Earlier in the year his missions in North Korea and Kazakhstan had gone exceedingly well. While he continued to keep himself out of the politics that threatened the security and success of nearly every deployment, it still frustrated him when the Ghosts scored a win that could never be shared with the public.

He started up the long walkway toward the house, a two-story Colonial Revival-style home built in 1920 with white shingles and a large American flag flying beside the garage door. This was Mitchell's boyhood home, and the older he got, the smaller the house seemed. It did have four bedrooms, with that second bathroom that Dad had added over twenty years ago. And most recently, Dad had erected a white picket fence around the entire property. Dad was a small-town boy with small-town sensibilities that would never change. "Now I'm living the dream," he'd said, marveling over the fence.

Mitchell mounted the steps to the porch and, with his attention focused on the sounds of the TV coming from inside, he nearly fell on his rump as he tripped over a radio-controlled car that he assumed belong to his little nephew Brandon, who at seven was unaware of Dad's strict policy regarding guest parking.

Mitchell gently booted the car aside, yanked open the screen door, then pushed in the heavy wooden one and yelled, "This is the United States Army. Put down your alcohol and come out with your hands up!"

He stepped into the entrance foyer, immediately accosted by the incessant ticking of Dad's tall grandfather clock and that smell, a cross between wood chips and wool, that always permeated the house.

His sister, Jennifer, who preferred Jenn, came rushing down the hall from the kitchen with her arms extended, crying, "Scott!"

She was the youngest of the four children, only twenty-nine, and Mitchell recoiled as he saw how much weight she had lost. The last time he'd seen her, just after baby Lisa had been born, she was at least thirty pounds heavier. While growing up, she had always been a bit mousy, avoiding eye contact when she could, and at barely five feet tall, it was easy not to notice her. Yet after the baby had been born, it was as if a new mother had been born, one who was loud and outgoing.

Now she was even thinner than before getting pregnant, and he barely took her in before her bear hug threatened to expel the airline peanuts from his gut.

When she released him, she pulled back and traced a finger over his sideburn. "Is that gray hair?"

"Ah, got some paint on me or something," he muttered.

"You're getting old, Scott."

"Thanks for the tip. Hey, uh, I almost killed myself out there on Brandon's car."

"Oh, that's not Brandon's. It's Gerry's."