Ghost Recon (2008)

  "I came to look at a car across the street."

  "How have you been?"

  Sze Ma frowned. "Captain, years have passed, but I will never forget that night. That terrible night. And now, seeing you here again . . . I don't know what to say."

  Fang bared his teeth, slapped a hand on Sze Ma's shoulder, shocking the man, and said, "Do you think I deserved what happened to me?"

  "It doesn't matter what I think."

  "I want to know."

  "I'm sorry, Captain."

  Fang grabbed Sze Ma's arm and tightened his grip. "Are you married now? Do you have a family?"

  "Yes, one little girl."

  "And does she know that she would not exist were it not for me and what I did to save your life?"

  "You beat me with your sword. You refused to let me fight. I have not changed my mind about such things."

  "You would be dead. And for what? To please the Americans?"

  "Let me go. Because if you don't--"

  "What will you do to me that they haven't already done? Strip me of my rank, my duty, everything I worked so hard for? Years spent in Fengshan at the academy? All for nothing!"

  "Captain, I'm sorry. I need to go."

  "So do I," said Fang. "So do I."

  With that, he released the man, who hurriedly crossed the street before the light changed.

  Sze Ma reached the opposite corner and stole a worried look at Fang, then he started toward the car dealership.

  With a start, Fang was struck by what he was supposed to be doing. His gaze probed the street. He checked his watch and cursed.

  Even as he reached for his cell phone, it began to ring: Yeh Chun-chang was calling.

  "I saw him," said Yeh. "He crossed the street just like you said he would. He was wearing the jacket. I saw you talking with that other man. I could have done the job, but you told me not to go until you called."

  "I'll call you back."

  Fang broke into a sprint, reached the corner, turned left, then raced down the sidewalk, past rows of buildings, looking for a man wearing a white athletic jacket with red sleeves. The jacket bore the 2008 Olympic Games logo, along with a dragon wrapping around its side.

  The jacket belonged to Kao Ku-ching, the man who was supposed to die, the man who was now gone.

  Fang reached the corner, shot looks both ways up the alleys, then glanced forward to an old apartment building where Kao lived in a modest one-bedroom on the third floor.

  Through an open window Fang saw a television flick on, and he knew Kao had made it home safely. Fang called Yeh and said, "We'll need to wait until tomorrow."

  "I will need to be paid for today."

  Fang sighed in disgust and said, "Yes. Same time tomorrow."

  "Very well. You should pay attention because this can become very expensive for you."

  "I will. And you will receive your final payment only after the job is done. Remember that."

  That night, Fang lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his ramshackle apartment.

  He was a soldier who had been born to fight. He would continue to fight, no matter what they said. When they had removed him from the army, they had thought he had no spirit, that he had no will to fight.

  He tensed over the thought, then relaxed, turned his head toward his nightstand upon which his sword cane leaned, its tiger patterns coming alive in the darkness.

  Years spent apologizing to his forefathers had amounted to nothing. Now he railed against even them, deemed them as victims of the American poison, and only he, Fang Zhi, could set the family on a new and more honorable course.

  The next afternoon, Fang stood once more on the same street corner, smoking his cigarette and reading his newspaper. A front had moved in, and in a few moments the black clouds would finally empty themselves. The weather provided a perfect excuse for Fang to wear his rain jacket and hood, which would, of course, help conceal his identity.

  Across the street was the gray sedan.

  Any moment now, Kao would reach the corner and enter the crosswalk as he had every weekday for the past month.

  Without exception.

  Fang shifted his weight from one leg to the other, backhanded the sweat from his brow, and breathed in the warm, humid air. He shivered in anticipation.

  Then he took a last drag of cigarette, ditched it in the road, and glanced across the intersection as it began to rain.

  Kao was right there, only today he was not wearing the Olympic jacket, just a blue sweatshirt.

  Fang had told Yeh Chun-chang back in the sedan to take care of the job as soon as he saw Kao, but Yeh was looking for that Olympic jacket!

  Where was Fang's cell phone? He fumbled in his pocket, dialed the number.

  Across the way, Yeh lifted his phone to his ear.

  "Yeh, it is me," Fang cried. "He's in a blue sweatshirt! "Go now."

  At the intersection, Kao was holding a backpack over his head and waiting for the light to change. The rain grew heavier.

  Yeh revved the sedan's engine.

  Fang remembered the many hours he had spent with Kao. They had actually become friends. He had even consoled Fang when the final scores had been revealed.

  Fang's heart began to race.

  And for a few seconds, Fang thought of running to the corner and calling it all off. But he couldn't. He might have doubts, but he'd already made the decision and was beyond the point of return.

  The light turned green.

  Kao, along with a half dozen other pedestrians, rushed into the crosswalk, a few wrestling with their umbrellas.

  A terrific thunderclap echoed off the buildings.

  Yeh, still parked at the corner, held back until the last possible second, then he roared into the street, coming directly at the pedestrians, who swung their heads.

  Fang flinched as screams rose from the street.

  And then, strangely enough, the whole event unfolded before his eyes as though in slow motion.

  Two women dove out of the sedan's path.

  One man was struck in the leg and went spinning to the asphalt, his umbrella carried off by the wind.

  Yeh rolled the wheel and screeched toward Kao, who looked up and had no time to move.

  Another young man, about Kao's age, who was now within a meter of the car, reached out to grab and save Kao, but the sedan came between them.

  It was almost too much to watch, but Fang couldn't help himself. His gaze was riveted, and, with a horrid fascination, he stood there as Yeh struck Kao head-on before the other man could reach him.

  The sedan's front bumper slammed into Kao's legs and hips, sending him knifing over the hood and up, onto the windshield, which shattered as he rolled over it, across the roof, then went tumbling down onto the street, limbs flopping, head lolling and scraping across the pavement.

  The other man had been sideswiped by the sedan, and he now lay in the street, as Yeh screeched off into the rain.

  Other pedestrians who'd been gathering at the corner began running into the street, crying for help.

  Fang stared in shock a moment longer, seeing that Kao was not moving, his arms and legs twisted at improbable angles.

  Suddenly, a powerful chill ripped through him, and he shivered and realized he needed to get out of there, couldn't be identified at the scene.

  He ran off, but then remembered that running would draw too much attention, so he slowed to a brisk walk as his cell phone began to ring.

  Yeh was calling about his payment.

  Two weeks later, Fang Zhi received the phone call he was waiting for. He took a cab down to the National Sports Training Center in Tsoying, where Tsao Chin-hui, Fang's coach, had his office.

  Tsao, who had won several Olympic medals himself, greeted Fang with a broad grin. "I'm sure you know why you're here."

  "I feel terrible and excited at the same time."

  "I understand. Kao was a fine young man and an excellent marksman."

  "I have been busy with other things," said Fang. "
And I haven't followed what's been happening. Have they caught the driver of that car?"

  "No, they found the vehicle. I heard that the driver might have fled to China."

  "A tragedy. He was probably a drunk driver like they said."

  "Probably." Tsao's gaze narrowed. "Kao had many friends, no enemies."

  "That is true. The police asked me many questions."

  "Kao beat you by only a few points to make the team. Of course they would suspect you, but I told them you were a great sportsman and the last person who might do something like this."

  "Thank you."

  "Well, then, you will take Kao's place. I am sorry it had to be this way for you, but welcome to the team."

  "I am honored."

  Fang left the office and hailed another cab. On the way back to his apartment, as the driver navigated through the congested streets, it finally struck Fang.

  He was going to Beijing. He would compete in the Olympic Games as a marksman.

  Yes, the competition would be thrilling. But more so was the notion that after the games, he would not return home.

  He would finally turn his back on the country that had abandoned him.

  Fang Zhi would defect to China, and the chance to do that was worth even more than being an Olympic athlete.

  It was worth Kao's life.

  SEVEN

  FORT BRAGG

  NEAR FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

  JUNE 2007

  Scott Mitchell took a deep breath and grinned in satisfaction over the scent of fresh-cut pine. He was out at the storage garage he rented, just fifteen minutes off the base, where he'd set up his woodworking shop.

  Although it was only ten A.M., he was already soaked in sweat. He tugged off his T-shirt and used it to wipe away the perspiration running down his chest and over the scar on his abdomen. That curiously shaped mark often drew questions that he avoided in an effort to bury the past. He got back to work on the table saw, cutting his next piece.

  Some Special Forces operators went hunting or fishing in their off time, and Mitchell did a little of both. He'd bagged a few nice deer in his day and could tie on a Texas-rigged worm to bass-fish with the best of them, but it was the woodworking that gave him both a perfect release of stress and an incredible sense of accomplishment when he finished a piece.

  While he was hardly as accomplished as those woodworking hosts on TV, he had designed and built some very intricate and ornate pieces: writing desks, curio cabinets, gun racks and display cases, and even a large entertainment center that he had sold to the battalion commander, whose wife had ordered Mitchell to do so.

  His current project was a little different. One of the warrants of an ODA team in his company was a breeder of African and South American tortoises: sulcatas, leopards, and redfoots, respectively, and Mitchell had been hired to build several tortoise tables upon which the critters would roam and live indoors when the weather did not permit them to graze outside.

  So he'd come up with some rather simple but attractive designs for these enclosures and was hoping to finish the first table and have it ready for stain by the end of the day, because he'd be quite busy that evening.

  Ah, yes, the smell of fresh-cut pine in the morning. Better than napalm any day.

  The party was supposed to be a surprise, but Mitchell knew all about it. So when he walked into the banquet hall, he mouthed a Wow then delivered the broad grin for which they'd been waiting.

  They had even strung a banner across the wall:

  CONGR ATULATIONS

  CAPTAIN SCOTT MITCHELL

  Getting promoted to captain was a pretty big deal. When someone referred to the "detachment commander," they'd be talking about him. That would feel a little weird.

  Moreover, the joke was that captains were just the token officers on ODA teams, coming in to spend six, nine, maybe even twelve months, after which they'd be shipped out and go on to lead companies and battalions. They were sometimes treated a bit coldly by the NCOs, especially those younger captains fresh out of school who lacked real-world experience. The team sergeants often said that the best captains were the ones who knew how to take orders--from them.

  A few of Mitchell's colleagues led him up to a podium and screamed, "Speech, speech!"

  They'd already become sloppy drunk while waiting.

  His cheeks warming, Mitchell eyed the sixty or so men and their spouses and girlfriends seated at the tables. Damn, they'd even hired a DJ. Yes, these were his people, his family, and he couldn't have felt more proud.

  "Uh, I'm so surprised."

  That drew a few laughs.

  "And you'd think as Special Forces operators, you'd be able to plan something like this without me finding out. But, you guys, you know you're the best of the best. Unconventional warriors. But as party planners? You suck."

  Now the whole room broke into laughter.

  "Seriously, thank you so much. I really appreciate this."

  Out of the corner of Mitchell's eye he spotted a familiar face and immediately got choked up.

  It was Rutang, seated there, now sergeant first class and senior medic who'd just come back from a tour in Iraq. Mitchell had kept in touch with him, but he'd had no idea the man would be present.

  They shook hands, banged fists, then Mitchell took a seat next to him and was handed a beer as the DJ announced that the party had begun and fired up a heavy-hitting remake of Iggy Pop's "Gimme Danger."

  "You flew all the way here for this?" asked Mitchell.

  "I wouldn't miss it, man."

  "How's Mandy doing?"

  Rutang rolled his eyes. "Pregnant again. And she's sorry she couldn't make it."

  "Wow." Mitchell chuckled. "Congratulations."

  "I keep telling her to stay away from the FedEx guy."

  "So now you'll have two kids, a beautiful wife . . . that's a good reason to come home. I got a woodshop."

  Rutang took a sip of his beer and barely smiled.

  "What's wrong? You come to my promotion party, and you look like someone died."

  "I don't know--"

  Rutang cut himself off as Chris Hobbs, the warrant who kept the tortoises, approached and apologized for interrupting. "We'd like to take a couple of pictures before we get too drunk."

  He dragged Mitchell away, and for the next fifteen minutes, Mitchell was subjected to camera flashes and slaps on the back, and shots foisted into his face until he managed to stagger back to Rutang's table, where his friend was still seated, getting drunk alone.

  "Sorry, man."

  Rutang shrugged. "It's your party. Don't apologize."

  "Iraq? Is that what's bothering you?"

  "I wish."

  "What can I do?"

  "Scott, I still don't sleep, man."

  Neither did he. "Sleep's overrated."

  "I've been going to a new shrink. You know what she told me? She said I need to cut old ties and start fresh."

  "What does that mean?"

  "She says I shouldn't talk to you anymore. You believe that?"

  Mitchell snorted. "Sounds like you need a new shrink."

  "Maybe if you and I talked."

  "Tang, that's just . . . What happened wasn't our fault. We did our jobs. We move on."

  "And it's that easy?" Rutang held up his hand. "Wait. Don't answer that. I'm a selfish bastard. I come here and dump my problems on you. Hell, let's get drunk!"

  Mitchell leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. "See, Rutang? There's no problem that can't be solved with sufficient quantities of gunpowder and alcohol."

  They clinked beer bottles and took big swigs. But behind Mitchell's grin was a world of guilt and sorrow that he would not share with anyone.

  Writer Tim O'Brien had written that famous story, "The Things They Carried," a story Mitchell had read over a dozen times. As a soldier, Mitchell knew he must be able to shoulder so much more than just his pack. As the load got heavier, he needed to become stronger.

  Now a living example of that commi
tment to overcome was rolling directly toward him with a hand extended. Marc Entwhiler was the Black Hawk pilot who had been shot down and paralyzed back on Basilan Island.