The master of Hunter Valley was not enjoying this. Up and up they swayed, the rising wind now whining through the bars of the cage. Rick hung on to the section of the wall nearest to him, knuckles milk white in the eerie silence of the ride. He touched his parachute pack, gripped by the unnerving silence.

He could not for the life of him imagine he was going to jump out of this cage, and probably plummet to his death.
No way. No fucking way. I might be crazy, but I’m not fucking nuts.

Just then the cage swayed back into a level position…
Jesus Christ. This is it. I’ve got to get out.

“Okay, sir, check parachute lines on the static line right above your head…that’s good…step forward…”

Rick stayed where he was, gazing out around him, aware of the manifest truth that he could see half of California from here.

“Right, Commander, over here, sir…”

Rick came forward, planting his lead left foot on the toe of the cage. The instructor checked the parachute line. Rick placed his left hand on the outside of the doorway. Someone pulled off the bar, the single bar that stood between him and instant death.

“Look up!”

“Now, when I tell you to go, you
go
, right?”

“Yes.”

“Go!”

And Rick Hunter hurled himself out of the cage…into thin air…and as he fell, he felt himself leaning back, his feet riding up in front of his face. Never had he experienced such a chill of fear.

Then high above him he heard a crack, and a billowing sound, and he began to swing back, and his feet began to ride downward, and suddenly he was going slower and his body was at the right angle. Staring above him he could see the parachute had miraculously deployed and the canopy was right up there, and he might not die after all.

And now, temporarily safe, he remembered the drills. And he looked about him, to the left and to the right and especially downward. He knew he was supposed to be going forward, slowly, and he pulled down on his forward lift webs, adjusting his feet for the landing.

Down below he could already hear the instructors on the ground barking commands through their megaphones.
All right, Commander…assess your drift…adjust for landing.

The ground was now coming up to meet him. Rick kept his knees together, shifting the angle of his feet, as he had been taught.

“Let up now!!”

Moments later he hit the ground, not too hard, and went immediately into the roll. But when he stood up the chute began to pull him across the ground, as the wind took it again.

“Pull in lower lift webs…collapse the canopy,”
someone was yelling.

Rick obeyed, and broke free of the parachute. He packed up calmly and headed back toward the Navy Jeep, a slight swagger in his stride.

“How was it, sir?” asked the driver.

“No trouble,” he replied jauntily.

1100, FRIDAY, APRIL 22

With two instructors Rick climbed aboard the aircraft. It was raining lightly, and they took off into the skies above San Diego to make Rick’s first airborne parachute jump.

The main objective right now was to become familiar with the noise, the turbulence, and the need to watch the hand signals from the dispatcher and the lights above the door.

Strapped in now, Rick braced himself as the troop transporter roared down the North Island runway, thundering and vibrating upward, through the low rain cloud and up to an operational height of just under 5,000 feet.

Rick felt the pilot bank right, crawling right around to the north of the city of San Diego, the noise of the engines deafening inside the aircraft. Soon he heard the dispatcher announce, “We’ve come full circle, we’re right above the airfield again…coming up to the Drop Zone now…let’s go to
action stations…!!”

Rick stood up, clipped on to the static line that runs along the fuselage of the aircraft, and moved toward the rear. The dispatcher had the door open now, and the scream of the wind made communication almost impossible.

“Stand in the door…!”

Rick came forward, jaw jutting, always the leader in his own mind.

“Okay, sir, you know the drill…you’re clipped on…parachute ready…red on…”

Above the door the red light glared. Rick Hunter placed his lead foot on the step, keeping his eyes up, left hand angled out against the doorway.

“Green on!! Go…!”

Rick Hunter, with one of the supreme acts of courage of his life, leapt clear of the aircraft, and tumbled through space, knees together, falling backward waiting for the magic moment when the canopy would crack open above him.

He heard it first, then saw it, then felt it, stabilizing his fall, pulling him upright again. And now he was swinging down in the wind, dropping through the air.

He could see the ground rising to meet him, and he braced for the landing, feet together, angled for the approach, knees together, pulling the back lift webs to slow his forward movement. He hit the ground less than gently, but going the right way, immediately into the forward roll position. The wind was low on the ground and he collapsed the chute without any trouble, packed up, and walked to the waiting instructors.

“Well done, sir. Nice landing.”

“Thanks,” said Rick. “Thanks very much. No problem.”

“No problem,” replied the instructor with a knowing wink, remembering of course his own terrifying, ass-gripping, heart-shattering first jump, right here on this very field. “Remember, sir. Next time it’ll be the Atlantic instead of the airfield. And it’s just as fucking hard, trust me!”

Rick Hunter chuckled as he walked back to the Jeep that had arrived to pick him up. He hadn’t much enjoyed his short course in parachute jumping. But at least he knew how to do it.

Admiral Bergstrom had done the decent thing and permitted Rick Hunter a short lunch break, which the commander considered “real sweet of him,” since he, Rick, had just spent one and a half days “executing lunatic leaps into space, somehow cheating death on a goddamned hourly basis.”

And now the Navy helicopter was bringing the Commander back to his old home, coming in to land inside the barbed wire that surrounded the SEALs’ compound behind the beach at Coronado. Although Admiral Bergstrom had organized an excellent lunch for both himself and Rick, he made quite certain it was a working lunch.

He had also invited two VISs (Very Important SEALs), Lt. Commander Dallas MacPherson and Chief Petty Officer Mike Hook, both of whom had served with Rick in the desperate getaway from Burma, three and a half years ago. Both men had manned M60 machine guns in the inflatable boats as they escaped, hammering away at the Chinese helicopters.

And now they met again for the first time since the bloodbath in the Burmese Delta. Commander Hunter walked into the bright, white-painted conference room below Admiral Bergstrom’s office and almost died of shock at seeing his old teammates.

He threw his arms around Lt. Commander MacPherson with that joyful affection so often found among men who have fought a terrible battle, shoulder to shoulder, and survived. And he hugged Chief Mike Hook with equal warmth and friendship. Each one of the three had always understood that without the other two, they would surely have all perished.

Admiral Bergstrom thoughtfully left them alone for ten minutes
before he joined the group, and when he did so, he began with a very short, dramatic announcement: “Dallas, Mike, I want you to know officially from me that Commander Hunter has rejoined the United States Navy for the purpose of just one highly classified mission.”

“You mean he’s here to help plan it, or he’s actually going on it?” asked Dallas, as if Rick Hunter was not even in the room.

“He’s not only here to help me plan it, he’s going to lead it. Which should be interesting for you both. You’re going with him.”

“Me?” said Lt. Commander MacPherson. “I thought I’d done my main mission. I thought I was going to be a senior instructor.”

“You are, Dallas. But first you’re going to take a short trip to the South Atlantic with your old boss. I should perhaps tell you that I asked Commander Hunter personally if he had any preference for a 2I/C, and he said immediately, ‘Dallas MacPherson, if he’s available.’ You should be very honored.”

“I am, sir,” replied the Lt. Commander. “It’s just a little bit of a shock, that’s all. But I’m ready. Where did you say we’re going?”

“South Atlantic. Falkland Islands.”