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."