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August 17, 2008 Beijing
Jethro Gibbs functioned best in silence. As a former sniper with the Marines, he’d required it, focusing on the slightest whisper of a shoe on the ground in order to locate a target. This sound was foreign and offensive to his ears.
Eighteen months ago, the director approached him. NCIS needed positive press and SecNav had been studying his service records. Would he consider being assessed as a competitive shooter?
What the hell, he’d thought. He’d shown up for a training session mildly curious. Soon, they’d named his events as 50m rifle from three positions and 50m rifle from a prone position. He’d clearly impressed them.
Impressed them enough to be here today.
He took a deep breath, scanning the crowd. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. Jenny, Abby, Ducky. DiNozzo had wanted to come but he had to man the team. Gibbs flushed. This was supposed to be a little whim to keep the SecNav off NCIS’ back and all of a sudden it had blossomed into—this.
He’d taken a lower profile at NCIS since being named one of the Olympic hopefuls, with the promise that they’d extend his field eligibility by two years. He’d been frustrated, cranky, annoyed; none of it was what he wanted to do. He caught dirtbags. He didn’t want glory, didn’t want sponsor patches slapped on his outfit.
So he shot a gun and he was good. What did it matter?
As the strains of the National Anthem played, he placed his hand over his heart, intoning the words in a quiet voice, pride soaring at the sight of the American flag being raised. He glanced down to his chest, looking at the gold medallion and couldn’t help but grin.
This was a pain in the ass, sure, but he was an Olympic gold medal winner twice over. And that was pretty damn amazing.
The crowd roared again and he added a small sound of satisfaction to theirs.
This wasn’t so bad after all.