'Then why are you sitting there? Get cleaned up and get the hell on a jet! I'll update you once you're in the Philippines.'
Mitchell bolted from his chair and saluted the general. 'On my way, sir!'
The screen switched to the computer's desktop, and Mitchell glanced wearily at Gordon and Grey. 'Call the president. Tell him to hold up on World War III until after I've had a shower.'
Grey smiled. 'Speaking of calls, as soon as you have your list, send it over. A lot of operators are out on R & R, and we'll need time to get them back.'
Mitchell nodded. 'You got a pen? I already know who I want.'
NINETEEN
Sergeant First Class Paul Smith, Ghost Team rifleman, was home in rural Northern California for a few weeks, and it was not two days into his R & R that his boyhood friend Hernando Alameda called to say that he could use a hand loading about two hundred bales of alfalfa hay onto some flatbed trucks. Hernando had taken over the farm from his recently deceased father, and Smith knew that he was shorthanded, so he couldn't say no to his old buddy.
Hernando was twenty-seven, a few years older than Smith, and he'd been complaining all morning about the difficulties of finding good help. He worked out his frustration on the bales of hay, loading twice as fast as Smith did, both of them sweating profusely. Soon the conversation turned to women, as it always did, and Smith asked about Hernando's longtime girlfriend, Vicki, who had sweet-talked him into financing a brand-new pair of boobs.
'She just dumped me last week,' Hernando said between breaths.
'How many times is that?'
'Three.'
'You don't need her.'
'Nope.'
'But you'll be calling later.'
'Yup. I'm calling in the loan.'
Smith grinned. 'Damn that woman.'
'Hey, your dad told me he's retiring next year.'
'Yeah, I can't believe it. He's been sheriff of this Podunk county for thirty years.'
'You ought to take over.'
Smith laughed. 'I joined the army to get away from all this horse dung.'
'You hate us that much?'
'No, but come on, bro, you know my parents. Dad wanted me to be a rocket scientist. And they're both still mad about the whole college thing. But I have my own life now.'
'And the army's that much better? You never thought about quitting?'
Smith shrugged. There had been a time, near the end of his fourth year as an infantryman. The service hadn't been as glamorous or challenging as he'd thought. He'd spent the better part of his life outdoors, hunting and fishing. He was a bushman at heart, and a lot of guys from the city used to say he had a sixth sense. They always put him on point, like a bloodhound. And that was great, but he'd grown bored.
'There was a time when I wasn't going to re-up,' he told Hernando. 'But then I met this Special Forces officer, and things changed.'
'He gave you the sales pitch.'
'No, he just came in to do some combatives and martial arts training. The guy was amazing. He told it like it was, and to this day I still remember his training philosophy.'
'Which was?'
'Well, he thought the mental advantage was just as important as firepower. He told us our training should always be mission-specific. It had to be short, and it shouldn't require us to be flexible like gymnasts. And even though he was shorter and lighter, he dropped me like a bad transmission every time. He was the most professional soldier I'd ever met.'
'No kidding. You never told me this story. I thought you just did it. But I was right. He convinced you to re- up.'
Smith nodded. 'After working with me, he said I was Special Forces material. What he didn't tell me was how the Q-Course would kick my ass, especially Robin Sage at the end. I thought I would die out there.'
'What was the guy's name?'
'Captain Scott Mitchell.' Smith's cell phone began to ring. He set down his next bale of hay and checked the screen. 'Sorry, buddy, I need to take this.'
Deciding to pick up a newspaper and a cup of coffee, Master Sergeant Matt Beasley, proudly sporting his dark blue Pistons jacket, climbed off his Harley Sportster and started across the rain-slick pavement.
It had been two years since he'd visited the old neighborhood, and he remembered hanging out at this very store, keeping tabs on the motley crew of characters with nicknames like Old Man Freddy, Busted Head Bob, and Wayne the Wimp.
Beasley had been a latchkey kid with decent grades, though he spent most of his time on the streets, just watching people, occasionally tipping off the police when he saw something that shouldn't be happening in his neighborhood. There had been plenty of opportunities to get involved with drugs and gangs, but Beasley had avoided those invitations. He'd seen too many of those punks get their faces shoved down onto the hoods of police cars. Those same punks often referred to him as the weird guy who never talked. That was fine with him. He was a student of human nature.
Beasley grinned as he locked gazes with a freckle-faced kid about sixteen or seventeen seated on the window ledge, hands jammed into the pockets of his dirty pull-over, black ski cap pulled down over his ears. His long, reddish brown hair wandered down past that cap, and he repeatedly backhanded his runny nose.
He was Beasley, half a lifetime ago.
The kid just looked at him, then averted his gaze. Beasley stepped inside, announced by the store's familiar ding-dong, and went to the coffee machine.
An elderly African-American couple stood at the counter, bickering with the heavyset clerk over their expired coupon for milk; otherwise, the store was empty.
Beasley finished making his coffee, grabbed his paper, and by the time he reached the counter, the old folks were gone. The clerk rang him up, and he left the store.
The kid was still there, watching. Beasley thought of asking why he wasn't in school but decided not to hassle him. Beasley had been on the other end of that conversation way too many times. Nearly slipping on the wet pavement, he crossed to his bike.
And just as he tucked his newspaper under his arm and was about to fish out his keys, something thudded against the back of his head. He glanced ever so slightly over his shoulder, saw the kid standing there, his arm extended.
'This ain't no toy gun. Your keys! Now!' The kid shoved his pistol harder into Beasley's skull.
'Easy, buddy. I was just pulling them out.'
'You hand them to me. And you don't turn around.'
'Okay.'
Beasley drew in a long, slow breath to calm himself. He reached into his pocket, felt the keys, but he didn't grab them. He visualized his move… then made it.
Whirling and wrenching his hand from his coat, Beasley struck the kid's forearm with his own, then slid his
