salute. âI have to report in to the first sergeant.â
Walker nodded. âI see.â He picked up the leather portfolio and removed a small bundle wrapped in black cloth. âEither way, I think this is yours. Petrovsky had no right to withhold it from you. You earned it.â He put the bundle in Quinnâs left hand and returned the younger manâs salute. Then he picked up his coffee and walked into the parking lot.
Quinn stared down at the black cloth in his hands. Without a conscious thought, he began to unwrap it, revealing a maroon beret with the pararescuemanâs badge pinned to the front. He smiled despite himself.
Then a cloth patch slipped out of the black wrapping and fell onto the ground. Quinn picked it up and turned it over to dust it off. The design on the triangular patch looked muted, stealthy. The colors were so dark that he had to hold it closer to his eyes to break them out from the black background. A bronze dagger with a deep green handle stood blade down toward the base of the triangle. On the blade, scarlet lettering proclaimed THIRD TIME LUCKY , and beneath the tip, emblazoned in the same color, the number 777 was written with thick, elegant script.
Quinn felt a surge of electricity pulse through his body, the sensation of a thousand pinpricks assaulting his skin all at once. He felt as if his nervous system had suddenly woken up after days of sleep. He looked up at the entrance to the training center. Suddenly, the double doors, the sign, the whole center, looked as two dimensional as a Hollywood cutout thrown up in his path, a poorly conceived April Foolâs joke that was never funny in the first place. He turned around in time to see the colonel getting into a blue Air Force sedan. âWait!â he shouted, pulling off his camouflage cap and putting on the beret. âI changed my mind!â
CHAPTER 16
C hen looked down at the tin plate of slop that he carried and immediately recoiled at the smell. He held it away from his body as if it were a glass vial full of infectious disease. Spoiled rice, covered with pungent brown gravy that had already begun to congeal; this meal was not even fit for the mangy dogs that haunted the forest beyond the fence.
âHong Mo
,
â
he yelled, banging on the cell door with his nightstick. â
Yidong
,
Hong Mo!
Get back! Your breakfast is here.â
Chen gave the door a final whack with his stick and then opened it just wide enough to toss the plate into the cell, spilling most of its contents onto the concrete floor. He shut the door quickly, listening for the satisfying sound of the foreign devil scrambling forward to scrape his daily meal from the floor. But he heard nothing.
âHong Mo!â he shouted, banging on the door even harder. âWake up, you lazy American dog! Come and get your slop!â He waited again, but still there was no sound. Was the American finally dead? Unlikely. Hong Mo had been in the prison for years, and heâd never complained of anything worse than a common cold or a toothache.
Chen felt his pulse accelerating. He hesitated a moment more and then burst into the cell. In his haste, he slipped in the spilled gravy and fell flat on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. It took a few moments for him to recover from the fall and regain control of his limbs. When he finally struggled to his feet, he let fly a tirade of Chinese curses and turned toward the cot in the corner, raising his nightstick to vent his anger on the American. But the cot was empty. Hong Mo was gone.
Chen cursed again. Disgusting brown goo covered his uniform, and his back ached. How had the devil escaped? There was no way to open the door from inside the cell, no window to the outside. His mind reeled, replaying the last few moments. Then fear gripped him. He remembered a flash of gray as he fell. Was it the prison wall or the prisoner himself?
He knew he should sound the alarm, but the commandant
Walker nodded. âI see.â He picked up the leather portfolio and removed a small bundle wrapped in black cloth. âEither way, I think this is yours. Petrovsky had no right to withhold it from you. You earned it.â He put the bundle in Quinnâs left hand and returned the younger manâs salute. Then he picked up his coffee and walked into the parking lot.
Quinn stared down at the black cloth in his hands. Without a conscious thought, he began to unwrap it, revealing a maroon beret with the pararescuemanâs badge pinned to the front. He smiled despite himself.
Then a cloth patch slipped out of the black wrapping and fell onto the ground. Quinn picked it up and turned it over to dust it off. The design on the triangular patch looked muted, stealthy. The colors were so dark that he had to hold it closer to his eyes to break them out from the black background. A bronze dagger with a deep green handle stood blade down toward the base of the triangle. On the blade, scarlet lettering proclaimed THIRD TIME LUCKY , and beneath the tip, emblazoned in the same color, the number 777 was written with thick, elegant script.
Quinn felt a surge of electricity pulse through his body, the sensation of a thousand pinpricks assaulting his skin all at once. He felt as if his nervous system had suddenly woken up after days of sleep. He looked up at the entrance to the training center. Suddenly, the double doors, the sign, the whole center, looked as two dimensional as a Hollywood cutout thrown up in his path, a poorly conceived April Foolâs joke that was never funny in the first place. He turned around in time to see the colonel getting into a blue Air Force sedan. âWait!â he shouted, pulling off his camouflage cap and putting on the beret. âI changed my mind!â
CHAPTER 16
C hen looked down at the tin plate of slop that he carried and immediately recoiled at the smell. He held it away from his body as if it were a glass vial full of infectious disease. Spoiled rice, covered with pungent brown gravy that had already begun to congeal; this meal was not even fit for the mangy dogs that haunted the forest beyond the fence.
âHong Mo
,
â
he yelled, banging on the cell door with his nightstick. â
Yidong
,
Hong Mo!
Get back! Your breakfast is here.â
Chen gave the door a final whack with his stick and then opened it just wide enough to toss the plate into the cell, spilling most of its contents onto the concrete floor. He shut the door quickly, listening for the satisfying sound of the foreign devil scrambling forward to scrape his daily meal from the floor. But he heard nothing.
âHong Mo!â he shouted, banging on the door even harder. âWake up, you lazy American dog! Come and get your slop!â He waited again, but still there was no sound. Was the American finally dead? Unlikely. Hong Mo had been in the prison for years, and heâd never complained of anything worse than a common cold or a toothache.
Chen felt his pulse accelerating. He hesitated a moment more and then burst into the cell. In his haste, he slipped in the spilled gravy and fell flat on his back, knocking the air from his lungs. It took a few moments for him to recover from the fall and regain control of his limbs. When he finally struggled to his feet, he let fly a tirade of Chinese curses and turned toward the cot in the corner, raising his nightstick to vent his anger on the American. But the cot was empty. Hong Mo was gone.
Chen cursed again. Disgusting brown goo covered his uniform, and his back ached. How had the devil escaped? There was no way to open the door from inside the cell, no window to the outside. His mind reeled, replaying the last few moments. Then fear gripped him. He remembered a flash of gray as he fell. Was it the prison wall or the prisoner himself?
He knew he should sound the alarm, but the commandant
Similar Books
