Air Force One was parked at the western end of the huge ramp, next to a brace of war-weary C-5s. On board, Madeline Turner was in her office, working at her desk as she waited for the arrival of the C-17 Globemaster carrying the last of the AVG. Richard Parrish handed her a schedule of events. “As you requested,” he said, “the base is keeping it low-key. They’ll get off the plane and go through a short reception line. Their families will be right there to meet them. Then you’ll say a few words and, if you want, informally greet them.”
“I want,” Maddy said.
He frowned. Unable to contain himself, he blurted, “Madam President, it’s a missed opportunity. It’s a slow news day, the media can’t get enough.”
She held up a hand, stopping him in midflow. “This is their day, not mine.” She looked up at the knock at the door. Mazie entered, a strange look on her face. She handed Maddy a hard copy of a message received only moments before. “It’s from Bernie,” she said in a low voice. “Zou Rong. He’s been murdered.”
Maddy read the message. “Bizarre.” She handed it to Parrish. “Are they sure the woman did it?” she asked.
Mazie nodded. “She was his mistress. Apparently it happened moments after Jin Chu learned my father had been killed. She cut Zou’s throat and then hanged herself with a silken cord.”
Nancy Bender entered. “It’s time, Mrs. President.” Maddy stood and walked into the lounge, where Maura, Brian, and Sarah were waiting. The president led her family to the front of the aircraft and stood in the entrance. In the distance a huge crowd roared “Maddy! Maddy!” when they saw her, their shouts of approval growing and crescendoing as she waved at them.
“We tried,” Parrish explained. “But they kept coming. There’s a traffic jam outside the main gate three miles back.”
Overhead, a dark gray C-17 entered the pattern and turned final, landing to the east, as the presidential party descended the boarding steps. The general commanding the base saluted and, as he had been briefed, received a nod in acknowledgment. He escorted the party to a line of waiting electric carts, and they drove to the reviewing stand. Maddy climbed the four steps to the platform and turned to watch the C-17 taxi in. A gentle Delta breeze ruffled her hair and her skirt, creating a most charming effect not lost on the TV cameras.
The big cargo plane slowly rolled by an honor guard of fourteen battle-scarred A-10s, each pilot standing by the nose of his aircraft. Maggot stood in front and called his pilots to attention. One by one, they saluted as the C-17 moved past. A crew chief marshaled it to a stop, and the engines spun down. Pontowski was the first off the aircraft, and he worked his way down the reception line, taking salutes and shaking hands. He stood to one side as the AVG deplaned. He smiled when Janice Clark picked up her two children. He hadn’t realized they were so young.
“Dad!” Zack said, running to meet him. He skidded to a halt, not sure what to say. Then he motioned to the crowd where Bloomy and half the staff from the library were waving. “They wanted to be here,” Zack said.
Pontowski waved back. “Bloomy!” he called. She looked at him, startled. “Whatever turned up about Gramps’s missing year?”
His question surprised her. “You mean 1944 to 1945?”
“Right. That one. Maybe we should find out?” She gave a little nod. “See you at work.”
Rockne was the last off the plane. For a moment he stood in the doorway, holding Boyca’s leather leash in his left hand, scanning the crowd that milled around below him. His eyes crinkled when he saw Paul Travis engulfed by his wife and four children. The sergeant had returned with honor. Rockne descended and made his way down the reception line. Free of that duty, he stood alone. Cindy Cloggins was standing thirty feet away, also alone, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Chief,” she called. “This sucks. Cops don’t report in this way.”
He agreed with her and pointed to a spot on the ramp. “Cloggins, you’re the guide-on.” She took five quick steps to the spot and stood at parade rest. He slapped the leash against his thigh. The sound cracked with authority. “GROUP!” he bellowed, drawing the word out. “FALL IN! On Cloggins.” An electric shock went through the milling airmen, and suddenly they were security cops again. They swiftly formed up in ranks of eight. Not to be left out, the chief of Maintenance called for his men to fall in. An expectant hush fell over the crowd as the AVG formed. “GROUP,” Rockne called, his voice echoing down the ramp. “A-ten-HUT!” As one, they came to attention. Rockne did a left face, toward Pontowski, and snapped a salute. “Sir, the Group is formed.”
Pontowski understood. He returned the salute and took his place beside Rockne. “GROUP,” Pontowski called. “For-ward HARCH!” The AVG moved forward, their ranks ragged at first but slowly straightening. Rockne called the cadence as they marched across the ramp, directly toward the reviewing stand. “Hup, two, three, four.” Then, “Hup, two, three,” and a sharp crack echoed over the AVG as he slapped Boyca’s leash against his thigh on the count of four. Again, “Hup, two, three,” crack. Rockne looked straight ahead as they marched. And Boyca was with him.
“Well,” Maura said to her daughter, never taking her eyes off the marching men.
“Well, what?” Maddy asked.
“Do what you have to do.”
For a moment Maddy hesitated. Then she stepped down from the reviewing stand. The TV cameras recorded her long strides and the wind whipping at her hair as she walked toward the men.
“GROUP,” Pontowski called. “HALT!” He stopped four feet away from his president and saluted. “American Volunteer Group reporting for duty, ma’am.”
He stood there holding his salute. Then she nodded as a little smile played at the corners of her mouth. “What took you so long?” she asked.
The graceful bow of the prahu knifed through the clear emerald green water while Tel stood at the tiller. His eyes squinted against the sea spray, searching for familiar landmarks along the shore. When he saw the grove of casuarina trees backed by the tall palms, he turned toward land. He bumped the boat up onto the sand, half expecting his family to run down to meet him. But he was alone. He jumped out and set the anchor in the sand before retrieving a shoulder bag from the boat. He crossed the beach and walked into the trees, toward his kampong. But he stopped short when he saw it, now overgrown with low vegetation that hid the charred ruins. He sniffed the air, relieved that the odor of death and decay was gone. The jungle did work fast. He skirted his old home, no longer a part of it.
He pushed through the heavy brush that blocked the path leading to the casuarina trees farther down the beach. How many times did he walk this path as a child? He saw the shrine and stopped. Now he could smell the water and hear the gentle waves lapping at the shore. He gazed out to sea and for a moment didn’t see it. Then he realized that the three offshore oil platforms were gone. Were they also a casualty of war? He hoped so.
Tel knelt in the sand in front of the small shrine he and Kamigami had built to hold the ashes of their families. He closed his eyes and tried to remember their faces. But they were fading from memory and growing indistinct. He reached into his shoulder bag and brought out a small tin box. Gently he placed it in the shrine, next to the nine already there. A little smile played across his mouth. True to life, the box holding Kamigami’s ashes was bigger than the others. He settled back on his knees, his hands resting on his thighs as he watched the light fade from the sky.
The moon was already up and cast a willowy light across the water.