Silver Star to:
MASTER SERGEANT SCOTT MITCHELL, United States Army
The digital cameras flashed as the medal was pinned on Mitchell's uniform. Behind him glowed a huge screen displaying the PowerPoint slides of the battlefield on Basilan Island.
Like Rutang, who also received the Silver Star, Mitchell told the crowd that he was just doing his job. He wasn't being falsely humble. He had done what he'd been trained to do.
Mitchell found out much later that sitting in the back of the room were two officers who had a lot to say about his potential as a Special Forces operator.
They were part of an elite, highly covert organization known as the Ghosts.
SIX
Five years after the ambush on Basilan Island, Fang Zhi stood on a street corner, smoking a cigarette and reading his newspaper in the late-afternoon glare. Yellow taxis lined the curb, and across the street, near the Toyota dealership, Fang's man, Yeh Chun-chang, sat parked in his gray sedan, waiting for a cell phone call from Fang.
In less than thirty minutes, a man would die.
And not just any man.
This individual represented the primary obstacle between Fang and his future life. It was not the man's fault. He was simply a victim of his own skills.
With car horns resounding in the street and the wind of a passing bus buffeting him as it roared by, Fang tried to calm himself. Nothing could go wrong. He had spent too many hours planning it all, waiting, watching, determining exactly what he must do.
Nearby, a small group of middle-aged Americans obviously on vacation were marveling over the cans of Coca-Cola they had just bought, cans imprinted with Chinese characters. Fang wanted to strangle the smiles from their faces.
Their country provided the model of arrogance, wealth, and self-indulgent lifestyle that had poisoned Taiwan's government. Officials routinely exploited their citizens to benefit themselves and gain American support. In doing so, they had created a culture of haves and have-nots, just like in America.
The Republic of China (ROC) Army in Taiwan, taking its cue from the government, behaved the same way. They would march Taiwanese troops into the fire if it would please the United States.
The more Fang thought about it, the shallower his breath became.
He scowled at the tourists as they walked by, then his gaze shifted to a man standing on the corner.
Fang did a double take. It was Sze Ma! Old Sergeant Sze Ma from Fang's last mission as an army officer. He was dressed in civilian clothes but still wore a crew cut, suggesting he might still be in the army. Fang tucked his newspaper under his arm, ditched his cigarette, and approached the man.
Sze Ma, who was simply waiting for the light to change, glanced up. His lip twitched as he recognized Fang. Probably out of habit or reflex, he blurted out, 'Captain.'
Fang's voice came coldly. 'Sergeant. What are you doing here?'
'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.
