Chapters (39)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Acknowledgements
- Epigraph
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
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
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.