Diminished Capacity

Chapter 11

by G. Lawrence

Recap; In the custody of the FBI and U.S. Marshals, a small team was driving back from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, when a jet crashed next to the road in front of them. All characters are over 18 years old.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Pat,

I know some have questioned Jack's mental stability, but I think they are wrong. When I met him under the most stressful of circumstances, he was very kind. He understood the pain of loss and was always anxious to help others. His generosity to my family has never been forgotten. Thank you so much for letting me read his book. Your Beloved Friend, Addie Wagner

* * * * * *

Chapter Eleven

NATIONAL FLIGHT 13

The first thing I noticed was the heavy smell of jet fuel, strongest toward the front of the crash. Both sections were largely intact, but there was no activity. I crossed over the end of the right wing toward the gap in the fuselage. The lower compartment was cargo, partially crushed and contents spilled all over. Looking up, I saw passengers on the upper deck still strapped in their seats, some with legs dangling out. The rip seemed to have occurred in a galley area between first class and the rest of the cabin, for I didn't see any bodies in the debris field.

There was only one way inside the plane. I gripped the siding of the jet and crawled up the torn inner wall until I could reach the passenger deck, a little like the cliff climbing I'd done during the White Mountain War, only this time no one was shooting at me. I needed to keep bracing my legs and finally found enough ledge to pull myself in.

All but two people were still in their seats, stunned by the force of the impact. A few had obvious head wounds, and there was at least one broken arm.

"Stay calm!" I shouted. "We are going to have an orderly evacuation. Be prepared to help the person next to you!"

I moved quickly down the center aisle, pushing two wanderers back into their seats to keep the passage clear. Six U.S. Marines were grouped to my left, all hearty youngsters.

"Marines, I need your help. Are you with me?" I summoned in my old sergeant's voice.

"Yes, sir!" they responded.

"Grab those people at the front. Carry them to the nearest exit as fast as possible," I ordered.

I found the emergency hatch over the right wing and popped it open. With the landing gear gone, the wing tipped nicely toward the ground. When I opened the hatch on the left, the shattered wing interfered. No exiting on that side. I continued to the rear, where the flight attendants had recovered sufficiently to work on the doors. Chutes deployed on both sides, but the ground to the north was in flames. There wasn't much time.

"Keep everyone moving out of the plane and up to the road," I explained. "Anybody who can help someone else must do so."

"Yes, sir," the chief purser said, an alert older woman with a bruised forehead.

I backed up, my arms raised, and motioned for those nearest the rear doors to go first, shouting instructions. Those who delayed were pushed. One man who reached for the overhead luggage compartment was dragged out instead. Children were taken by the hand and guided down to the ground. I saw some brave souls waiting at the bottom of the chute helping others despite the smoke.

Injuries were more serious closer to the front. Many had already escaped over the wing, but others were having trouble. I urged the frightened men and women to help those closest, and most did. The Marines were at the tear in the fuselage, unbuckling seatbelts and carrying the injured toward the wing hatch. They worked quickly, like a team, making me proud.

"Make one last check. Be sure to look under the seats. Then herd everyone up to the road," I said. "Keep an eye out for people fallen in the grass. They might not be able to walk."

"Yes, sir. We will. Sir, aren't you the Sarge?" a young corporal asked.

"Yes, son, I am. Now let's get this done," I replied, slapping him on the shoulder.

The flight attendants were the last to leave, lingering near the rear hatch until the Marines gave the all clear. Heavy smoke was now curling through the cabin, and flames were creeping up the left side. I went out the right side, sliding partially down the wing, then rolled over toward the forward section of the jet lying twenty yards away.

The smaller section of fuselage was bent and shrouded in smoke. I didn't see any movement and had to make my way around fiery green pools to reach the opening. A row of seats was hanging out of the breach with two victims still strapped in. Several mangled bodies lay ten feet away. The hatches adjacent to the flight deck were still closed so I climbed up through the torn opening, discovering the shell growing hot. The small fires in the debris field were spreading, forcing me to move quickly. If a ruptured tank still held fuel, there could be an explosion.

Unlike the rear section, first class was a morgue. The first few passengers I saw appeared dead, though I had no time to confirm my suspicion. Smoke was already thick and growing worse. I moved to the front, opened the hatch on the right, and was thankful to see the slide deploy. The door provided the only steady light, for everything else was turning black. The hatch on the other side was too badly damaged to budge.

I turned back, counting fourteen seats, two on each side of the aisle. The first few were occupied by middle-aged men in business suits, semiconscious at best. One, an older man who looked like a banker, stirred enough that I could speak with him.

"Everyone needs to get out of here now," I said. "Do you understand?"

He nodded as I lifted him from the seat. We pulled seven injured from the battered compartment and pushed them down the chute, rapidly and without proper care, for there was no time for caution. I heard the pilot groan for help and squeezed into the twisted flight deck. The co-pilot was dead, his head smashed into the control panel. The pilot's arms were broken. I dragged him backward until the man in the brown suit could help. The old man was soon spent, so I sent both down the chute together. Below me, through streaks of gray haze, I saw the Marines in the dry creek bed carrying the injured away.

There were only a few victims left, shrouded in smoke so thick, I was having trouble breathing. Flames now lit the opening in the back, shimmering through the gloom, spiraling up in tall, twisting cyclones. I guessed the debris field had finally caught fire, feeding into the cargo bay beneath the cabin.

I found a young woman in a conservative suit like the ones Alex always wore on duty. She was unconscious. Now without helpers, I carried her to the hatch and sent her down the chute. I was returning toward the back when the entire fuselage suddenly rocked. I put up my arms for balance, was thrust forward, and burned my hands on a hot support beam. Then a rippling line of fire licked along the overhead, and as I sought to duck, I struck my head on something, knocking me down. I felt the floor beneath me beginning to sag.

Through the smoke, I spotted a woman sitting upright, still strapped in her seat. I crawled over, trying to unlatch the seatbelt, but my fingers weren't cooperating. The mechanism seemed jammed. I pulled and pulled again, each attempt more painful than the last. I couldn't manage any sort of grip.

Finally, the belt seemed to slacken, but the woman would still not come free, and I couldn't see why. All was now smoke. My eyes burned. I put a sleeve over my nose, but it barely helped. Everything was swirling around me in a deadly haze.

A smarter man would have decided it was time to leave, but that wasn't me. And I suspected it was already too late. There didn't seem to be any way out. My knees were burning from the fire in the hold below. The debris field outside had grown into a red storm. Backing up to the forward hatch seemed impossible. And maybe it really didn't matter. I'd done my best. What more should be expected?

I knelt next to the doomed woman's knees and set my head against the armrest, making another attempt to cover my face. I was coughing but not yet gagging. Whether smoke or flames got me first was a contest. I briefly tried to stand, but the effort failed. Only seven weeks from being stabbed on the loading dock, I just didn't have the strength. I wondered if my life was going to pass before my eyes, but all I could see were the shimmering shapes of dead passengers still trapped in their seats. A desolate battlefield.

Then I heard a noise, different than the crackling all around me. A whimper. I peered into the seat next to the doomed woman, and then down at the floor. There was a sudden movement that scared the hell out of me. It was a face, smudged with smoke. At first I thought it was a dog, but it was a child. Probably about three years old. She was coughing and crying. And another one, smaller. Just a baby. Both were still alive.

My God, I thought, I've got to get them out of here! I hunched over the dying woman's legs, grabbed each child by the scruff of their shirts, and hauled them out into the aisle, holding them under my arms. I took a last glance at the woman, probably their mother, and promised to come back for her. And then I began my retreat.

Unable to stand, I slid backward a few feet at a time, trying not to bump the children or lose one. Lack of breath forced me to pause several times, causing me to struggle that much harder, for failure simply could not be contemplated.

Time lost meaning, but it couldn't have been more than a minute or two before reaching the forward hatch, the light still streaming through in places. Half-blind, I tried to find the chute, only to discover it was gone. In some manner, it must have torn free from the fuselage and now lay on the ground in a pile. Nor could I see anyone waiting down below, the smoke having driven the rescuers out of the ravine.

There was no point in cursing. A steady line of flame was working toward me with great determination. I sat in the open hatch for a final breath before turning around with my back to the door, clutching the children to my chest. I braced my legs, tucked in my chin, and then with a desperate effort jumped backward, sailing ten or twelve feet through the air before landing hard in the rocky creek bed.

My body acted as a cushion for the kids. I slowly rolled over, found my feet, and staggered up the side of the ravine until finding sunlight. Arms grabbed me, and more arms grabbed the children. I went about three steps before collapsing in the grass.

"Gots to go, Sarge. Gots to go now," a young Marine said, dragging me.

Behind us, the wreck was now engulfed in flames, small explosions breaking out everywhere. I stopped, saw what was happening, and started back. The woman was still in there. Jason and Charlie grabbed me.

"Jack, there's nothing more you can do," Charlie said, gripping my shoulders.

"I promised her. I promised," I moaned, falling on my painful knees.

Charlie picked me up, helping me back to the road before blown bits of shrapnel got someone hurt. They parked me on the tailgate of a white pick-up truck. I was thankful when someone used a wet towel to dampen my eyes. Breathing was still hard, causing me to choke on deep breaths. An explosion caught everyone's attention, causing many to gasp and back away.

The highway was crowded with passersby stopping to help, emergency vehicles, and even a television news crew from nearby Frederick. Passengers from the crash stood on the shoulder, watching their jet burn, the black smoke churning high into the blue afternoon sky. Many were crying. Even more were praying. I heard helicopters in the distance.

"What happened to ... the kids?" I asked.

"They're okay. Paramedics have them," Jason said.

"Are there enough doctors?" I inquired, trying to get up. I nearly fell off the tailgate instead.

"You smell like jet fuel. We need you out of these clothes," someone said.

Before I knew it, they had set me on the roadway to tear off my shirt, and then my pants. And then everything else. I wasn't anxious to lie on the ground naked before a large crowd, but it was a relief to be out of the fuel splattered suit. The smell was bad. Fortunately, someone put a blanket on me before too many gawkers took pictures.

"These burns don't look good," Charlie said, inspecting my hands. "And you've got quite a knock on the noggin."

"Blood on your back," Jason reported. "Looks like you landed on something sharp. A rock, maybe?"

"Maybe," I said, feeling drained.

Jason and Charlie were joined by Linda, Larissa, and Ashok, all tired from aiding the rescue effort.

"Lots of ambulances on the way. I'm using the van to take survivors into town," Larissa announced.

"One of us should stay with Jack," Charlie said.

"I can stay with him," Ashok volunteered. "And I get it now."

"What do you get, Ashok?" Linda asked.

"Why Jack Lawrence is never put in handcuffs," Ashok replied.

* * * * * *

I don't know how long it took, but somehow I ended up on the embankment, waiting for an ambulance. People came up to me, offering thanks and wanting to shake hands until they saw them crudely wrapped in bandages. I wouldn't be playing the guitar for a while. An older gentleman stayed close, sharing air from his portable oxygen tank.

"That was a hell of a thing, Jack," Linda said, sitting at my side.

"I'm a first responder, Linda. It's what I trained for. Anyone else in my profession would have done the same."

"I'm sure that's true. But it was still a hell of a thing."

With local hospitals filling up with urgent care patients, I requested a ride to Bethesda. It didn't take long to reach Walter Reed Medical Center with the sirens going, and all of Washington alert to the crash. Many of the emergency vehicles were getting motorcycle escorts. There was no panic, for none of my injuries were life-threatening. Linda and Ashok were good company.

The hospital grounds were green as always, the square white buildings hovering over us. We stopped in the ambulance bay, several orderlies rushing to help. Happily, there were no reporters.

Following preliminary treatment in the ER, they moved me to a private room on the third floor. The window had a nice view. Nurses and doctors steadily arrived to see the celebrity patient. A television mounted on the wall was showing news reports of the crash, but the sound was off. My eyes were still sufficiently pained from smoke that I only saw blurry images of the rescue effort. Hopefully they would leave my name out of it.

Two female nurses gave me a thorough scrubbing, for I still reeked of jet fuel when they brought me in. After treating the burns, my hands were bandaged halfway up the forearms, though most of the damage was to my fingers and palms. A sharp rock had punched a hole in my back when I jumped from the hatch, but the flesh wound was shallow. A few stitches had it sewn up. My knees were mildly blistered requiring burn creams. And then they left me on a plastic sheet covered in ointments. I wondered what happened to my new suit. Once again, I'd ruined my wardrobe.

I was relieved when they finally found me a blue hospital gown and left me alone, a painkiller making me sleepy, but the peace didn't last long.

"Guess who?" Alex said, slipping quietly into my room.

She looked extra professional in a sharp black business outfit and conservative make-up, probably just getting off duty. She held a bouquet of daisies in a vase.

"Hey, Alex. Busy day?" I asked.

"I'm sure you know how crazy this day has gotten," she said, sitting on the bed.

"Sad, but not so crazy," I said, for planes crash more often than we like to admit.

"Crazy for the Secret Service," Alex said.

I looked at her with a question, not knowing what she meant. It took Alex a moment to realize I wasn't feigning ignorance.

"Jack, Lt. Colonel Judith Massinger was on that plane. She died," Alex said.

"The President's daughter?" I asked.

"Yes, President Wagner's daughter. Those children you saved are the President's grandchildren."

Alex took out her tablet, brought up a cable news channel, and put it close enough that I could squint at the footage. It showed me sitting in the hatch of the burning jet, looking like hell and jumping with the kids in my arms just seconds before the fuselage exploded. It was all very dramatic. A news feed on the bottom read "Sarge John Lawrence saves passengers from flaming wreck."

"I remember her. She was a major during the war. Served with the 4th Armor Division," I said when a photo of Colonel Massinger appeared on the screen. "I should have saved her."

"Even you can't save everyone," Alex said.

"It got bad toward the end," I confessed. "If those kids hadn't appeared out of nowhere, I'd still be on that jet."

"No, that wouldn't have happened. You're just tired."

"You might be right," I half-heartedly agreed, though I knew better.

"One of Judith's Secret Service detail died, but two others survived. You saved my friend Cissy McIntyre. We went through training together at Rowley."

Alex leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek, slowly and with emotion.

"How is your friend doing?" I asked.

"Conscious. A few bruises. Cissy wants to thank you as soon as the doctors release her."

"That's not necessary," I said.

"You'll really like her. Cissy is smart, has a great sense of humor, and a nice figure. She was born in Ohio and went to New York University. She reads books."

"Are you trying to fix me up again?" I asked.

"I'm your wing girl."

"I have no trouble finding girls."

"You're a little on the shy side," Alex insisted. "You don't pursue like you should. Finding you a good woman is going to take work."

"I don't need a good woman. I have you," I said, reaching out with my bandaged hand.

* * * * * *

Alex couldn't stay long. As the daughter of the sitting president, Lt. Colonel Massinger's funeral required extensive Secret Service support. I had no doubt the FBI would be busy, too, allowing me a few quiet days back in Alexandria. And I needed them. I realized now how worn out I'd become.

Just before dawn, when the media downstairs were not expecting anything, I woke Linda up and asked her to sneak me out of the hospital. Charlie was home with his wife and kids, where he needed to be, so Linda started to call her office for another U.S. Marshal to lend a hand. She didn't need to. Ronald and Katie Ann Michaelson suddenly appeared in my room just as the sun was rising.

"Making your escape?" Katie Ann said, carrying a bundle of clothes for me.

"How did you guess?" I asked.

I was glad to see my gray wool sweats, for with my hands bandaged, I couldn't zip a pair of pants or button a shirt. Even using my thumbs was a challenge.

"You hate reporters, and they'll soon be crawling all over this place. We knew you'd make a break for it," Michaelson said, pleased with his cleverness.

They put me in a wheelchair and we went down the service elevator. Katie Ann was driving her own car, a modest four-door Honda CRV. Much better than a black van. We were off the grounds before anyone but my doctor had a clue, though I promised to be back on Friday to have my bandages changed.

"Can we stop at a church?" I requested.

"A little prayer would do us all good," Linda agreed.

When we returned to the dead congressman's mansion, I sat down in the kitchen, thankful for the quiet. After Linda left for headquarters, Katie Ann made a bowl of beef soup while I stared out the window.

"How are you doing?" Mr. Michaelson asked, taking a seat.

"Fair enough," I said.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked.

"No, but thank you. I need some rest, and then I've got to put myself back together."

"The burns aren't that bad. Doctor says you should heal fast."

"That will be the easy part," I acknowledged.

I stood up, ready to go to bed. Katie Ann was standing in the kitchen doorway and I went to embrace her. Awkwardly.

"Thank you so much. I'm sorry if I haven't shown the appreciation you deserve," I said. "These bad moods I have are no one's fault but my own."

"Apology accepted," she graciously answered. "Now try to get some sleep. You look like a zombie."

I plodded up to my room, but my sleep wasn't peaceful. Visions of the final moments in the jet haunted me. The upright bodies motioning for help I couldn't give. Their faces hidden by blood and smoke. The cabin exploding all around us. The dead would rise up, writhing in agony. Calling out in desperation.

I woke, soaked in sweat. An attempt to dampen a towel in the bathroom made a mess of my bandages, but eventually sleep came, restless and sporadic. If I'd been able to open the bottle of painkillers the doctor gave me, I'd have used them.

It was late afternoon when I finally crawled out of bed, using the bathroom with difficulty. I'd been injured in my arms and legs before, but never my hands. I didn't realize how difficult ordinary functions could be. I heard Katie Ann and went downstairs for lunch. She made broth and cut up a grilled cheese sandwich for me. When Dennis arrived for a physical therapy session, I overcame my pride to ask for help with the bathroom.

"You should see this," Katie Ann said, watching the big TV in the living room.

"More news reports of the crash?" I asked, sitting next to her on the old antique couch.

"Amazing reports," she confirmed, feeding me by hand.

As visuals go, it was engrossing. A news van parked on the road had good footage of the passengers sliding down the escape chutes and me climbing over the wing and up into the nose, which was already on fire. I hadn't known it at the time.

"This is the part the whole country is talking about," Katie Ann said, leaning forward. "Everyone thought no one else was getting out when you appeared with the children. That look on your face, it breaks my heart."

The video showed my distress when I realized the escape chute had collapsed, but I had little memory of sitting in that hatch. Everything was just a blur. A fleeting moment of desperation.

I enjoyed watching the young Marines being interviewed, for they were the real heroes. Without them, none of the passengers near the tear in the fuselage would have survived. And the youngsters were excited to have helped the legendary Sarge, even if he was just a colorful creation of Bobby Blair's war stories.

"It's good they caught you," Katie Ann said when focus went to Clayton and Domeyer dragging me back from the burning jet toward the highway. I looked like a briquette. Blood was running down my forehead, and the back of the white shirt was streaked in red. The injuries looked far worse on television.

The story moved on to the victims, especially the president's daughter. I was glad to hear the children were doing okay. Testimonials were coming in from Congress and military leaders. Lt. Colonel Massinger was a decorated officer, held in high esteem by the rank and file. Her funeral was already shaping up as a national event.

"You couldn't have saved her and the babies, too," Katie Ann said, reading my thoughts. "Judith was a mother before anything else. She would have wanted Kayla and Timmy to be safe."

"There just wasn't enough time," I conceded, though not sure if I believed it.

The news started to review plans for the funeral at Arlington National Cemetery, where many of my friends were buried. I said goodnight to Katie Ann and made my way back to bed, resting a little better but not sleeping for very long.

A few hours later, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

"Yes?" I said, still groggy.

"Arthur Jefferson, United State Secret Service," a tall black straight-laced agent said, flashing his identification. "Would you please come with us?"

"Come where? What time is it?" I asked, seeing it was dark outside.

"Do you require assistance?" Jefferson said, noticing the bandages and rumpled sweats.

"I need shoes," I answered.

Jefferson and another grim agent pushed their way into my room, rummaging around for clothes and whatever else they thought I'd need. They weren't discourteous, merely resolute. A few minutes later, we were ready to go.

I saw it was late. Close to ten. The night air was damp. Katie Ann had gone home, and there were no FBI agents downstairs, the team busy in Washington. Which surprised me. Shouldn't someone have been guarding my prison?

We entered a midnight blue limousine waiting in the alley, Agent Jefferson and Dr. Martin Polanski sitting in the back seat with me. I couldn't see the drivers through the tinted screen. Polanski checked my bandages, looked into my eyes, and made a note on his tablet.

"If this is a kidnapping, you won't get much money," I said, trying to lighten the tense mood.

"More than you think," Dr. Polanski said.

I guessed Dr. Polanski at sixty, somewhat short, mostly bald, and attached to a country bedside manner. His casual blue suit was rumpled, the coat unbuttoned. The brown tie was loose. He had a condescending smile.

The limo raced through Alexandria's empty streets, then accessed the highway and went over a bridge. A few minutes later, we were in downtown Washington where we pulled into a long, heavily guarded driveway. It was the White House.

"This may be inappropriate," I said, for it was. I was tempted to test the door handle but feared they would think it was an escape attempt.

"His orders," Jefferson replied.

"You should handcuff me if you're taking me in there," I said, holding up my arms.

"Are you dangerous wrapped up like a mummy?" Jefferson asked.

"It's the principle of the thing," I answered.

"Let us worry about that," Jefferson said.

The car stopped before the north portico. Several U.S. Marines rushed forward, helping me out. It took a moment to regain my legs. The porch was well lit, the historic building looming over me. Black crepe paper was draped around the entrance to mark a house in mourning. Behind me, I noticed large crowds at the iron fence holding candles. There were stacks of flowers and memorials. Fortunately, the people were too far away to recognize me.

"Do you need a wheelchair?" an usher asked.

"I hope not," I said, getting along fairly well. But it took effort to breathe normally. The gravity of my surroundings had me nervous.

They escorted me into a large entrance hall, empty of servants but filled with historical artifacts. Agent Jefferson pointed to a steep staircase, causing me to gulp. It looked like the Himalayas.

"Let's use the elevator," Dr. Polanski suggested.

We went up to the second floor, where they parked me on a cushioned bench outside some offices. I didn't know much about the White House but sensed there were bedrooms off the main hall. Aides in dark suits were dashing about, many pausing to look at the bandaged guy in gray sweats trying not to panic.

"May I get you anything?" an assistant asked.

She looked like a secretary, a bit plump, but in a sexy way, with long golden bangs that framed her wide face. She offered a gentle, though weary smile. They were having a long night.

"Whiskey, straight," I said, meaning it. But filled with painkillers, there was no way Dr. Polanski would allow it.

"How about lemonade?" she said, the glass appearing out of nowhere.

"I'll need a straw," I said, holding up my wrapped hands.

She looked embarrassed, then sat down next to me and held the glass while I drank. I needed the fluids.

"The President will see you now," a harried young aide announced.

They took me down to the opposite end of the hall into a sitting room. The decorations were way too elaborate for comfort, with fancy porcelain vases, gilded paintings, and furniture that would get me shot if I spilled anything. President Wagner and half a dozen advisors were waiting, all rising as I entered the room. One of them was Harold Rasmussen.

"Glad you could make it, Jack," Rasmussen said. "Let me introduce you to the President."

Rasmussen drew me forward by the elbow, which was good because I was otherwise frozen in place. Wagner was a big man in his mid-sixties, broad-chested, with long, thick arms and a puffy face. His gray hair was shaggy with a curling forelock. He looked at me like I was an apparition.

"Thank you for saving my grandchildren," Wagner said in a gruff voice. He nodded his head instead of shaking hands, seeing my incapacitation.

I didn't reply, feeling overwhelmed. Rasmussen poked me.

"You're welcome, sir. I'm sorry about your daughter," I responded.

"Harold has been filling me in. Seems climbing into burning aircraft isn't unusual for you," Wagner said.

"I hope Mr. Rasmussen hasn't been telling tall tales, sir," I replied.

"I think it's time we inform the President, Jack," Rasmussen said.

"We have a contract, made in good faith. I've held up my end," I insisted.

Needless to say, the exchange caused a great deal of curiosity, the President's staff exchanging glances. I had already guessed Wagner knew nothing of my participation in Thanksgiving Eve and certainly didn't want it becoming known. What I did that night I did for my own redemption, not as fodder for a beleaguered politician.

"I'm going to ask you again in the morning, when we're all fresher and you aren't so cranky," Rasmussen said. "I'll want a better answer."

"My answer won't change, sir," I replied.

"You weren't brought here to swap war stories. Take a seat, young man," the President said.

I looked around, seeing nothing but intimidating chairs. Rasmussen seated me on a hundred-year-old divan covered in pink cloth. Wagner sat down in a big chair opposite me. The President's aides, looking tired and stressed, retreated to the other side of the room.

"You are the last person to see my daughter alive," Wagner said. "I would like you to tell me about those last minutes."

"Sir, I don't think that's a good idea," I refused.

"You're all I've got, Mr. Lawrence," he insisted, searching me for answers.

In the Army, and as a first responder, I'd been asked such questions many times. I would always reply in generalizations. They were brave. They felt no pain. It was over quickly. The actual circumstances didn't matter. But none of those people were the President of the United States. Lying seemed like a poor idea.

Cautiously, I explained the best I could, not getting too specific. His daughter had been unconscious, after all, if she wasn't already dead. I had no way of knowing the truth. When I got to the part about failing to free her from the seat, I paused, remembering the noise. The smoke. The flames and the frustration. It was a place without hope.

"Jack? Jack?" Rasmussen was saying while shaking my arm.

"What?" I said, glancing around the strange room.

"Are you okay? You faded out on us," Rasmussen explained.

Everyone in the room was staring at me like I was mentally damaged. It took a moment to gather my thoughts. Dr. Polanski knelt at my side.

"What dosage is your medication?" Polanski asked, looking into my eyes.

"You mean my sleeping pills?" I said, fumbling in my pocket for the bottle. I couldn't reach them, needing Rasmussen's help. Polanski scrunched his thin eyebrows as he read the label, glanced up at me, and then read the label again.

"Gentlemen, this youngster is in no condition to answer questions," Polanski decided.

"We can pick this up later," the President said, not letting it drop. "I know my wife wants to hear this, too, but she's not doing very well."

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"She hasn't slept in two days," Dr. Polanski said. "Agitated. Not eating. We're hesitant to use stronger drugs."

"She's taken Judith's death very hard. But she is grateful for what you did," Wagner added.

"May I see her?" I requested.

"Curly?" Wagner asked as if addressing an old family friend. Ironic, for Polanski had almost no hair.

"It can't hurt," Dr. Polanski recommended.

I excused myself, happy to escape the garish room, and followed the anxious doctor to a bedroom halfway down the hall. It was over-decorated, too, but more tastefully. The First Lady was sitting up in a large bed, wearing wool pajamas, a fancy quilt covering her legs. A television set on a stand next to the bed was showing the same news reports I had seen, the sound low.

"Addie, this is Sarge Lawrence," Polanski quietly introduced.

She was a handsome middle-aged woman with wavy brown hair tinging gray, big brown eyes and thin lips. She looked up in surprise, then recognition.

"It really is you," Addie said.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, stopping at the foot of the bed.

"Come closer. Let me see you," she ordered.

I went to the bedside, slightly slumping, looking down at her with concern. She had been crying her eyes out but now seemed drained.

"You look terrible," Addie said.

"So do you, ma'am," I replied.

"Not many say that to me," she remarked, almost smiling.

"No, ma'am," I said.

"Sit down."

When I hesitated, she glared at me with expectation. I turned off the television and sat on the edge of the bed.

"That will be all for now, Curly," she instructed, dismissing the doctor.

Dr. Polanski pulled the door closed behind him, which could not have made the Secret Service happy.

"I didn't realize until this morning what you went through to save my grandchildren," Addie said.

"Nothing anyone else wouldn't have done," I offered.

"Not everyone is stupid enough to climb into a burning jet."

"I suppose that part is true."

"Alex says amazing things about you. She loves you."

"I love her, but it's nothing romantic."

"Her loss, I'm sure. Would you pray with me?"

"Yes, I would like to," I said, starting to feel reassured.

This was a nice lady who needed to share her sorrow. As a devoted Methodist, Mrs. Wagner had her favorite prayers. As a student of the Catholic brothers at St. Mary's, I had mine. She began speaking of her lost daughter and somehow got me talking about Francie. We talked for an hour and then drifted off to sleep.

I woke up in an overstuffed chair near the window, a morning light streaming through the half-drawn curtains. Addie was slumbering soundly. Someone had draped a checkered quilt over me. I slowly went to the door, tapping lightly because I couldn't turn the doorknob. Alex opened it from the other side.

"Morning, Jack. How is she?" Alex whispered in the hall.

Several Secret Service agents and two maids lingered nearby. The entire floor was quiet, letting Addie get her rest.

"Better, I think," I replied.

"How are you?" Alex asked.

"I may be a little better, too. But I really need to use the bathroom."

A rookie Secret Service agent named Hawkins helped me, for untying the drawstring was beyond my ability. Alex waited patiently outside.

"How did you get here?" I asked, sitting Alex on a padded bench in the central corridor. A painting of Andrew Jackson hung over us, a cantankerous president who liked to break the rules.

"I've visited with the First Lady before. I'm one of the most famous Secret Service agents, after all, thanks to you."

"That's old history," I dismissed.

"Not for me, it isn't. And now you're more famous than ever."

"I don't need the publicity," I complained.

"Sometimes it's not about what you want. Ready for breakfast?"

"Where are we going?"

"The Rose Garden."

"Don't they have a nice little kitchen for us common folk?" I asked, uneasy with the special treatment.

We took the elevator downstairs, accompanied by two Secret Service agents who followed at a discreet distance. Both looked at Alex with awe, watching her stroll through the White House like a living legend. What they thought of me I don't know, but it could not have been with much enthusiasm.

The Rose Garden turned out to be right next to the Oval Office, which I avoided by going through a side door near the press briefing room. Thankfully, there were no reporters. A U.S. Marine stood guard. It was a nice April morning with a blue sky. The garden had lots of flowers and comfortable chairs. Birds chirped in the trees. Dr. Polanski arrived and announced that my bandages needed to be changed but could wait a few more hours.

Alex and I were seated at a round cast iron table covered with a large red umbrella to protect us from bird droppings. Waiters in white jackets loitered nearby. I ordered bacon and scrambled eggs. The coffee was excellent.

After a short time, the First Lady came down to join us, smartly dressed in a dark maroon suit and a carnation tucked in her black lapel, ready for the day. The anxiety of the night before was replaced with gracious consideration for her guests. She helped Alex with my meal, making small talk and reporting on her grandchildren, who were with their father in Annapolis. The First Lady and Alex were on familiar terms.

"Jack, there is something I must say," Addie said, suddenly turning serious. "When you were sent to ... that place last year, we had no idea what would happen to you. Or really much about you at all. It wasn't until Alex came pounding on my door that I realized what a mistake we'd made, and by then it was too late. I am so sorry for what we put you through."

"It was God's will," I replied.

"I'm sorry, but I can't see it that way," Addie disagreed. "When I look at my grandchildren, I can only think of how much more would have been lost if you hadn't been there."

"Mrs. Wagner, I've been on battlefields most of my life," I said. "Try not to dwell on what might have been. It's rarely helpful."

"I'll try. And thank you," she responded.

There was a burst of noise from the Oval Office. Yelling, and the sound of something heavy being thrown. Secret Service agents went running to investigate. I remained in my chair, hoping to stay out of trouble. Alex stayed, too, keeping an eye on me so the other agents wouldn't have to.

"It's just Leonard having a tantrum," Addie said, feeding me another biscuit. "He needs to vent at stressful times."

"I'm glad he's not venting at me," I said, for the President's rage was fearsome.

A minute later, Agent Jefferson appeared, motioning toward our table. I looked around but didn't see anyone else in the area.

"Miss McGuire, Mr. Lawrence, you're needed in the Oval Office," Jefferson summoned.

That's just great, I thought, reluctant to obey. Alex helped me out of the chair. Addie motioned to one of her aides, and they disappeared back into the mansion. She still had a funeral to plan.

Alex and I followed Jefferson down a covered walkway and into the Oval Office from the outside door. The Marine guard made way for us. Inside was President Wagner, looking fit to kill, along with Harold Rasmussen, Colonel Collin Fowler, and to my surprise, CIA Agent Aaron Ritterman, whom I had rescued in Afghanistan.

"What the goddamn hell has been going on around here?" Wagner shouted. "How in the hell does no one tell the goddamn President of the United States what he needs to know? Especially you, Fowler. What kind of games has the NIA been playing?"

"Ask Rasmussen if you want to know about games. Or Agent McGuire, there," Fowler said, pointing at Alex. Fowler was angry, too, but containing himself better. His full-dress uniform was smartly pressed, rather than the rumpled outfit he usually wore.

The President turned, seeing me and Alex standing in the doorway.

"You! Come here, you," Wagner said, waving his finger at me.

I did not move. I had no intention of moving.

"Jack, it's the President," Alex whispered, giving me a shove.

I stepped forward slowly, trying to avoid treading on the fancy blue carpet with an eagle woven in the middle. The President's oak desk was big as an aircraft carrier, filled with trinkets from all over the world. He was leaning across, both knuckles turning white. There was a broken bookcase behind him where a paperweight had been thrown.

"Yes, sir," I said, almost trembling.

"Was it really you who took our people out of Tabrit? Waltzed them out right from under Tashad's noses?" Wagner asked.

I looked over at Fowler for clues to my answer and snuck a glance at Ritterman, wondering what had been said.

"Goddamn it! Don't look at them! I'm talking to you, son," Wagner bellowed.

"Yes, sir," I said, starting to back away.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Wagner asked, coming around the desk and staring me in the face. We were the same height but he had thirty pounds on me.

"Back to prison?" I speculated.

"Is that supposed to be funny? It's not. It's not funny at all," Wagner complained. "Goddamn it, Fowler. This kid risks his life on a mission like that, and you let me send him to Northfield?"

"It's complicated, sir, but I did try to warn you," Fowler defended.

"Obviously not hard enough," Wagner said. "And what's this other crap you people have been dancing around? What does McGuire have to do with it?"

The room fell silent. Rasmussen and Fowler looked at each other, shuffling their feet. Ritterman seemed in on it, too, but that was probably my fault. My visit to the Rakmanian Embassy had been on the CIA's radar.

"No one wants to talk?" Wagner said. "Fine, we'll do this the hard way. McGuire, come here."

Alex had no choice, standing before her angry president with her head down. She wasn't a powerful agency director, just a hero. I started feeling dizzy and wondered if I should fake a fainting spell as a distraction. The White House was surrounded by a tall fence, so making a run for it was out of the question.

"Tell me this big secret. That's an order," Wagner demanded, his fists clenched.

Alex looked toward me with an apology in her eyes. I could only shake my head, sitting down on a padded couch as my knees grew weak.

"Sir, Jack and I have known each other for nearly seven years," Alex slowly explained. "We first worked together when he discovered a plot led by Frac Khanani."

"Thanksgiving Eve's Frac Khanani?" Wagner inquired.

"Yes, sir, the same. To find out more, Mr. Rasmussen sort of let Jack escape from Cumberland," Alex continued.

"Escape? From prison? John Henry Lawrence broke out of prison and no one ever heard about it?" Wagner asked.

"A few knew. Special Agent Alberto Ruiz and I acted in support," Alex said. "Jack joined up with Jek Mahtam and let us follow their trail."

"Does this have something to do with Unidentified Agent #5? The man who died saving Boston?" Wagner asked, still oblivious about where the story was going.

"Mr. President, Unidentified Agent #5 didn't die in Boston," Alex said. "Jack Lawrence is Unidentified Agent #5."

"Lawrence? Lawrence is ...? Son of a bitch!" the President cursed.

Wagner swept his hand across his desk, knocking papers and trinkets all over the floor before picking up a globe paperweight and throwing it through a window. Agent Jefferson was forced to duck out of the way as the glass shattered. Wagner stomped back and forth, waving his arms, then suddenly sat on the couch next to me. I edged back as far as I could.

"Goddamn it," Wagner cursed again, staring at me. "Really? You're the goddamn son of a bitch who hacked open a nuclear bomb with a fire axe?"

Now everyone was looking at me. I was trying to shrink back into the couch.

"I couldn't find the instruction manual," I finally said.

"This is why Jack's trial was postponed, Mr. President," Rasmussen explained. "He was sick with radiation poisoning. It's part of the reason Judge Jenkins agreed to the plea bargain I proposed."

"Part? What's the other part? Another secret?" Wagner asked.

"Jack never should have been convicted in the first place," Alex said, bravely jumping in. "He was mentally ill when he shot President Blair. Severe post-traumatic stress. If there had been a jury trial, he would have been acquitted."

"That's not true," I objected.

"Yes, it is true. And we've almost got the proof," Alex mysteriously replied.

Wagner walked to the window, looking toward the Rose Garden, hands clasped behind his back.

"This is damn sweet, isn't it? John Henry Lawrence saves Boston, and I send him to Northfield," Wagner mumbled. "That will look great when I run for reelection, won't it?"

"Then don't tell anybody," I said. "I have a contract with the FBI. No one is ever supposed to know what I did. My involvement is classified and still part of an ongoing operation pursuing Rakmanian agents."

"That's true, sir," Ritterman said, finally proving useful. "It's why this hasn't come to your desk. We're still using intelligence Jack gathered from Shak Raskani before he became premier."

Wagner turned back, walked up to the couch, and motioned for me to stand. I suppressed my apprehension as best I could. He walked around me in a circle, making an appraisal. Grunting.

"I want a complete report on all of this," Wagner decided. "And I want breakfast. And I want this kid to put meat on his bones. He looks like hell."

I was still hungry. Alex escorted me back to the Rose Garden for pancakes. Wagner yelled at Rasmussen and Fowler for another ten minutes, then joined us, acting like nothing unusual had happened. I was a bit shell-shocked but did my best to appear calm. If Alex hadn't been there, I don't know how I would have survived the morning.

Mrs. Wagner returned, now with a tablet for her funeral planning. One of the First Lady's assistants came, whispering in her ear.

"Oh, dear," Addie said. "Almost here?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wagner. Coming now," the assistant said, glancing over at me with trepidation.

"This is very embarrassing," Addie said, standing up. "Patricia Blair is here to pay her respects. I'm sorry, Jack, but you'll need to--"

"Pat is here? Where?" I asked.

But the question was soon moot. Mrs. Blair appeared on the walkway outside the Oval Office, dressed in black. I pushed the chair back, jumping to my feet.

"Jack!" Mrs. Blair called out, rushing toward me.

I ran to greet her, wrapping my bandaged arms around her waist the best I could. Pat kissed me on the cheek, then disengaged to look me over.

"You've got to be more careful. Jenny is going to be very unhappy to see you in such a state."

"I'll try to do better, ma'am," I promised, embracing her again.

"It's so good to see you," Pat said. "Jenny and Bobby are so proud. And me."

"Then it was all worth it," I gratefully replied.

The Rose Garden seemed eerily quiet. We stopped, looking back at the breakfast table. Mrs. Wagner, the President, and the Secret Service agents were staring at us in disbelief. Only Alex wasn't surprised.

"I need to see the Wagners now. You'll be around, won't you?" Patricia asked.

"They've got me locked in," I said.

Eventually, we all ended up back at the breakfast table, including Rasmussen. Except for the President, who Dr. Curly was giving a sedative. Not that anyone blamed him for being stressed. Other than Addie, the rest of us had known each other a long time. We spoke with a familiarity that had the Secret Service agents dumbfounded.

"You must be at the funeral," Addie said. "You're a soldier. My Judith was a soldier. It would honor her."

"It's too complicated," I gently refused. "And quite frankly, I don't do well at Arlington. It's full of ghosts."

"Please, Jack. After everything that's happened, you being there will heal some wounds," Addie pressed.

"And open new ones. Have you forgotten why I'm serving time in prison? No one else will," I said.

"Yes, it will be controversial," Addie admitted. "But worth the risk. You've done good things, too. And if you think the country doesn't recognize that, then you haven't been paying attention."

"He doesn't pay attention, Mrs. Wagner," Alex said. "Jack won't even watch the news if his name is mentioned."

"Sometimes Jack takes being humble a bit too far," Rasmussen agreed. "It would be easier on the rest of us if he stepped up and let the secrets out."

"Like Thanksgiving Eve," Patricia said, to my embarrassment.

"What about Thanksgiving Eve?" Addie asked.

"Another of Jack's secrets," Patricia said. "And Jack? You still need to tell Bobby and Jenny before they find out some other way. They'll be hurt if you don't."

"You know why I can't do that," I protested.

"It's not always about what you want, young man. Don't be such a narcissist," Patricia said, teasing me.

* * * * * *

I reluctantly agreed to attend the funeral in exchange for Addie's silence on other matters. Though I couldn't go wearing gray sweats and had no jacket that would fit over my bandages. Addie told Fowler, and arrangements were made.

"You were a medic, Mr. Lawrence. You know not to be this careless," Dr. Rashid criticized, changing my soiled dressings.

Dr. Rashid was right, but it hardly helped. It wasn't my idea to go gallivanting off to the White House in the middle of the night. I offered no explanations. The story already sounded too fantastic.

Walter Reed Medical Center was having a quiet Saturday as I sat nearly naked on an examination table. My hands, knees, forehead, and back injury all needed treatment, mostly ointments. Domeyer and Ellsworth were escorting me once again, the U.S. Marshal's office having selected them as my special caretakers. Fowler had an Army lieutenant named Leslie Bouton in attendance as well, in anticipation of my appearance at Arlington. She was trim, sharply dressed, and experienced with the media. The press hadn't been informed yet, but it wouldn't remain secret much longer. Lieutenant Bouton had recruited a grizzled old sergeant to help.

"This is going to look great," Bouton said in her low-pitched voice, helping me into a brand-new blue uniform. The sleeves had been loosened to accommodate my mummified hands and the belt modified so I could pull down my pants when nature called, saving me some dignity. The bandage on my forehead was olive drab rather than white so it wouldn't stand out.

"Lots of campaign ribbons," Sergeant Neumann remarked, making sure they were securely attached to my dress jacket.

"A bit excessive," I complained, not even sure how many there were. "Hey, wait a minute. Those are captain's bars. I'm a sergeant. Are you trying to get me court-martialed?"

"Colonel Fowler's orders," Bouton said. "Captain John Lawrence, IRR. IRR means--"

"Yes, I know what Individual Ready Reserve is," I said. "It's another of Fowler's tricks. He's trying to kidnap me back into service."

"Would that be so bad, Sarge?" Sergeant Neumann asked.

"I have a prior obligation," I explained.

A few minutes later, Bobby Blair entered carrying a cigar box.

"Bobby! Bob. Robert?" I said, almost shaking his hand.

"Bob these days," he answered, showing me the box.

"I haven't seen this in a long time," I mused. "How did you get it?"

"That's classified," Bob replied.

"Fowler?" I guessed.

"Stolen from your safe deposit box before the FBI got there," he confessed with a grin.

"You're well-informed these days."

"Better than you know," Bob replied with a knowing glance. He'd come a long way from the angry young man I'd met in Warden Mims' office six years before.

Bob opened the box for me. It held my war decorations. I was glad they hadn't been melted down. Sergeant Neumann reached for them, but Bob intervened.

"This is my privilege. I know how he got each one," Bob said, removing the medals one at a time and pinning them on with care. There was a Silver Star. Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Cluster. Five Purple Hearts.

"You should have gotten the Medal of Honor for Lavanna Valley," Bob mentioned.

"Where I went down the hill against orders? The Army doesn't like that."

"That doesn't change what you did."

"Can we have the room?" I asked.

Once Bob and I were alone, I sat him down.

"I saw your mother this morning," I started.

"For breakfast, at the White House. It's all over the news," he said. I shouldn't have been surprised.

"There is something I need to tell you. About Thanksgiving Eve. I'd appreciate it if you told Jenny for me."

"It's about time," Bob said.

"What have you heard?"

"I know you got radiation poisoning stopping Frac Khanani, that you were shot and almost died, and that Rasmussen got you a light sentence for saving Boston. Is there more?"

"No, that kind of covers it," I said.

"Jenny heard from Sandra Livingston after you were transferred to Northfield," Bob explained. "Mom never ratted you out."

"This has got to be the worst kept secret ever," I lamented.

"It's still fairly secret. But it shouldn't be. I'll stay quiet, but don't think people aren't going to find out. It's too important."

"Will you help me get through this funeral?" I asked, for I was getting very nervous.

"Yes. Jenny and Mom, too. Sort of a sad family reunion."

"You're lucky to have family," I said.

"So are you, Jack," he answered.

"You're not afraid of what people will think?"

"When you grow up in the public eye like Jen and I have, we learn that what people think really isn't very important. And I don't think you shot my father. I haven't for a long time. And I don't think you know who shot him, either. Am I right?"

"I won't say you're wrong," I conceded. "But let's not ask dangerous questions."

* * * * * *

Sunday dawned cold and gloomy, with light rain. The FBI had put me up at the Mayflower again, a nice two-bedroom suite on the second floor. My U.S. Marshals were in attendance. Bob and Jenny joined me for breakfast at the Daily Grill. Fitted in my new dress uniform, covered in ribbons and medals, I was somewhat conspicuous. Many guests tried to get autographs, but bandaged as I was, that was impossible. Hotel security gave us some privacy, but it didn't stop the crowd from taking pictures. If the Blair children wanted to keep our relationship secret, they'd done a poor job.

"You look great, except for being weak, pale, and wrapped like a mummy," Jenny said, helping with my meal.

"Easy for you to say, with your suntan and sassy confidence," I replied. "You, too, Bob. Both of you, you're just so amazing."

"The world made us grow up fast," Jenny said.

"And I'm still sorry about that," I apologized.

"If you're really sorry, let Alex pursue her investigation," Bob said. "She only needs one last clue."

"What investigation?" I asked, not having gotten an answer from Alex.

"That's for your friends to worry about. Especially since you won't cooperate," Bob insisted.

"So, tell us," Jenny pressed, leaning over to whisper. "What is the name of the psychiatrist you saw just before the shooting?"

"What makes you think I saw anybody?" I said, pretending ignorance.

"You told Mom, she told Alex. Alex and Dragon have been trying to track down your doctor, and they're getting close," Bob warned.

"That was ... I mean ..."

"Supposed to be secret? Guess what, Jack? There are people willing to fight for you, fair or foul," Jenny said, giving me an impertinent look. It made me realize what an attractive woman she was maturing into.

"I'm protected by doctor-patient confidentiality," I said. "And I asked her to destroy my records. There is nothing for Alex to find."

Jenny took out her phone with a big smile and sent a text, showing it to me. The text read, "Alex, the shrink. Look for a woman."

Was I getting old, or just stupid?

The White House sent a limousine to pick us up. It was overcast and damp, with more rain expected before noon. I rode in the back with the Blair kids and Linda, Jason riding shotgun with the driver. Jenny and Linda started swapping Jack stories, which was very embarrassing. If they ever appeared on a talk show together, it would be a disaster.

I stared out the window as we drove over Arlington Bridge, the Potomac River beneath us. There were hundreds of cars searching for parking, but I qualified for the handicapped zone. We went to the chapel first, which was filled to capacity with several hundred more waiting outside. Dark clouds formed as it began to drizzle, causing umbrellas to come out. I saw former First Ladies Patricia Blair and Alice Markham entering with Addie Wagner and the President. Initially, I was safe sitting on a bench under a tree, but Secret Service Agent Jefferson came to fetch me, assigning me to a pew just four rows behind the official mourning party. Rear Admiral Frank Massinger, Judith's husband, came back to thank me. We made small talk for a few moments. The children were home and doing well.

After the services, the mourners slowly followed the flag-draped coffin up a gentle hill. It was mounted on a caisson pulled by a team of six white horses. A brass band played mournful tunes. They had selected a gravesite near JFK's eternal flame with Arlington Mansion looming on the steep cliff above.

As the rain finally began to fall in earnest, more words were said. Friends, generals, politicians. I stayed at the periphery, trying to remain unnoticed. I was finding the experience difficult. It had been nine years since my last visit. Nine years since I'd heard Taps blown over the grave of a fallen comrade. When a choir began to sing Saving Grace, I quietly slipped off, crossing green lawns toward a section beyond the trees.

I bypassed the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, found Grant Drive, and walked up Clayton Drive, where an obscure section contained many of the 144th Infantry who fell at Sirputa. I had purchased forget-me-nots in the flower shop and crept forward to lay them on a leaf covered plaque.

I did not intend to get emotional but suddenly discovered myself struggling. I brushed the damp leaves aside, revealing the marker.

'Corporal Benjamin Hobson, Company B, 144th Infantry,' it read. 'January 4, 2001 -- February 19, 2021. Bronze Star. Purple Heart.'

The gravesite was wet, growing muddy from the rain. It reminded me of that dark day. Our squad was taking fire from the ridge. Private Billings took a hit, and I went forward with my medical kit. The mud was deep. Sticky. I had trouble pulling Billings up. When Hobson came out to help, I went around on the other side. Just as I knelt down, a sniper shot me in the back of the shoulder. The bullet tore through my body armor, broke my collarbone on the way out, and hit Hobson in the groin.

Hobson and Billings both died in that barren place while I lay there unable to move my arms. If I hadn't knelt exactly when I did, the bullet would have hit my heart instead of Hobson. The kid was lying in my grave.

Next to Corporal Billings lay Sergeant Kashia Mastobo, Company B, 144th Infantry. Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart. She had briefly been my girlfriend until a rocket propelled grenade blew her into a dozen pieces.

There were other markers. Other names. Too many. I don't know why, but I started crying. My legs were tired. I laid down on the cold, damp ground between the two graves, feeling the wet grass against my cheek. My bandages were getting soaked, but I didn't care. I was sad and resentful. Why had Benny stolen my grave?

I'm not sure how long I was there, but eventually someone knelt next to me.

"Jack. Jack, you can't stay here," a woman's voice said.

"Kashia?" I asked, for she was only six feet below me.

"No, it's me," the woman answered.

I looked up. Jenny and Bob were at my side, tugging my jacket. Had it been anyone else, I'd have ignored them.

"Please, Jack, you can't stay here," Jenny whispered.

"People are coming. The press is taking pictures," Bob said, knowing I didn't want that.

They drew me to my feet. My uniform was muddy. I'd lost my hat, allowing the rain to run down my face.

"Sorry," I said.

"Let's get you back to the car," Bob urged, holding an umbrella over my head.

We were halfway down the hill when I paused, looking at the graves, the trees, and the funeral procession that was now breaking up.

"Jenny, do you still speak with Dr. Livingston?" I asked.

"About once a month," Jenny said.

"Tell her I'm ready. It's time I get some help," I requested.

* * * * * *

We are now down to the last three chapters.