Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Even as Yano finished the translation, Fang spun around, reaching into his pack and unsheathing a strange, sticklike sword with many edges.

He started toward his man with the weapon, but Mitchell grabbed Fang's wrist with one hand and latched onto the sword's handle with the other.

Suddenly, Fang tripped Mitchell to the ground, wrenched free his sword hand, and struck Mitchell on the side of the head with the blade.

The blow sent Mitchell's head jerking to one side, and he literally saw stars for a moment before he sat up, blinking hard, checking his head for blood. He should've been cut badly but wasn't.

Meanwhile, Fang turned back toward his man, raising the sword over his head.

Yano raced in to try to block Fang, but the rest of the Taiwanese team rushed to intercept, seizing him and beginning to drag him away.

That's when an all-out brawl erupted, guys shouting, fists coming down while above the choppers swooped in, pivoted, and made their final descents.

Mitchell rose, started toward Fang, screaming his name.

Fang spun back, lowering the sword to make his thrust toward Mitchell's chest.

Still dizzy from the blow to his head, Mitchell tried to grab the sword before it dug into his abdomen, but the metal slid through his sweaty fingers, and the sharpened tips penetrated his flesh. He gasped and groaned as Fang was ripped away by Yano, who had freed himself and now drove the man to the ground, straddling Fang.

Mitchell stood there, blood dripping from his chest, the wound resembling an odd pattern of lines. "Captain Fang," he shouted. "You're a coward!"

The chopper crews rushed forward, weapons drawn, just as a third chopper landed.

Between the roar of engines and the hollering men, Mitchell couldn't hear anything, save for a single voice in his head repeating three simple words: Oh my God.

One of the Filipino medics came over to Mitchell, lifted his voice above the din. "Let me see that wound, Sergeant."

"What?"

"Your wound."

"Oh, it doesn't feel that deep."

"Deep enough for a good scar, though."

Mitchell shrugged and pushed past the medic, watching as the COs from all three teams began shouting and breaking up the riot. It was a scene unlike anything Mitchell had ever witnessed in his military career. But then again, none of them had ever hiked through this little corner of hell.

Fang's CO, a stout, hard-faced major named Liang, began reprimanding him, then raised his voice even more and slapped Fang in the face–in front of all the men. Liang then seized Fang by the back of the neck and escorted him toward the chopper.

Fang's gaze met Mitchell's for just a second, and all Mitchell could do was shake his head in disgust.

After being flown back to the outskirts of Isabella City, where Camp Iron Horse was located, Mitchell, Rutang, and Billy were transferred to the field hospital, and by morning, all three were lying in beds, patched up and drugged up, scheduled to be shipped back to the States within forty-eight hours.

"I just don't believe what that guy did," said Rutang.

Mitchell sighed and rubbed his still-swollen head. "You've said that three times. Said it three different ways."

"You're not surprised?"

"There's more to it than we know."

"You got that right. It's just not like them. It's not in their culture to act like that. Am I wrong? You'd think just the opposite. While we were training, he seemed like he'd send those guys to their deaths and not think twice about it."

"He still cared about his men. Maybe too much. Who knows? He wasn't shy during the briefing. He's got politics–and they interfered with his ability to lead. It is strange."

"Strange? Damn, I'm in a state of shock."

"I just keep wondering what would've happened if he'd answered our call. Who'd still be alive? And who died because of him?"

"If I had my hands around his neck right now . . ."

"I think his CO will do the job for us."

"What was going through his mind?"

"We'll never know, so stop obsessing on it."

In truth, Mitchell couldn't take his own advice. At least not at the moment. He already knew he'd be playing out a thousand different scenarios in his nightmares, and night after night, revenge would be exacted brutally, efficiently, with extreme prejudice.

On a warm, sunny afternoon, the army held a ceremony for Scott Mitchell at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. The following was read aloud:

The President of the United States of America, Authorized by Act of Congress, July 9, 1918, has awarded the Silver Star to:

MASTER SERGEANT SCOTT MITCHELL, United States Army

For gallantry in action:Master Sergeant Scott Mitchell, Team Sergeant, Operational Detachment Alpha 574, is awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action on 18 August 2002 in the vicinity of Basilan Island, Southern Philippines. On that date his detachment was ambushed by Abu Sayyaf rebels who killed ODA 574's commanding officer and executive officer at the onset of battle. Despite intense mortar, automatic weapons, and small arms fire, Master Sergeant Mitchell, with forceful leadership, reorganized his men, saving the surviving team members from being overrun. Inspired by his heroic conduct and absolute fearlessness, the detachment successfully held off a numerically superior force until rescued. Master Sergeant Mitchell was wounded during this attack. The gallantry and inspirational leadership displayed by Master Sergeant Mitchell reflect great credit upon him and the military service.

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.

Chapter Six.

KAOHSIUNG CITY

SOUTHERN TAIWAN

MAY 2007

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.

He tensed over the thought, then relaxed, turned his head toward his nightstand upon which his sword cane leaned, its tiger patterns coming alive in the darkness.

Years spent apologizing to his forefathers had amounted to nothing. Now he railed against even them, deemed them as victims of the American poison, and only he, Fang Zhi, could set the family on a new and more honorable course.

The next afternoon, Fang stood once more on the same street corner, smoking his cigarette and reading his newspaper. A front had moved in, and in a few moments the black clouds would finally empty themselves. The weather provided a perfect excuse for Fang to wear his rain jacket and hood, which would, of course, help conceal his identity.

Across the street was the gray sedan.

Any moment now, Kao would reach the corner and enter the crosswalk as he had every weekday for the past month.

Without exception.

Fang shifted his weight from one leg to the other, backhanded the sweat from his brow, and breathed in the warm, humid air. He shivered in anticipation.

Then he took a last drag of cigarette, ditched it in the road, and glanced across the intersection as it began to rain.

Kao was right there, only today he was not wearing the Olympic jacket, just a blue sweatshirt.

Fang had told Yeh Chun-chang back in the sedan to take care of the job as soon as he saw Kao, but Yeh was looking for that Olympic jacket!

Where was Fang's cell phone? He fumbled in his pocket, dialed the number.

Across the way, Yeh lifted his phone to his ear.

"Yeh, it is me," Fang cried. "He's in a blue sweatshirt! "Go now."

At the intersection, Kao was holding a backpack over his head and waiting for the light to change. The rain grew heavier.

Yeh revved the sedan's engine.

Fang remembered the many hours he had spent with Kao. They had actually become friends. He had even consoled Fang when the final scores had been revealed.

Fang's heart began to race.

And for a few seconds, Fang thought of running to the corner and calling it all off. But he couldn't. He might have doubts, but he'd already made the decision and was beyond the point of return.

The light turned green.

Kao, along with a half dozen other pedestrians, rushed into the crosswalk, a few wrestling with their umbrellas.

A terrific thunderclap echoed off the buildings.

Yeh, still parked at the corner, held back until the last possible second, then he roared into the street, coming directly at the pedestrians, who swung their heads.

Fang flinched as screams rose from the street.

And then, strangely enough, the whole event unfolded before his eyes as though in slow motion.

Two women dove out of the sedan's path.

One man was struck in the leg and went spinning to the asphalt, his umbrella carried off by the wind.

Yeh rolled the wheel and screeched toward Kao, who looked up and had no time to move.

Another young man, about Kao's age, who was now within a meter of the car, reached out to grab and save Kao, but the sedan came between them.

It was almost too much to watch, but Fang couldn't help himself. His gaze was riveted, and, with a horrid fascination, he stood there as Yeh struck Kao head-on before the other man could reach him.

The sedan's front bumper slammed into Kao's legs and hips, sending him knifing over the hood and up, onto the windshield, which shattered as he rolled over it, across the roof, then went tumbling down onto the street, limbs flopping, head lolling and scraping across the pavement.

The other man had been sideswiped by the sedan, and he now lay in the street, as Yeh screeched off into the rain.

Other pedestrians who'd been gathering at the corner began running into the street, crying for help.

Fang stared in shock a moment longer, seeing that Kao was not moving, his arms and legs twisted at improbable angles.

Suddenly, a powerful chill ripped through him, and he shivered and realized he needed to get out of there, couldn't be identified at the scene.

He ran off, but then remembered that running would draw too much attention, so he slowed to a brisk walk as his cell phone began to ring.

Yeh was calling about his payment.

Two weeks later, Fang Zhi received the phone call he was waiting for. He took a cab down to the National Sports Training Center in Tsoying, where Tsao Chin-hui, Fang's coach, had his office.

Tsao, who had won several Olympic medals himself, greeted Fang with a broad grin. "I'm sure you know why you're here."

"I feel terrible and excited at the same time."

"I understand. Kao was a fine young man and an excellent marksman."

"I have been busy with other things," said Fang. "And I haven't followed what's been happening. Have they caught the driver of that car?"

"No, they found the vehicle. I heard that the driver might have fled to China."

"A tragedy. He was probably a drunk driver like they said."

"Probably." Tsao's gaze narrowed. "Kao had many friends, no enemies."

"That is true. The police asked me many questions."

"Kao beat you by only a few points to make the team. Of course they would suspect you, but I told them you were a great sportsman and the last person who might do something like this."

"Thank you."

"Well, then, you will take Kao's place. I am sorry it had to be this way for you, but welcome to the team."

"I am honored."

Fang left the office and hailed another cab. On the way back to his apartment, as the driver navigated through the congested streets, it finally struck Fang.

He was going to Beijing. He would compete in the Olympic Games as a marksman.

Yes, the competition would be thrilling. But more so was the notion that after the games, he would not return home.

He would finally turn his back on the country that had abandoned him.

Fang Zhi would defect to China, and the chance to do that was worth even more than being an Olympic athlete.

It was worth Kao's life.

Chapter Seven.

FORT BRAGG

NEAR FAYETTEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

JUNE 2007

Scott Mitchell took a deep breath and grinned in satisfaction over the scent of fresh-cut pine. He was out at the storage garage he rented, just fifteen minutes off the base, where he'd set up his woodworking shop.

Although it was only ten A.M., he was already soaked in sweat. He tugged off his T-shirt and used it to wipe away the perspiration running down his chest and over the scar on his abdomen. That curiously shaped mark often drew questions that he avoided in an effort to bury the past. He got back to work on the table saw, cutting his next piece.

Some Special Forces operators went hunting or fishing in their off time, and Mitchell did a little of both. He'd bagged a few nice deer in his day and could tie on a Texas-rigged worm to bass-fish with the best of them, but it was the woodworking that gave him both a perfect release of stress and an incredible sense of accomplishment when he finished a piece.

While he was hardly as accomplished as those woodworking hosts on TV, he had designed and built some very intricate and ornate pieces: writing desks, curio cabinets, gun racks and display cases, and even a large entertainment center that he had sold to the battalion commander, whose wife had ordered Mitchell to do so.

His current project was a little different. One of the warrants of an ODA team in his company was a breeder of African and South American tortoises: sulcatas, leopards, and redfoots, respectively, and Mitchell had been hired to build several tortoise tables upon which the critters would roam and live indoors when the weather did not permit them to graze outside.

So he'd come up with some rather simple but attractive designs for these enclosures and was hoping to finish the first table and have it ready for stain by the end of the day, because he'd be quite busy that evening.

Ah, yes, the smell of fresh-cut pine in the morning. Better than napalm any day.

The party was supposed to be a surprise, but Mitchell knew all about it. So when he walked into the banquet hall, he mouthed a Wowthen delivered the broad grin for which they'd been waiting.

They had even strung a banner across the wall:

CONGR ATULATIONS

CAPTAIN SCOTT MITCHELL

Getting promoted to captain was a pretty big deal. When someone referred to the "detachment commander," they'd be talking about him. That would feel a little weird.

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."

"I've been going to a new shrink. You know what she told me? She said I need to cut old ties and start fresh."

"What does that mean?"

"She says I shouldn't talk to you anymore. You believe that?"

Mitchell snorted. "Sounds like you need a new shrink."

"Maybe if you and I talked."

"Tang, that's just . . . What happened wasn't our fault. We did our jobs. We move on."

"And it's that easy?" Rutang held up his hand. "Wait. Don't answer that. I'm a selfish bastard. I come here and dump my problems on you. Hell, let's get drunk!"

Mitchell leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. "See, Rutang? There's no problem that can't be solved with sufficient quantities of gunpowder and alcohol."

They clinked beer bottles and took big swigs. But behind Mitchell's grin was a world of guilt and sorrow that he would not share with anyone.

Writer Tim O'Brien had written that famous story, "The Things They Carried," a story Mitchell had read over a dozen times. As a soldier, Mitchell knew he must be able to shoulder so much more than just his pack. As the load got heavier, he needed to become stronger.

Now a living example of that commitment to overcome was rolling directly toward him with a hand extended. Marc Entwhiler was the Black Hawk pilot who had been shot down and paralyzed back on Basilan Island.

In the months following the accident, Entwhiler had sent Mitchell several e-mails thanking him for the hope, inspiration, and courage to go on.

Mitchell took no credit for that. It was Entwhiler's indomitable spirit–a spirit that had allowed him to shoulder the load of his accident–that gave him hope and inspired so many others, Mitchell included. Entwhiler was now working as a civilian consultant, teaching other Black Hawk pilots and engineers the skills he'd learned through a joint partnership between the army and the Rockwell Collins Simulation and Training Solutions facility in Huntsville, Alabama.

"Scott, congratulations, man!"

"Thanks, Marc."

"Sorry I'm late. Couldn't get my damned wheels to spin any faster."

"You might remember Sergeant McDaniel?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." They shook hands.

After sharing a few jokes, Entwhiler updated Mitchell with news regarding his personal and professional life. The details weren't as important as his tone. The guy was a nuclear reactor, and when he rolled off to say hi to a few other colleagues, Mitchell glanced over at Rutang, who just looked at him and nodded.

As the night wore on, and Mitchell was twice dragged onto the dance floor to jump and scream along to AC/ DC's "Shook Me All Night Long," he spotted a tall, slender woman with short blond hair seated alone in the back of the room. He'd never seen her before. The woman's black dress fit her like a coat of paint, and her simple pearl necklace seemed to rise up from the perfectly smooth planes of her neck.

Feeling bold and no pain, he drifted back to her. "Hi, there."

Her eyes lit on him. "Hi."

"Hi," he repeated, then realized what he'd done.

"You're pretty friendly."

"Uh, well, it's my party. You're alone?"

"Yes. And I've been waiting to talk to you."

Mitchell grinned and turned back to his friends still on the dance floor. "Oh, man, oh, man. Those guys put you up to this?"

"I'm nota prostitute–if that's what you think."

"No, no, no, I meant–"

"What did you mean?"

He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I bothered you."

She snorted. "I said I wanted to talk to you. Have a seat."

"Uh, okay."

He sat and tried to keep his gaze from her cleavage. Mission failed.

"I'm here at the request of Lieutenant Colonel and General Keating."

"Excuse me?"

She offered her hand. "I'm Captain Susan Grey."

He took her hand. "Lieutenant, I mean CaptainScott Mitchell."

She made a face. "I know."

"I drank a little too much. Sorry."

"We've been watching you for a while, and we like what we see."

He wanted to answer, So do I,but instead said, "Who are you? And why have you crashed my promotion party?"

"Sorry about that. My schedule is incredibly tight, and this was the only opportunity I could find before I ship out tomorrow."

"Where you headed?"

"Classified."

"Sounds . . . pretty classified."

"You're cute, Captain, but only half as witty. I'll cut right to the chase before your mouth gets you in any more trouble. You're a captain now, getting ready to lead an ODA team. Well, we've got something else in mind."

"Again, who are you?"

"I'm sure you've never heard of us, and we prefer to keep it that way. We're D Company, First Battalion, Fifth Special Forces Group."

"So you're just another company."

"Mitchell, I think you'd be surprised over the differences between us and the average ODA team."

"Oh, really? You guys saying you're better than us?"

"I already did."

Mitchell grinned crookedly. "Prove it."

Grey stood, reached into her purse, and withdrew an envelope. "We will. In here you'll find everything you need."

"Are you making me an offer?"

"Enjoy the rest of your party. See you soon." She wiggled her brows, then quickly left.

"Who was that?" asked Rutang, arriving at Mitchell's side.

"The most conceited woman I've ever met."

"You get her number?"

Mitchell glanced down at the envelope. "Sort of."

Chapter Eight.

OLYMPIC VILLAGE

BEIJING, CHINA

JULY 2008

People's Liberation Army Captain Xu Dingfa dropped his duffel bag in the apartment's entrance foyer, didn't bother closing the door, and collapsed onto one of the beds. He rubbed his eyes and ran fingers through his crew cut.

The elevator had been so crowded that Xu opted to hike up all six flights of stairs to the top floor of his building. As an Olympic gymnast and specialist on the rings and pommel horse, he possessed considerable upper body strength, but he had also worked hard to improve his legs, turning them into sinuous sticks of solid rock. Consequently, all those stairs should not have posed a problem. Yet even he was exhausted, in part from all the adrenaline and anticipation.

Xu was billeted in one of twenty such apartments constructed in the western part of the village dubbed the Residential Quarter, where another twenty buildings rose to nine floors. More than sixteen thousand athletes and officials were staying there, and Xu had encountered at least a half dozen languages within the first ten minutes of arrival.

In two weeks the opening ceremonies would commence, and until then all of the athletes could spend time training and familiarizing themselves with their new quarters–and their new roommates.

Xu's roommate had yet to arrive. The man was from Taiwan and competing on their shooting team, but that was all Xu knew about him.

Taiwan . . . Of all the countries his roommate could have been from . . .

Xu's first thought had been to seek a new room or at least swap rooms with one of his teammates, but in the spirit of the Olympic Games, he thought he would at least give the man a chance. Perhaps they could engage in some interesting political debates.

However, just mentioning Taiwan made Xu's breath grow shallow and his chest tighten. He would never forget the bitterness of his father and the lament of his mother as they spoke of the land they only referred to as Formosa.

He rose from the bed, went to the window, gazed down at the forest that stretched out between the buildings. Hundreds of people milled about down there, with knots of athletes and reporters conducting interviews on nearly every corner.

"Hello," came a voice from the doorway.

"Oh, hello."

A muscular man with short black hair and a fiery gaze stood in the doorway. He would have resembled any other Taiwanese man, were it not for those eyes.

Xu shifted to the man and offered a light handshake. "You are Fang Zhi?"