He sighed, wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck, put on his old forage cap that looked like a relic from the Civil War, stood up, and started for the door.
Once he was outside, the cold was a bracing shock, the snow coming down hard so that he pulled his hat brim low to protect his eyes. He shuffled down the path out to the middle of the road, trying to let all the concerns of his life slip away at least for a few minutes. The weather was triggering so many memories. As he walked against the renewed snowfall, he found himself recalling a time when, as a boy, a storm like this would send him out hiking up to the South Mountain Reservation a few miles away from where he lived to find a favorite secluded spot in a pine grove. Knowing the reservation patrol officers were nowhere about on such a day, he’d build a fire and enjoy the snowfall, youthful imagination taking hold, that he was a sentry for General Washington, posted along that low ridgeline to keep an eye on the British over in Manhattan.
But now? He simply longed to be back at his home for the rest of the day, sitting by the woodstove with Makala—unfortunately without any scotch to sip or cigarette to enjoy, but at least there was her company awaiting.
He glanced over at the park along Flat Creek as he stepped out onto Montreat Road and chuckled softly. He couldn’t see the amorous young couple, but there was a plume of wood smoke swirling up from within a grove of trees and he smiled with the assumption that the two were nestled in there, enjoying the storm and solitude while being together.
He shuffled on in silence, turning up the steep hill to his house above the old tennis courts, glad to see smoke rising from the chimney. Stamping the snow off his boots, he stepped inside and was surprised to see Maury Hurt in the sunroom, Makala by his side.
“John, where in the hell have you been?” Maury asked excitedly.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Bob Scales,” Maury announced with a grin. “We just got a message. He wants to meet.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
John slowly read the message again, out loud, looking around at the nearly dozen men and women crammed into what had once been the office of the president of the college.
I lament the sad news of the loss of our beloved J. I recall a day in May, when I last talked to her, the same date in May that holds different connotations now. My friend, please return so that we can meet and discuss so many things of importance to both of us.
He put the transcript down and looked around the room.
“And that is it?” Reverend Black asked. “Just that?”
“I think it is fake,” Ernie stated, arms folded across his chest.
“I don’t,” John replied.
“Why?” Ernie’s query was picked up by several others in the overcrowded room.
“J is obviously my Jennifer. The day in May—he knew that was Jennifer’s birthday. We were on the phone talking when the EMP hit, thus his reference to ‘connotations’ that others held regarding that day of days. It is something only Bob and I knew, a code to tell me it was really him.”
“But tapped out in Morse code, for heaven’s sake, with a preface to first switch to a different frequency to receive the message, that in Morse code as well?” Billy Tyndall snapped. “It’s like some bad movie. Apparently, it had been going out for several days, until one of our ham listeners even realized it wasn’t just interference and remembered enough to start copying it down. Why not voice? What is this, 1941 or something? How many people even know Morse code today?”
“Maybe that’s the point,” Maury said in response. “Who knows how many people saw the dropped message before it got into Bob’s hands?”
“If this Bob is even alive, is he someone we can trust?” Forrest growled.
John sighed and looked at the old Underwood typewriter resting on his desk, absently tapping the F key to see if his tinkering with it had solved the problem. The damned thing still continued to jam.
“Let’s add in this latest news from the BBC,” John now added. “All correspondents within the territory of the United States to be deported because of an alleged breach of national security. BBC? England, perhaps our only ally left in this crazy world? Something is up; we all know that. But what?”
“And you think your friend, if still alive, holds the answer?”
“Anyone have a better suggestion?” John asked. “If so, put it out there.”
He looked around the room. Most just sat with heads lowered; Maury was shaking his head.
“I’ve got to take the chance and meet him.”
“Back up there? How?” Maury snapped. “Gillespie thinks he can replace the coolant line, which was damaged as well, in a week or so, but the turbine blade is proving to be a real problem. But then what? Fly in, after being shot at last time, and expect the red carpet treatment? John, you and the rest of this council can order me to go, and I’ll tell you to kiss off for your own good.”
Maury looked over at Forrest for support.
“I only go into a hot LZ once, John, no repeat trips. I’m with Maury on this.”
“And the fuel,” Danny McMullen added. “We burned through a lot of Jet A just going up there and back. I thought the intent was we keep that fuel in reserve in case we ever needed the Black Hawk for defense here. Even if they are ready to kiss our butts when landing, will they refuel us? John, they’ll seize that chopper as stolen government property, and if we’re ever let go, it will be one hell of a long walk back home.”
John looked over at Makala, who insisted upon attending this meeting, and saw her nod of approval. The room fell silent again, the only sound that of hammering and sawing from the adjoining chapel, where half a dozen students were at work, still laboring to restore it to what it had once been before being partially destroyed during the fighting back in the spring.
John took it all in and realized if he put it to a vote, no one would support his going. This was one of those times he wished he had not relinquished the power he once held as virtual dictator of this community during the first year after the attack. He returned his gaze to Makala, who sat in stoic silence, but her glance in reply said everything. Like most women in their final months of pregnancy, she held the trump card with her husband if he in any way cared for his wife.
“All right,” he finally said with a sigh. “Alternatives?”
“This guy, if he is real, is trying to reach out to you,” Reverend Black said, forcing a smile to try to ease the moment. “If real, he tried to reach out to you with that tragic messenger. Now this cryptic reply in Morse code.
“Those two methods”—Black paused for a moment—“tell me that there is some important reason behind this entire affair, and he wants to keep his cards close, perhaps even from those around him. Acknowledge receipt of the message, counter with some alternative.”
“If it is so all damn important, tell him to come here,” Forrest snapped.