John Ringo: Ghost

“Ten dead terrorists? All of them armed? One of him?” Brandeis grinned again. “That’s not a SWAT team guy, that’s SEAL or Delta. Maybe Ranger. There’s a Ranger base near there.”

“Whoever he is, we’ll find him,” the FBI director said.

“Just like Eric Rudolf,” Brandeis jibed.

“Enough,” the president said.

“Sir?” Minuet said. “This person, whoever he is, has killed ten terrorists and broken up a major operation. If they find out who he is, he’s a target.”

“Good point,” the President said, nodding. “This case goes under national security restrictions as of now. No further investigation by local authorities, all investigation at TS Code Word level only. Understood?”

“Understood,” the FBI director said. “The news media has already gotten wind of the shooting and that kidnapping was involved. What do we say?”

“Just that,” Edward Travali, the chief of staff, said. “There was a shooting involving terrorists who had kidnapped one or more females from the Athens area. Talk to the victims and tell them that it’s really important that, for the time being, they not say anything else.”

“Don’t threaten them with U.S. Code,” the President interjected. “Just try to reason with them. If your SAIC can’t reason with them, have him call me and I’ll tell them why they have to be quiet about this. We don’t want the name of the shooter coming out.”

“And, in a way more important,” Minuet pointed out, “we don’t need them to know that we’re trying to track the shipment. We don’t even want them to know we’re sure there is a shipment.”

“And find the plane,” the President said, definitely. “Find the girls. Where’s the CIA director?”

“The acting director is out of town,” Minnie pointed out. “His deputy was called but he lives out in Reston; he’s still on the way in.”

“Well, he’s missed the meeting,” the President said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Tell him to find those girls. Call the NSA, the CIA and every other acronym down to the D EA and tell them that their number one priority is to find those girls. Don?”

“Mr. President?”

“We all know that they’re probably headed for one of about six countries,” the President said harshly. “I want plans dusted off for going into any of those six countries, with anything it takes, to get them out alive. Send out some sort of warning order. I want jets warmed up, I want Delta up, I want FAST and the SEALs and Marines and Rangers and everybody down to the Cub Scouts ready. Understood?”

“Understood, sir,” the defense secretary said. “If it’s Iran, Syria or Lebanon… well, it’s not going to be easy, Mr. President.”

“I don’t care about easy,” the President said, his face hard. “I’m not going to go through one hundred and forty-four days of ‘the hostage crisis’ on my watch. Understood? We’re getting them out or we’re taking down the country. We’re not going to negotiate. Nobody does this to the United States. I don’t care if they’re in China . Nobody does this to the United States. Not and lives to talk about it. If they’re in Iran, we’re going to take the mullahs all the way out, once and for all. If they’re in Syria, Basser Assad is going to be buried in an unmarked grave. If they’re in the Hezbollah camps I will nuke those camps to the ground to get them released and if one hair is harmed on their heads those raghead bastards are going to wish that Allah had never let them be brought into the world. Religion of peace my ass.”

Mike woke up once on the trip, when the plane landed, somewhere, to refuel. “Somewhere” as far as Mike could see could have been anywhere from New Mexico to Afghanistan. There was a whole strip of the world, where he’d spent a good part of his professional life, that looked exactly the same. Even the people all looked the same: dirty, slow and uncaring. He was cold as hell, hyped out for sure. He’d had hypothermia a couple of times before and he knew what it felt like. He slid the thermal blanket back and spent the time trying to warm up before the next flight. It was daylight and hot so he warmed back up pretty fast. He had what felt like a touch of frostbite on one ear, so he pulled his spare T-shirt out of the jump bag and wrapped it around his head. Then he pulled out his power bars and bottle of water and ate and drank it all. Better to carry it in the body than in a bag that might get lost. He’d toss the litter on take-off; in an Islamic country littering was a way of life; nobody would notice.

With that done, there wasn’t much else to do. There was no sound of the girls being unloaded so the plane was going to refuel and go on somewhere else. Where that might be he had no idea. What he would do when they got there… he had no idea. He just hoped it would be at night.

No, there was something he could do. He pulled out the satellite phone, which looked like one of the old “brick” cell phones, extended the antenna and pressed 0.

“International operator, how may I direct your call?”

“Person to person to the duty officer of the day, Special Operations Command, MacDill Air Force Base, Tampa, Florida, United States of America.”

“ Bingo! We’ve got a prints match on the Athens shooter. Michael R. Harmon, social 477-98-9023, United States Navy petty officer first class. End of active service is about two years ago. Fifty percent disability pay. That’s all I’ve got from the print run. I can do a standard request for his service record…”

“Pass it up,” the agent in charge said. “And forget you ever heard it. This is all TS Code word level now.”

“Petty Officer Michael ‘Ghost’ Harmon,” the briefing officer said.

Colonel Bob Pierson was the Office of the White House liaison officer from Special Operations Command. When the FBI had forwarded the information on the shooter, it had been passed to his desk with a priority to, quietly, find out everything he could about one “Michael Harmon” and prepare a brief. Now he was sweating as, for the first time, he was briefing the full “War Cabinet” on one minor, separated, petty officer. “Two years of college at the University of Georgia in Athens, mediocre to poor grades, quit and joined the Navy with stated intention of becoming a SEAL. Graduated from Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL school in class 201, was assigned to SEAL Team Three, Charlie Platoon. Operational in Mogadishu, Congo, Sudan. Towards the end of his second enlistment, requested transfer to a training position, which was granted.”

“Why?” the secretary of defense asked.

“That’s not clear, Mr. Secretary,” the colonel answered. “It’s not stated anywhere in his records.”

“Go on.”

“Transferred to the Naval Special Warfare Center, at Coronado, assigned to second phase training. Promoted to First Class Petty Officer while a trainer, after having a real problem with passing the bosun’s course.”

“Explain that,” the President said.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Pierson replied, thinking. “SEALs are trained as commandos. But their actual military skill is in something else, in the case of Petty Officer Harmon it’s as a bosun, which is the guy who handles… well, ‘real’ Navy stuff, how to bring in a small boat to a ship, how to do an underway transfer, how to rig stuff for a storm. Winches and boat driving and paint. It’s not SEAL training by any stretch. So the SEALs have to take time off to study up for the tests that they have to pass to get promoted. And since they don’t do it as a regular skill, they often have problems.”