national glory, not to mention bragging rights.
Ten countries. Over one hundred players. This was the third day of a three-day tournament, with more than half the field of competitors eliminated in the round-robin group play of the previous two days. This morning, two of the remaining four countries—Australia and South Korea—had fallen. Unlike the previous day’s losers—who were off in the local bars drowning their sorrow and frustration—this day’s failed champions had hung around, mostly so they could respectively root against whichever of the remaining two countries had managed to knock them out. Thus it was fairly evenly split, with half the sidelined players cheering the United States and the other half rooting for Japan. The rest of the hundreds of spectators were likewise a mix of competing loyalties. There were a couple of scuffles as waved arms led to elbows accidentally striking heads, but for the most part everyone’s attention was upon the activities on the field.
Alex Hopper was currently in possession of the ball, moving it deftly downfield. Running alongside him was Walter Lynch, a man with a build so formidable and a body so hirsute that he had picked up the fairly obvious nickname of “Beast,” even though in his usual day-to-day deportment, he was as mild as they came—except when he needed to be otherwise.
This was one of those occasions, and Beast was not hesitant to throw his weight around. Japanese defenders were doing everything they could to try to get within range of Hopper in order to take the ball away, and Beast was running interference that an NFL linebacker would have envied. He stopped short of knocking people aside with a sweep of his heavily muscled arms, but he was fast enough on his feet to body block anyone who came near, sending more than a few of them falling on their asses.
However, even Beast couldn’t be everywhere. As he was distracted to the right, Hopper saw a player coming in fast from the left.
The Japanese were leading three to two and the time was ticking down.
“Go, go, go!” shouted Stone, who was playing goalie for the Americans and was moving up and down the line.
On the sidelines, Beast’s wife, Vera, was cheering wildly. She was renowned for her easy smile and out-sized personality. She was cradling one of their five-year-old twin boys in either arm. Facially they were dead ringers for their dad. The joke was that they’d probably be sprouting hair on their backs before they hit their eighth birthday.
On one side of Vera was weapons specialist and petty officer Cora Raikes. Copper-skinned, with hazel-green eyes, fiery red hair and a Bajan accent, she was shouting instructions and strategies even though no one on the field could possibly pick out her words. Next to her, matching her enthusiasm, was Seaman William Ord. He was a fairly recent arrival to Hawaii. Wide-shouldered and solidly built, Ord looked exactly like what he was: a farm boy who had spent autumn Friday nights in high school playing football. He was a big believer in the axiom of hoping for the best and expecting the worst. “Tie it up! Tie it up! We’re definitely going into extra time!” he shouted, right after which he muttered under his breath, “This isn’t gonna end well.”
Beast shoved the last defender clear. The Japanese goalie looked ashen, seeing the man-sized equivalent of a locomotive bearing down on him, and then Beast took the shot.
At the last second it was blocked, bouncing off the chest of a defender who appeared to have come out of absolutely nowhere. He deftly took control of it and moved around Beast as if the larger man were standing still.
“Nagata again,” Hopper said with a snarl. Hopper and Captain Yugi Nagata had been going at each other constantly from the first minute of the game. Nagata was the tallest Japanese player—nearly five-eleven—and it gave him reach and speed that most of his teammates couldn’t begin to approach. His black hair was close- cropped, as befit a Navy man, and he wore an expression of perpetual, unflappable superiority no matter what he was doing. It was this, more than anything, that infuriated Hopper.
It didn’t help that Nagata was also a hell of a soccer player.
He started bringing the ball back up the field. Other defenders came in from either side, but Nagata—never taking his eyes off Hopper—shouted an order in Japanese. They immediately peeled off.
“Back off! I got ’im!” Hopper called out to his teammates. He saw a quick flash of amusement in Nagata’s eyes and knew that he had correctly intuited the captain’s mind-set. With a minute remaining, it was time to square off,
Hopper came straight at Nagata with no hesitation. Nagata faked left, moved right. Hopper swung in tight, trying to get the ball, but it wasn’t there. The move to the right had been another feint and Nagata darted around Hopper. Hopper muttered a string of profanities as he spun on his heel and went in pursuit.
He sprinted up the field, one step behind Nagata the entire way. The crowd was shouting, everyone going berserk. Hopper, his heart pounding, managed to bring himself up alongside, and he tried to knock the ball away from the captain. Nagata didn’t slow, keeping the ball away even as the two men slammed into each other repeatedly, side against side. The referees apparently couldn’t overlook this and they started throwing around yellow cards. The two men ignored them.
Hopper went for a full-body slam, banging into Nagata, almost causing him to stumble. He collided with him a second time and was about to go for a third when Nagata suddenly stopped, throwing his right arm straight to the side. The move clotheslined Hopper, knocking the wind out of him, and he tripped over his own feet and went down. With a clear shot at the goal, Nagata sped forward and slammed the ball with all his strength.
It hurtled straight toward the goal… and a hole in Stone’s defense.
Stone lunged for it and, an instant before it could roll across the white line, he smothered it like a hero landing atop a hand grenade.
An approving roar went up from the crowd, but Stone had no time for accolades. He never stopped rolling as he came up with the ball, looking for someone in whose direction he could throw it.
His brother, having regained his feet, ran up to him as Nagata retreated downfield, anticipating the throw. “Kick it deep. Hit me deep,” said Hopper.
Stone saw that Nagata was already positioning himself. “He’s been owning you all day,” said Stone, and Hopper didn’t need to ask his brother which “he” was being referred to. “We need to tie this thing up quick.”
“Deep, me, Stone.”
Stone looked at Hopper. Hopper was only partly looking at him. His attention seemed more focused on Nagata, who was already halfway downfield.
“This isn’t about you and him,” said Stone. “Don’t make this personal…”
“It’s sure as hell personal. That doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Deep. Me.”
Stone paused a second that felt like an hour. Then he nodded. “Be there.”
The words were like the firing of a starter’s pistol. The instant he said them, Hopper was off. He sprinted downfield, his arms pumping. He saw that Nagata was watching him with that same arrogant confidence as before. Hopper dashed to the right and Nagata started after him—then, the moment Nagata committed to the move, Hopper quickly broke left.
There was one American player near Hopper, Tompkins, which was—as far as Alex was concerned—more than enough. From a distance he heard the thud of Stone’s foot coming into contact with the soccer ball and he turned, looked, panicked for half a second because the sun was in his eyes and he couldn’t pick up the ball’s location.
Then he saw it, coming in fast, straight up the middle of the field. It was a beautiful shot, arcing through the sky, turning slowly and lazily in the air. Hopper took a few steps to the left to line himself up and didn’t even have to look to know that the opposing goal was directly behind him.
