Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

They forged onward, back toward the trees, the snow deepening to shin height and topped with a thick ice crust.

Mitchell's calves and hamstrings soon burned. He thanked every PT instructor he'd ever had for forcing him to go farther than he ever thought possible. That kind of training paid off in spades during combat.

They began making better time and came within a stone's throw of the trees, but then Brown reported enemy contact: "I see six at the top of the hill. Make that seven! They're following!"

"Alicia, I'm not kidding now," said Mitchell. "We need to move!"

"Yes, sir!"

They charged together for the trees. Once there, they paused to catch their breath.

"We need you now," he said, cocking a brow.

She took up her rifle and inspected it for damage from the fall. "I'm good."

"Take out the first guy, and that'll get 'em thinking twice."

"Watch me."

Being on the wrong end of a well-coordinated sniper attack was most soldiers' worst nightmare. Men simply died, as though plucked from this earth by the hand of God. As they dropped, so did morale, while the paranoia grew to a fever pitch.

Mitchell took aim but held his fire, watching through his crosshairs as Diaz fired her first shot.

The lead Taliban fighter hit the snow, sending the others to their bellies and wishing they had ice picks to dig cover. They shouted about a sniper, and one gave orders for them to get up, but several others protested.

"Ramirez? Brown? Get to the chopper!" Mitchell ordered.

"Sir, even with the suppressor, if I fire again–"

"I know, they'll spot us. Once they're back up, I'll need one more shot."

"Roger that."

Mitchell stole a few seconds to consult the drone's intel one last time before he sent it flying back toward the border, where it would be retrieved by support personnel.

"Oh, man," he said aloud. Ignorance was bliss. He wouldn't even tell Diaz how many insurgents were about to reach the hilltop.

"Looks like they're getting ready to come up," said Diaz.

Mitchell crouched down beside her. "The second you fire, we're gone. Ready?"

"Yeah, hang on. Almost have the shot. Almost . . ."

A muffled bang came from Diaz's rifle, and the subsonic round traversed the hillside before the Taliban fighter in its path could blink again.

He toppled. Mitchell and Diaz wasted no time breaking from the trees.

"That all you got?" Diaz asked, jogging alongside him. "Move it!"

Mitchell smiled to himself. "That's three beers. Last one for the insult." He picked up the pace, boots now slipping across those hidden rocks and sheets of ice.

Near the bottom of the hill the grade grew steeper, forcing them to sidestep down to reach bottom.

Mitchell stole a look back over his shoulder.

What he saw left him breathless.

Finally, they started across level ground and into a field of scree, the broken and eroded rocks creating yet another challenge. Mitchell slowed to avoid several larger stones to their left.

"Come on, sir, we're almost there," hollered Diaz.

"I hear you," Mitchell answered. "Just don't look back."

Chapter Thirteen.

NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN

AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER

JANUARY 2009

"Oh my God," said Diaz.

"I told you not to look back," said Mitchell.

"Saying that made me look back."

"Me and my big mouth." Mitchell tightened his grip on her wrist.

The Black Hawk, outlined in green on Mitchell's HUD, was churning up a storm that quickly enveloped them, ice particles needling into Mitchell's nose, ears, and cheeks.

He'd take the pain, because all that rotor wash helped conceal them. The Taliban fighters in pursuit, who'd come in a long stream across the top of the hill like a Roman army, had just lost sight of their targets.

But in a last-ditch effort, they fired anyway, rifles popping and echoing behind them as Mitchell and Diaz shifted to the left, around the external fuel tank and reached the open bay door. Brown was there to accept Diaz, and Mitchell spun around and returned fire until Brown called, "Captain!"

Mitchell turned back, just as one of the minigun operators collapsed forward on his gun, blood pooling down his face and neck. "Portside gunner's down," Mitchell cried.

"Captain, get on that gun," snapped the pilot.

With rounds sparking and clinking off the chopper as he climbed aboard, Mitchell cried, "Go! Go! Go!"

Brown and Ramirez had already unbuckled and were lifting the wounded gunner from his seat, and Mitchell immediately slid into his place, two-handing the Gatling gun and utilizing the AIM-1 laser pointer as he guided the six barrels back onto the hillside. He shifted his aim once more, easing the weapon left as the chopper pitched forward and gained altitude.

Showtime. He began hosing down the insurgents as they leapt forward, crashing onto their bellies to avoid his bead. Tracer rounds flashed from the spinning barrels like glowing arrows fired from a hundred bowmen until they burned out at 900 meters.

At the same time, all those hot brass casings were funneled out from the gun through a tube mounted on the fuselage, and as the pilot brought them around, they left long trails of clinking and tumbling brass in their wake.

The gun's reverberation sent chills rushing up Mitchell's spine. It was hard to imagine that he was firing roughly fifty bullets per second. He needed to carefully select his targets, too, since he only had 4,000 rounds of linked ammo in the box before he'd have to reload.

But the pilot didn't seem to care about that. "Come on, Captain, keep up that fire!"

Mitchell obliged, sewing a jagged seam in the hill, his HUD and the AIM-1 putting him on those red diamonds that quickly turned white as his hailstorm of fire left behind walls of flying dirt and snow and death.

As he and the other gunner maintained fire, Ramirez and Brown worked on Saenz and the wounded guy, though they were probably using hand signals since the racket inside the helicopter made voice communication impossible.

Reminding himself of all the good people who had been lost in Waziristan, Mitchell kept the minigun on target, drawing more lines through hordes of fighters before the Black Hawk rolled right and descended over the hill, on a course due east for the border.

He released his white-knuckled grip on the gun and slumped in his seat. Every muscle ached. He could sleep for a year.

A hand came down on his shoulder. It was Ramirez, who pointed to the wounded gunner, then to Saenz, and flashed a thumbs-up; both guys would make it.

Mitchell nodded and, as Ramirez returned to his seat, directed his attention to Rutang, still barely recognizable beneath his swollen face. The medic had been through several lifetimes' worth of combat, and Mitchell had been proud of his comeback after his battle with depression and stress. He'd gotten off the propranolol and was managing to be a good father. Mandy had had that second baby, a boy, who Rutang had said definitely resembled the FedEx guy.

As Mitchell sat there, growing numb from the cold and exhaustion, he wondered what would happen to his friend. Could Rutang bounce back yet again?

The Black Hawk set down on a small, deiced pad on the outskirts of Bagram Airbase in Kabul, Afghanistan. Mitchell asked Diaz if she would stick with Rutang, and they, along with Saenz, Vick, and the door gunner, were transferred to HMMWVs and driven off to the army field hospital. Mitchell took Brown and Ramirez with him to be debriefed by Major Susan Grey and the company commander, Lieutenant Colonel Harold "Buzz" Gordon.

They met inside a drafty, dimly lit Quonset hut used to store aircraft parts and loaned out to the Ghosts by the air force. Grey, bundled up and red-nosed, welcomed them with an uncharacteristically warm smile and led them over to a cluster of desks cast in the burnt orange glow of portable heaters positioned on the floor.

Lieutenant Colonel Gordon was leaning back in a chair, a notebook computer balanced on his lap. He squinted in thought and spoke softly into a boom mike with attached earpiece. He was speaking with the manhimself, General Joshua Keating, whose gritty voice crackled all the way back from the United States Special Operations Command (USSOCOM) in Tampa, Florida, and was loud enough for even Mitchell to overhear. Gordon was polite to the general, who was gunning to become commander of all of USSOCOM, but near the end of the conversation, his tone turned a little dark as he said, "Your patience is appreciated, sir."

Mitchell liked Gordon, whose white crew cut was trimmed weekly because being squared away was, in his words, the way God intended him to be. Mitchell appreciated Gordon's old-school tactics and belief that people made the difference. Technology only enhanced their skills.

There were some in the Special Forces community who were beginning to argue that putting boots on the ground had become too risky, too damaging, and too wasteful.

Gordon would refer to them by certain body parts and brush off their further assertions like lint from his sleeve. He was fifty-four years old and liked to say, "I was too old for this crap twenty years ago. You can imagine how much I'm enjoying it now."

The colonel said his good-byes, then suddenly bolted from his seat and shook each of their hands, saying, "Gentlemen, excellent work out there. Excellent. Please, have a seat."

"Sir, if you don't mind, I'll stand," said Mitchell as Brown and Ramirez flumped into chairs.

Gordon frowned. "I know, Scott, you're pissed about those insurgents at the pickup zone."

Mitchell shrugged. "I assumed they were on a rat line, holing up in the caves."

"We're still working on that, but you're probably right. We didn't pick them up until you were already at the zone. More air support would've turned it into a fiasco."

"What about the recovery mission? Still on?"

The colonel winced. "It's been delayed until those insurgents are out of there. On top of that, we got another front moving through. Wind speeds are too high. We'll need to wait till that passes–at least eighteen, maybe twenty hours."

"I'd like to be on that team."

"I know you would, but that maniac Wolde in Ethiopia has got his eyes set on Eritrea, and I suspect higher will want you there. I already want you there."

"Guess we're sleeping on the plane–again."

"Captain, we appreciate you helping field-test the new Cross-Com," said Major Grey. "We'll need your evals ASAP, though I hear we're still three to four years out before full implementation."

"That's a shame, because that's a damned fine system and a great piece of equipment."

"Yes, it is–for many reasons. Now, Captain, I do have a question. I was playing back your HUD recordings, and I noticed you corrected the sergeants when they were evacuating agents Vick and Saenz."

"That was our fault," Ramirez blurted out. "The medic was the most seriously wounded. We should have evaced him first."

Grey barely turned toward Ramirez, who was already swallowing and lowering his head. "Sorry, Major. Just thought you should know."

"I already know."

"Uh, to answer your question, Major, yes, I did correct them," said Mitchell.

"Why?"

Mitchell thought a moment. He could answer carefully, or he could get it all off his chest. "Let's back up a moment. I fought to be assigned to this mission. It was no secret that one of my best friends was out there. You knew I'd bring him home, and to be honest, I was going to make sure he got on that chopper– first. He wasthe most seriously wounded, and I didn't see a problem with that."

"Even though agents Vick and Saenz might have intelligence that is far more helpful than anything Sergeant McDaniel might have gathered? They've been operating along the border for a long time–much longer than your . . . friend."

"That's speculation. Those spooks might have nothing. And even if they have–"

"Once they've been treated, they'll be questioned."

"Yes, but they'll only give you so much. We all salute the same flag, but don't forget their paycheck–and bonuses–come from Langley."

Lieutenant Colonel Gordon sighed in disgust. "Major Grey, to be quite frank, I don't give a rat's ass what order the captain used for his evac plan. In my book, that's trivial. Point is, they all got out. End of story. And to be honest, I would've done the same damned thing."

"Thank you, sir." Mitchell narrowed his gaze on Grey and thought a curse.

Grey quirked a brow. "I just find it curious."

Outside the hut, on their way back to the field hospital, Mitchell stopped and turned to Ramirez and Brown. "You guys think I made a mistake?"

"Absolutely not," said Ramirez. "And don't let Howitzer get to you, sir. She was born pissed off."

"What about you, Marcus? You don't look so sure."

"I don't think it was a mistake, but . . ."

"But . . ."

"You know they're breathing down our necks, watching everything we do. If you show any bias at all, they know about it. That's all I'm saying. We've always been clear where we stand with you, sir."

Mitchell nodded. "It's the old reminder: don't let it get personal. I know. And if it were anybody else . . ."

"You did the right thing, sir," Ramirez said. "You heard the colonel. And what the hell did they expect? If they were so worried about you showing bias, they would've denied your request to lead this mission. Come on."

"Yeah. Well, there's no love lost between us and the CIA, and this didn't help. I think that's Grey's problem. I've put her in an awkward position."

"Like you said, we're all on the same team," said Brown. "Those spooks will figure that out. And they'll get over it."

It took another fifteen minutes to reach the hospital, and once there, Brown and Ramirez went off with Diaz to grab something warm to drink while Mitchell checked on Rutang.

To his surprise, Rutang was sitting up in bed, awake, an IV already in. A nurse there said they'd already drawn blood and that they'd had him scheduled for X-rays because of the blunt trauma to his head and face.

"Yo, Tang, what's up?" asked Mitchell in his best spirit-lifting tone.

"Scott, I think I'm done. Stick a fork in me."

"Whatever they drugged you with is wearing off. Your eyes look good."

"Don't change the subject. I told you, I'm done."

"Done with what? Filling your bedpan?"

"Between this and the Philippines . . ."

"Uh, let's see, you've had two missions that went south out of what, a hundred? It's like plane travel. You only hear about the crashes."

"That's what my cousin keeps telling me. The bastard just made colonel, too."

"Good for him. But we're talking about you."

He closed his eyes. "When they were beating me, I just kept thinking about Mandy and the kids, about how selfish I am for wanting to do this and how they were going to lose me–when this is the time they need me most. Everybody warns you about having a family."

"That's a cop-out."

He snapped open his eyes. "Then why is everybody single or divorced? Look at you."

Mitchell made a face. "Rutang, this isn't the time for career decisions. You focus on recovery."

"Yeah, whatever." He glanced away.

"Listen to me, bro. They'll come in here tomorrow, and they'll ask you a million questions. And can you do me a favor?"

"What?"

"Just don't be a wise guy. Answer the questions. The people I work for are not very patient."

"Who do you work for?"

"Those very impatient people."

Rutang rolled his eyes. "I won't embarrass you. And there is something I need to tell them. It's small, but you never know. When the captain's team got close to the arms dealers, they got out the big ear and eavesdropped on a conversation. They heard 'em say 'Pouncing Dragon' a couple of times."

"Well, that's something. Probably the code name for their operation. Maybe the intel people can trace it."

"I hope so. We died out there trying to stop those bastards."

"Your guys didn't die in vain–thanks to you."

"I ain't no hero, Scott."

"God, I hope not. You'd give us all a bad name."

Rutang shook his head. "Your cheering-up skills? You should work on those."

Mitchell smiled. "You work on getting better."

Chapter Fourteen.

MITCHELL RESIDENCE

FIFTH AVENUE

YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

OCTOBER 2011

Mitchell parked the rental car outside the old house, making sure he was at least six feet ahead of the mailbox. Then he got out and opened the trunk to fetch his duffel bag.

Dad's blood pressure would rise because Mitchell had rented a foreign car instead of a GM. Dad had spent thirty years at the General Motors Assembly Plant in Lordstown, working his way up to foreman. He had taught Mitchell his fierce sense of loyalty to people, products, and ideas.

But Mitchell had a coupon, and he was decidedly more loyal to his own wallet. While Ghosts did receive bonuses and special allowances for clothing and food, keeping the world safe from terror and destruction still paid less than 60K a year. Sure, he had few expenses and a nice nest egg and retirement, but being frugal in an unstable economy was just plain smart.

However, none of those arguments would work on Dad.

Mitchell shut the trunk and checked his watch: 16:30 hours. He was thirty minutes past his ETA. Blame it on the airline. He drew in a long breath through his nose. Clean air. It was good to be home.

He had made a quick stop back in '09 for the holidays, feeling good about seeing everyone and about his work in Eritrea, and then there had been Cuba in the following year, with missions against those narco-terrorist Colombians. Mitchell had earned himself yet another Silver Star and had chosen to remain a Ghost Team leader, despite being slated for promotion and the promise of more pay. He'd forgo the money and remain behind a weapon instead of a computer. And when it was time to step off the battlefield, he'd return to Fort Bragg to become an instructor. He'd already done a few stints of that, was scheduled to instruct again, and enjoyed paying it forward.

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."

Mitchell snorted. Gerry was Jenn's husband, a software designer who made serious money. They lived in Northern California in an 8,000-square-foot multimillion-dollar home. Despite his keen business sense and remarkable work ethic, Gerry obviously still liked his toys, big boy and little boy. "So where is the geek?" Mitchell asked. "I'll have him arrested for attempted murder."

"Shut up, you idiot. Hey, everybody! Scott's here!"

He followed her into the kitchen, where, as he had expected, Tommy and Nicholas were seated at the long bar nursing beers while watching a Buckeyes game on Dad's little thirteen-inch TV because Dad had the new plasma screen mounted in his bedroom.

Nicholas, who was now sporting a pair of trendy, plastic-framed glasses, had earned his undergraduate and graduate degrees in mechanical engineering and had secured a tenure-track teaching position at the University of Central Florida.

Tommy was no good with the books and had always worked with his hands. For a while, he and Mitchell had both worked as assistants at the same auto repair shop in Youngstown, one now called Mitchell's Auto Body and Repair and owned by Tommy himself.

"Ten-hut," shouted Nicholas, who was second oldest behind Mitchell. "Knucklehead on deck!"

Mitchell came around the bar and gave his brother a firm handshake and what they liked to call a "man hug," not too close, buddy. "And there he is," Mitchell began as Tommy, just thirty-one years old, rose and offered his hand. "The last American bachelor and grease monkey."

"That was never me," said Tommy, giving him a slap on the back. "That's you."

"I married the army."

"Well, I have to tell you, Scott, my wife-to-be is a whole lot prettier than yours."

"Yep, lured away into the world of diapers and mini-vans, and all it took was a woman who'd actually have sex with you!" Mitchell slapped Tommy's newly soft gut.

That drew a big laugh from Nicholas and Jenn as Tommy frowned and shook his head. "Get a haircut," was all he could say; then he returned to the game.

Mitchell's hair was high and tight, as always. "Where's Dad?" he asked Jenn.

"He's out back in the shop."

"Hey, what time do we have to be there tomorrow?"

Tommy snorted, interrupting Jenn. "Why do you ask? You got plans? Too busy to see your brother get married?"

"If you want to know the truth, it was pretty hard to fit you into my schedule . . ." Mitchell's tone softened. "But I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Well, best man, you need to be at the church by eight thirty."

"Oh eight thirty. I'll be there. So you didn't tell me where Gerry is. And where's Angela?" he asked, the latter being Nicholas's wife of five years, also a scholar who refused to answer questions about when they were having kids.

"Angela's cooking, so they went to get stuff for dinner while we waited for you. We're having pot roast."

"I thought you were vegan."

"I am–three hundred and sixty-four days a year."

"You're a trip." He grinned and turned as Nicholas pushed a beer into his hand.

"It's great to see you, Scott." Nicholas was getting choked up.

"You, too. I'm going to go say hi to Dad."

Nicholas snickered. "Good luck. He's kind of cranky today."

"Today?" Mitchell winked and headed out past the sliding glass doors. He walked across the long backyard, the brown, gold, and orange leaves crunching underfoot.

Dad's woodworking shop was actually a two-car garage he'd had built about a year after Mom had died. Dad had spent many weekends cutting, routing, sawing, and sanding, and everyone said it was good therapy for him. Mitchell was only fourteen when Mom had died, and her loss was devastating to them all. She had been born in Latvia, in the Saldus district, and Mitchell could still hear her thick accent: "You must do your homework. You must study. You must not throw away the great opportunities of your life!"

She had worked hard to become a pharmacist, and when she had passed, Mitchell had taken on the role of rearing his younger siblings because Dad worked overtime to support them. But Dad still managed to teach Mitchell a strong sense of leadership that he passed on to his brothers and sister.

Mitchell crossed around to the side door, which was cracked open. "Dad?" He pushed open the door.

His father, William David Mitchell, had donned a pair of denim overalls, and his sizable gut tented up the central pockets. He had a flat-sided carpenter's pencil behind his ear and was staring down the edge of a long piece of pine he had balanced on one of his tables. Dad glanced up, a thin layer of white stubble rising from his jaw. "Well, well, well, the prodigal son returns home in his foreign-made rental car."

"You haven't been here the whole time?"

"Nope. I saw you pull up."

"And then what? You came running out? You trying to avoid me?"

"You?" He chuckled under his breath. "You know I hate all that hello crap. Damn house is so noisy with everybody here."

"Nice to see you, too. What are you making?"

"A tortoise table."

Mitchell's mouth fell open. "A what?"

He grinned. "Just kidding. Your sister forwarded me a couple of your e-mails way back when. All those weekends out here with me, and you're not even building furniture anymore? Doghouses and turtle houses?"

"I just finished up a real nice piece for my company commander. It's a custom footlocker for stowing military mementos. I even engraved it."

"Yeah, well I'm working on a nice box myself. Figure I'll save you kids a lot of money once I croak."

"What do you mean? You're not . . . you're building your own coffin?"

His eyes widened. "Absolutely."

"Dad, is there something you want to tell me? I thought the stress test went okay."

"It did."

"So what are you doing? Tommy's getting married tomorrow. Does marriage make you think about–"

"No. It makes me think about your mother. About missing her. That's all. I'm happy for your brother."

"You don't think this is weird?"

"It's morbid, yeah. But weird? Nah. It's smart. We'll save a lot of money, and I'll go out in style, in a box I made. You can't beat that."

"Whatever you say." Mitchell shifted up to his father and gave him an awkward hug. "They're making a pot roast."

"I know. I say we eat, get drunk, and you can tell us all about your missions. You got any juicy stuff? You meet any beautiful frauleins who are double agents?"

Mitchell chuckled. "Dad, it's all pretty boring."

"Uh-huh. And speaking of frauleins, you know Tommy's fiancee just hired an accountant–and she got invited to the wedding."

"And I should care because . . ."

"It's Kristin."

Mitchell slumped. "Oh, man."

"You haven't seen her in a long time."

"And I don't think she'd mind a few more centuries."

"Whatever happened between you two is water under the bridge. She's still single, and she teaches one of those kick-step whatever classes at the gym, too."

"How do you know? You've been talking to her?"

"She did my taxes this year. Gave me a good deal."

"But Dad, you know how it is. It never works out."

"One day it will. And I guess I'm just selfish, Scott. What can I tell you? Maybe you can fall in love with her, quit the army, and come back home so your old man can enjoy a few more years with his firstborn son."

"That's your plan?"

Dad wiggled his brows, then he frowned as his gaze lowered to Mitchell's bottle. "You come all the way out here with just one beer?"

"Take a break, Dad. Come on. You can build your coffin another day."

"Okay, but at the wedding, just don't ignore Kristin. Dance with her. Talk to her."

Mitchell gave a reluctant nod. "I'll try. Hopefully she won't draw blood."

Chapter Fifteen.

MITCHELL RESIDENCE

FIFTH AVENUE

YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO

OCTOBER 2011

The dinner conversation focused mainly on Tommy, who had been wise enough to have his bachelor party the weekend before his wedding. It had taken him three days to recover, Mitchell had learned. At least he hadn't come home with any new tattoos, just a world-class hangover.

Afterward, they'd had coffee and a triple-layer chocolate cake that, according to Jenn, weighed over five pounds. Mitchell had fended off their questions about his work, saying only that it was not as glamorous as they imagined.

Finally, they retired early for the evening. Mitchell would sleep in his old bedroom and, as expected, Dad still hadn't changed a thing. The dog-eared and fading Metallica and Michael Jordan posters still hung from the back wall; the Atari 2600 game console still sat atop Mitchell's dusty old Zenith; and the Uncle Sam poster–I Want You for U.S. Army–was still tacked to the wall above Mitchell's bed.

In fact, Dad had left all of the kids' bedrooms untouched. Mitchell assumed that all the memorabilia made Dad feel less alone. Jenn had been arguing with him for years to get rid of everything, sell the old house, and get a nice little house in The Villages, Florida. Dad would have none of it. He still had a few more years to go before retirement, and with work and his woodshop, he was "too busy to even think about that."

Even Mitchell's comic book collection still sat in plastic milk crates inside his closet. He thumbed through the stacks, pulling out an issue of DC's Sgt. Rockand another, Marvel's The 'Nam, both among his favorites. He brought them back to the nightstand.

After stripping down to his T-shirt and boxers, he sat on the bed and looked around. He could never have imagined that the little boy sleeping in this tiny room would, years later, travel around the globe. He was just a small-town kid who had joined the army because he couldn't afford college and had planned to use his GI Bill benefits to help pay for tuition once he got out. He and thousands of other guys had the same idea.