“Doing good. We saw you on TV. You were on C-SPAN channel where the people talk all the time. Daddy showed me you sitting in back of the man at the table. You were next to the women in the blue uniform.”
Michelle warmly smiled at hearing this for a few reasons. One, it proved to others back in her economically depressed areas of Pennsylvania that she had a real job in DC. Two, it provided a goal for young Rex to study hard. Lastly, it was cool to be seen on television.
“Yes, that was me! I’m so happy you got to see Auntie Michelle at work! Thank you for watching.”
“You looked pretty.”
Michelle continued to smile. “Thanks, Rexy. Tell me… what are you up to these days?”
“Um, well, Daddy and I have been using his ham radio in the basement. We can talk to people all over the world, and then I put the location on our map.”
She nodded and was impressed. “Wow, your dad has you doing that?”
“Yup. Sometimes I listen all by myself, too. It’s kind of cool,” Rex replied, proud of himself.
Emily sat at the table talking to Cal. “Yes, sir, I am in agreement with Mark. He and Robert talked to me about it the other day, and it seems like the best move is to shut down the Ops Center. We are approaching weeks and weeks of them gone, and, although I love him and want him back, it is the right move. Life has to go on,” Emily told him. “I’m also aware of the pending funeral at Arlington, with burial next to Captain Wu Lee.”
Cal was prebriefed by Mark and knew she was going to say that, but he was still sympathetic to her for the loss of Ford and Pinky. “Yes, I understand, Emily. I do know this is tough. I wish we could get them back, too. I really do,” Cal replied.
“Me, too, sir. I wanted to share with you that I’m leaving the United States and the team. I’m due to return back to London next week. My choice. It’s time to go back and do some work at home.”
This threw Cal off guard. “Oh, really? I wasn’t aware. Of course, Emily. Whatever we can do to facilitate this, let me know,” Cal said, then turned to Mark. “Like, Mark, hey. How about a party for Emily? Let’s celebrate her work and time with us, yes?”
“Yes, sir, of course. Robert and I were already talking about that. We’ll take care of it,” Mark replied, with the atmosphere changing for the better in the room.
“You weren’t thinking of that. Please,” Emily said, cracking up at Mark and Robert.
They all started laughing. “We forgot,” Mark replied.
Flight suit around his ankles yet again, Ford finished his bodily fluid business and slowly zipped up. Moving in slow motion, he stumbled away from his makeshift bathroom site, still in intense pain and agony from the organisms eating away inside of him. When he wasn’t having diarrhea, he was throwing up. I’m not going to make it.
Ford sat on the ground in the brown dirt, legs extended out, his left shoulder leaning on the side of tree, and curled up. His helmet was off, filthy hair matted and long, with a full beard covering his face and neck, completely exhausted. Ford was a complete wreck. Soiled, smelly, and downright nasty-looking, he closed his eyes slowly. He was physically and mentally beat and in a terrible state, at the end of his life.
Ford slowly opened his eyes a few minutes later after hearing snorts. Squinting a bit through the mountain mist, he saw on the clearing near the stream in front of him someone walking. A man appeared to be walking with a large yak, bell around his neck clinking, along with a handful of brown and red tahr goats.
Ford moved his head slowly off the tree to see the tahr eating their grass and other vegetation. “Hey,” he said quietly, not able to gain any real sound coming from his vocal cords. He swallowed again, barely any saliva going down his throat. “Hey,” Ford said again, but it was barely audible. Ford struggled to raise his arm to wave, wanting to ensure the man saw him.
The wild tahr wandered over to where he was leaning on the tree and sniffed around. The man brought over the yak, and Ford was surrounded by animals. The man got down on all fours to look into Ford’s eyes. Ford squinted, and it was the first human he had seen alive in three months. In a raspy voice, Ford spoke. “Need help. Need help. Please.”
The man, Aayush, helped Ford up on his feet and slung him over on the Yak’s back for the ride into his village, named Chal.
“And we are so grateful that you could work with us these past three years, Emily, and on behalf of the team here, thank you very, very much,” Mark told Emily and the rest of the crew at her farewell dinner. There was a round of applause as Robert yelled out, “Speech! Speech!”
Emily blushed as she stood next to Mark, looking out at Robert, Jeanie, Michelle, and Cal Burns. They had a private room on the second floor of Gordon Biersch just for them, and it was the perfect setting to say good-bye to their cherished partner and close friend from the UK.
“I am so thankful to have each of you in my life,” Emily began, tears streaming down face. “I am forever grateful to have participated in such important and moving events during my time here, and to play a role in your personal and professional lives. I am also deeply humbled and appreciative that you could help me through the most difficult time of my life in losing him. For that, thank you, friends. I love each of you so much. Cheerio.”
The village of Chal consisted of about thirty homes, constructed closely together from flimsy wood, thatched and sheet metal roofs, and mud. The village was well established and had existed for hundreds of years as a farming and livestock community with no access to civilizations from any paved roads. They had no electricity and no running water this far north and deep into the mountains.
Because India had about four hundred languages and dialects, there was no way for Ford to understand the Hindi language being spoken by Aayush. Hindi, one of the most common languages spoken in India, had been a delicate political subject since independence sixty years ago. What did help Ford was that both Hindi and English were the most widely used languages in India.
Aayush brought Ford directly to the village sadhu or holy person, named Vivaan. Vivaan was sitting alone and singing in Hindi, playing a hand-hewn instrument, reflecting and meditating. His lyrics surrounding Indian folk music were about yellow mustard flowers, his children, and the desert earth; his music provided him with a soothing pastime. His horsehair strings and bow were of fine craftsmanship, and he put them both down quickly in a flurry at the unannounced visitor. In English, the men spoke. “Aayush, who is this? Who is this man?”
“Vivaan, this man needs help. Please help me inside with him. I found him near the stream. He, he is very sick.”
Ford was delirious and needed dire assistance going into the village building by both Aayush and Vivaan, each man taking an arm. Ford dragged his nasty boots and feet. They got him into the bedroom onto an elevated charpoy, a rope-strung bed, careful not to step on the children playing on the dirt floor. They took off his grimy olive-colored cold weather jacket.
Ford was woozy and not following what was going on in the dark room with the limited outside lighting. “Need… need help. I am an American,” he told them, breathing heavily. Slowly he said, “Name is Ford Stevens, a United States… Air Force Reserve pilot. My airplane crashed in the mountains. Contact my US embassy. Ford… Stevens.”
Ford used every ounce of his energy to relay the message, then passed out.