But the five long, low weapons storage bunkers were still there-ominous even in the bright fall sunshine. The earthen mounds would stand forever behind the simple granite column they’d dedicated that day. An American flag flew overhead, snapping back and forth in the crisp, cool breeze.
O’Connell silently read the memorial’s deeply incised inscription:
FORTUNE FAVORS THE BRAVE. In honor of the valiant soldiers and airmen of the Armed Forces of the United States of America who gave their lives here so that others might live.
“No Greater Love Hath Any Man.”
His gaze wandered down to the list of names below-a list that seemed far too long. Each conjured up a familiar face or voice. His vision blurred briefly and then cleared as he blinked rapidly.
O’Connell glanced down at the ribbons on his uniform. Along with several of his Rangers, he’d been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions during the attack on Pelindaba. The 1/75th Rangers itself had won another Presidential Unit Citation to add to its many battle honors.
Memories of the cheering crowds, the military marching bands, and the
President’s firm handshake and kind words drifted through his mind.
He looked up again at the monument erected by South Africa’s new government. In a way, that simple stone column meant more than any ceremony or piece of colored ribbon. While it stood, the men who’d fought and died at Pelindaba would never truly be forgotten.
“Colonel?”
O’Connell turned. Brig. Henrik Kruger, South Africa’s new chief of staff, stood waiting for him. He forced a smile.
“Sorry for the woolgathering,
Henrik. An old soldier stuck in the past and all that.”
Kruger laughed softly.
“Not so very old, my friend. And not so very stuck, I think.” He nodded toward his staff car.
“But come, I have a bottle of very old and very good Scotch in my quarters. Let’s drink to those we’ve lost and to all that we’ve won. That would be the right thing to do, true?”
O’Connell felt his smile firming up.
“Amen to that, Brigadier. No real
Ranger lets good liquor go to waste.”
Together, the two soldiers strolled toward their waiting car. The afternoon sun cast their shadows behind them.
MAY 1NEWSROOM, THE JOHANNESBURG STAR
Emily van der Heijden stared unhappily at the story on her computer screen. She punched the cursor keys, running backward and forward from paragraph to paragraph. The writing wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.
No, she thought moodily, the story she was working on had nothing to do with her present gloomy frame of mind. The depression came from within.
Emily gave herself a solid mental shake. She shouldn’t be so sad. It was ridiculous. After all, here she sat-a rising young reporter on South
Africa’s large st-c ircu I at ion daily newspaper. Her long-held dreams were finally coming true. So what could be so wrong?
A treacherous corner of her brain whispered the answer. Ian Sheffield was what was wrong. Or rather, his absence.
Right after the war ended, he’d been called home to America by his network. She hadn’t minded that so much. After all, he deserved the awards and accolades he’d said they’d showered on him. Besides, he’d wanted to see his parents and brothers and sisters. Nothing could be more normal.
But he hadn’t come back. Oh, they’d exchanged cards, letters, and even a phone call or two-but the intervals of silence had steadily grown longer. Now she hadn’t heard anything from him for more than two weeks.
He hadn’t answered any of the messages she’d left in various places.
Emily shook her head, impatient with her own feelings. What else could she have expected? They came from two different worlds and now their two different worlds were even farther apart-Ian was well on his way to being a top-ranked newsman in America. She knew what that meant. No matter what his wishes were, there would always be another assignment, another crisis that would keep him busy and away from South Africa. Time and distance would do the rest gradually burying love under a growing pile of new experiences, new friendships, and everyday worries they couldn’t share.
She stabbed keys with even more vigor, ripping apart a perfectly good piece of prose for no particular reason.
“I hope you’ve got that keyboard insured, Emily van der Heijden. Didn’t anybody ever tell you how expensive computer gear is?”
Emily spun around in her seat, stunned by the familiar voice. Ian
Sheffield stood behind her, grinning down at her startled face.
“Ian!” She jumped up and into his waiting arms. Her staring colleagues, her computer, and her current assignment could all go hang.
“Mmmm.” He pulled his lips away briefly.
“So aren’t you going to ask what
I’m doing here?”
She touched his lips.
“Don’t be an idiot, idiot. You are kissing me. “
Ian laughed.
“True. No, I mean here. In Jo’burg.”
“Then tell me.”
He sat down in a nearby chair and she pulled her own seat up close.
Ian’s story tumbled out in excited words that almost got tangled up with one another. Practically as soon as he’d landed in New York, his network bosses had begun giving him everything he’d considered his heart’s desire-an overdue vacation, a big pay raise, and the promise of a plum assignment on Capitol Hill. It had taken several weeks for reality to sink in. Being back on the “fast track” didn’t seem to matter very much when you weren’t sure you wanted the prize waiting at the finish line.
At the same time, he’d begun realizing that, back in the States, he was just another sharp-eyed reporter-one of hundreds all chasing the same stories, following the same leads, and coming up with pretty much the same angles. In South Africa, he’d actually come to believe his work had meaning. Even more important, he’d come to realize just how much Emily meant to him-and just how big a void her absence left in his life and heart.
She interrupted him there. But once she let him up for air, Ian kept going with what he obviously considered the most important part of his tale.
“So I told the guys in New York they could take their new job and ... give it to somebody else.” He grinned.
“My
two weeks’ notice expired a couple of days ago, so I hopped the first available plane out here.”
Emily was shocked.
“You quit your job? For me?”
“Well, not exactly… ” He had the grace to appear slightly shamefaced.
“I’m going freelance. I did a little checking around and it seems that the other networks and Sunday-morning news shows think I’ll have some kind of edge over here. Or anywhere in Africa for that matter.
So they’re all willing to pay me for footage-maybe even some commentary or documentary pieces. “
“But that’s wonderful! Truly wonderful! You will be your own master.”
“Yeah.” Ian smiled at her.
“Besides, there’s always that book we were talking about writing together.”
He leaned over to kiss her again.
A second familiar voice broke them apart.
“Hey, Ian! I heard some big news over the police radio. A madman is saying he will blow both himself and the Voortrekker Monument to tiny pieces unless his demands are met.
I have the car around front already.”
Emily stared at Matthew Siberia. The young black man stood in the doorway to the newsroom-practically staggering under the weight of the camera, sound gear, and other equipment slung over his thin shoulders. He smiled shyly at her.
“Hello, miss.”
Ian grinned at her surprise.
“I need a cameraman, don’t P-He rose.