Savage Recruit (Ryan Savage Thriller Series Book 8), стр. 23
A door squeaked open on the other end of the floor and slammed shut. Teapot made his way toward us, his hands grasping the handles of several plastic bags.
“Dinner’s up!” he said, and set the bags down on the makeshift table. Everyone stood up and rummaged through them, selecting what they wanted and digging out a plastic fork before taking their seats again. I grabbed a beer from the pail, popped the tab, and handed it to Teapot.
“Thanks, brother. I’ve got lemon chicken, sweet and sour pork, or General Tso’s chicken.”
“Lemon chicken will do.”
“You got it.” He handed me a styrofoam container and a fork. I pulled back the lid to find a dish that looked exactly like something I could get at any Chinese restaurant in the States: strips of fried chicken, a pile of fried rice, and a side container filled with an unnaturally bright yellow sauce whose main ingredient was certainly high fructose corn syrup.
We all dug in, and Teacup spoke around a mouthful of food. “You guys know how General Tso’s chicken got named after the good general?”
Chachi rolled his eyes. “Nope. But I have a feeling we’re about to find out.”
“The real General Tso was a statesman and military leader from the Qing Dynasty, lived sometime in the 1800s. The funny thing is that no one is sure how his name got tied in with this sweet fried dish. Nothing resembling it was a thing when the good general’s army was suppressing the Nian Rebellion. And another problem among culinary historians is that no one can agree who first invented the recipe. Whether it was a chef in Taiwan or a Chinese immigrant chef who cooked for a restaurant called Shun Lee Palace in New York City back in the ’70s. It’s like a serious feud.”
“I think you might have missed your calling as a culinary historian,” Granger said. “Geez,” he muttered. “I didn’t even know that was a thing. How do you know all this?”
“Watched a documentary on it. ‘The Search for General Tso.’ Pretty interesting.”
“Teacup,” Boomer said, “you are full of more worthless information than anyone I know.”
Teacup jabbed his fork in Boomer’s direction. “But now you know about General Tso, and the next time you eat Chinese with someone, you’re going to feel superior to them. Tell me you’ll be able to resist the urge to tell them what you know about General Tso.”
Bommer grinned and shook his head. “Damn if I think you’re right.”
I took another pull on my beer. “Boomer, you said you played tight end for the Bulldogs?”
“Indeed. Junior and senior years.”
“Then he got picked up in the twelfth round of the NFL draft,” Granger said.
“No kidding,” I said. “You played pro ball?”
“Nearly. I was selected by the Vikings, and my agent started working through the contract details with the team. That night, I was sitting in a bar wearing my new purple jersey, celebrating with my family when I got a call that one of my childhood buddies was killed in Afghanistan.” Boomer shook his head. “I left the celebrations early and went for a long walk through New York City. By the time I got back to my hotel room, I had decided on a different route. Next day, I told my agent thanks but no thanks and found a recruiter’s office.”
“A Pat Tillman move.”
Boomer nodded. “Tillman is a hero of mine. I mean that in every sense of the word. He gave up the fullness of the American dream and ultimately laid it all on the line. To me, that is the very definition of honor.”
Pat Tillman had played four seasons with the Arizona Cardinals as a defensive lineman. After the September 11th attacks, he turned down an almost four-million-dollar contract extension with the Cards and joined the Army. At the time, his brother was playing minor league ball for the Indians’ organization and, along with Pat, left that behind to serve his country. The brothers went through basic training together, and both went on to complete Ranger Indoctrination School before being assigned to the 2nd Ranger Battalion. Soon after, Pat was deployed to Afghanistan, where he paid the ultimate price in a firefight.
“Football taught me the love of the fight,” Boomer continued. “At the end of the day, that’s all football is—war. Albeit a different kind. After seeing my childhood buddy give his all, I realized I couldn’t spend my life playing on artificial turf. I had to get on a real battlefield.” He shrugged. “That’s about the sum of it.”
I raised my beer to him. “I admire that. And all of you, in fact. Americans will never know what you do day in and day out for their safety. And I know you don’t need them to. But because you’re out here fighting in the shadows, the enemy is forced to stay on his toes, wherever he might be.”
Teacup raised his bottle. “De Oppresso Liber.” The motto of the U.S. Army Special Forces: “To Free the Oppressed.”
“De oppresso liber,” everyone chimed.
After dinner, Granger returned to his computer and continued to coordinate the flow of information with JSOC. I knocked out an extended series of pushups and situps in an attempt to burn off the nervous energy that came from waiting and doing nothing. Darkness finally settled, and I made my way to my cot. Each of us had his own space between a row of privacy curtains, and Boomer had set me up with a spot near the rear wall. I was unlacing my shoes when my phone rang. It was Charlotte.
“Hey,” she said. “Any progress out there?”
It was good to hear her voice. “A little. Nothing actionable right now. We’re in a holding