Fault Line

10 KING OF THE WORLD

Ben was getting bored in Ankara. Waiting for a target was one thing; he had a sniper's patience for that. But waiting for information was different. Hort still hadn't been able to find out anything about the Russian, if in fact the guy was Russian, and had told him to stay put until they'd cleared it up. So he read and worked out twice a day and visited a few famous archaeological sites.

The Ankara Citadel was impressive, he had to admit. He went early one morning on a whim. It was set on a hill a kilometer high, and the city below was invisible, covered in mist. He thought of the people who had built it, gone now, but having managed to cleave a monument to a mountain in however much time they had.

He thought of his parents. See, guys? I'm getting some culture. I told you I would.

He smiled. Their ideas of culture had always been different from his. They'd been dead set against the army from the time he'd first started talking about it in high school. His father wanted Ben, who showed none of Alex's aptitude for science, to be a lawyer. Ben found the proposition about as attractive as an offer of a lobotomy and a lounge chair.

His father had pressured him to apply to college. “Why not keep your options open?” the old man had argued. “Give yourself a choice. If you get into a good school, you can take advantage. And you can always join the army afterward, as an officer. Then you'd have all the advantages and opportunities of a college degree plus the military.”

Ben knew what the old man was really thinking: By the time you've graduated from college, you'll have outgrown all this silliness. He was just trying to keep Ben on the “right” track long enough for Ben to get stuck in the grooves.

There had been recruiters at Ben's football games and wrestling matches, and he knew there was interest at Stanford, Berkeley, Michigan, Penn, a few other places. But his grades weren't so hot. He figured he could apply to some schools to placate his dad but that in the end nothing would come of it. Then he could say, Hey, I gave it a shot, but it didn't work out. Hello, army.

It almost worked. But the old man was on the Board of Trustees at Stanford, which also happened to be the school most interested in Ben's football prowess, and he pulled some strings. Ben was accepted. Then the old man started in with a new pitch: Stanford will be great. You'll actually be able to play there, whereas at one of the higher-ranked schools you would have been red-shirted your first year anyway. Plus it's the best education, it'll serve you well as an army officer.

Ben knew the old man had a point, but he just didn't want to go to school so close to home. In fact, he wanted to be far from home, overseas far. He couldn't exactly explain why. It wasn't that he didn't love his family, and the Bay Area was a good place to live, and Stanford was a good school, and yeah, he could play football there and wrestle, too, but… he just wanted more for himself, something fresh, something he felt he was cut out for in a way his dad and certainly Alex never would be. There was something special inside him, he could feel it, and going to college three miles from the house he grew up in… it was wrong. It would have been like betraying himself, in a way he couldn't quite understand, let alone articulate to his dad.

He had decided, fuck it, he wasn't going to Stanford or anywhere else; it was his life and he was joining the army. He had talked to a recruiter and found out he could be guaranteed a slot in Airborne, which was the feeder to Ranger Battalion, which could lead to Special Forces-everything he'd always wanted, everything he knew he could be the best at. He would learn languages, train indigenous forces, have adventures ordinary people could barely imagine. He decided he would break the news to his parents right after the States. He'd be facing the best wrestlers in California there, and he couldn't afford any distractions.

He'd been seeded eighth, which meant in the first round he would face the top seed, an undefeated guy named Musamano who was built like a bull, and no one had figured Ben to survive even into the semifinals. But Ben had thought hard about what his opponents knew about him, what they would be expecting. He was known as a single wrist and half nelson guy, effective, but meat and potatoes. Standard. A little predictable. He started wondering what would happen if he threw Musamano a few curves.

He thought about what he would do to stymie someone who wrestled the way he did. Keep the arms rigid, he thought. Palms on the mat, head up. That denies the opportunity both for the single wrist and for the nelson.

But defending with that posture must create new vulnerabilities, right? The more he thought about it, the more he thought he could surprise people by attacking with a cradle, either near side or far, it wouldn't matter. With their hands planted and heads up, overcompensating against the expected nelson and wrist attack, they'd be vulnerable.

He didn't want anyone to know what he was doing, so he practiced his new moves only at home, on his father and on Alex. His father didn't have much patience for it but tried to be a good sport. Alex was too small and had no experience, but Ben could use him as a training dummy. He'd tell Alex what to do and how to move, to try to escape and resist this way and that way. Alex complained about the rug burns, but to his credit, he never refused. And by the first day of the tournament, Ben felt ready.

Musamano took him down immediately in the first round and rode him for the rest of the period. But Ben was on top at the beginning of the second, and Musamano braced for Ben's attack exactly as Ben had hoped. Ben slammed in a crossface with his left hand and dropped his right deeply into Musamano's right inner thigh, spiraling out clockwise way past Musamano's head, surprising him, twisting him up. Musa mano's right arm crumbled and one quarter of his stability was gone. Ben heard a roar from the crowd and felt something surge inside him: it was working! But he pushed the excitement away. He wasn't there yet.

He spiraled out even more aggressively and sliced the crossface in harder, digging in so savagely he could feel Musamano's teeth on his forearm right through the guy's cheek. Musamano grunted and straightened his right leg to brace, and there it was, it was now or never. Ben dropped his right hand in behind Musamano's right knee and changed directions, springing over Musamano's back and landing right next to him on his right. He shot his right hand in deeper and took hold of his left wrist, tunneled his head into Musamano's right temple, and tried to roll right. He could feel Musamano brace hard in the other direction and for one second Ben thought he didn't have the leverage, he was going to lose the grip. But then Musamano was moving, arcing over Ben and onto the mat, his shoulders down, the cradle in place. Ben heard another roar from the crowd, louder this time, and Musamano bucked and arched but Ben sank the cradle deeper, angling Musamano's shoulders onto the mat, squeezing with everything he had.

He wedged a knee under Musamano's lower back and gritted his teeth, squeezing, squeezing. The sound from the crowd was outsized now, not just cheers but the din of a thousand stomping feet reverberating through the floor and walls, but he was only dimly aware of it. He might have heard a whistle blow but it didn't mean anything to him, he just kept working Musamano's shoulders to the mat, choking him, trying to pin him or kill him, he didn't care which. Then he felt strong hands tugging at him, prying him away, and it was only then he realized he'd done it, he'd pinned Musamano. It was over, he'd won.

He released the grip and rolled to his feet. His arms were shaking. The auditorium was pandemonium now. He looked over and even his ordinarily restrained parents were on their feet, shaking their clenched fists over their heads, whooping at the top of their lungs. Alex and Katie were jumping up and down and shouting. He grinned and looked at Musamano. The wrestler was getting slowly to his feet. He looked stunned. He looked beaten.

The referee took each of their wrists, walked them to the center of the mat, and raised Ben's arm. The crowd went crazy again. Ben couldn't stop grinning. He'd done it. He'd beaten Musamano. He felt like king of the world.

After that first-round upset, his other opponents were psyched out. He could see it in their eyes and their postures the moment they stepped on the mat. He was the guy who had pinned Musamano, for Christ's sake, and although he ‘d learned in one of his classes that If A can beat B and B can beat C, A can beat Cis a logical fallacy, he knew people still felt it in their guts. He pinned his way through the rest of the tournament. No one could stop him.

It had been the best two days of his life.

And then. And then. And then.

He shook the thought away. At least his parents had meant well. Fucking Alex, though, Alex never said, “It's okay, Ben,” or, “It wasn't your fault, Ben,” or, “I know how much pain you're in over this, too, brother.”

Well, the hell with him. The last time Ben had heard from Alex, he was in law school. Before that, it was some computer Ph.D. program. All those degrees, and what did he ever accomplish? He'd never gone anywhere, never even really left home. By now he'd be a rich lawyer, the kind of ignorant, ungrateful yuppie who never got his hands dirty and looked down his nose at soldiers. That was the only good thing about their parents, about Katie, being gone. He didn't have to deal with Alex anymore. And he never would again.