John looked back behind Bentley. A half dozen men and women of what had once been Bob’s command, which he had turned over to Bentley after promoting him to the rank of colonel before resigning his commission, came out of the tunnel bearing a flag-draped coffin. All came to attention, and even though Bob was no longer serving in the military, old instincts were still within him as he came to attention and saluted as Grace’s coffin was respectfully loaded into the Black Hawk.
Maury followed, limping and helped by Forrest, along with Kevin and Reverend Black. Earlier in the day, in honor of his friend’s request, Lee Robinson’s mortal remains were lifted by helicopter to what was truly hallowed ground in front of the iconic statue dedicated to the men of North Carolina who had advanced across a sun-drenched field in what would forever be remembered as Pickett’s Charge. Reverend Black had read from the Ninety-First Psalm, Lee’s favorite, and with full military honors, he was laid to rest in the ground he had often said, quoting Joshua Chamberlain, that here indeed was the vision place of souls.
It was hard for John to imagine life ahead without his stoic friend by his side. Together they had often joked if they had indeed lived 150 years ago, they would have faced each other as honor and duty demanded, but their bonds of friendship would have endured. John wished that a photograph taken of the two of them together had survived, but it was lost when his house burned in the war against the Posse. They had attended a historical event together and there posed for an authentic ambrotype, Lee in gray uniform, John in blue, Lee’s hand resting on John’s shoulder in a gesture of friendship and love.
So much was still in doubt. All thanked God that the military garrison at Bluemont had not tried to attack Site R. They had all gone to their barracks to wait it out. As to the elite located in a highly secured reserve area at the far end of the cavern? It was apparent that some attempted to flee via a hidden exit. They were met by a hovering Apache and fled back inside.
Some had urged Bob to personally lead a move either to arrest those within that special compound or to execute them summarily, but he announced he would not do either once it was learned that a missile that was indeed nuclear tipped and had been moved into position at Wallops Island, Virginia, had been rendered inactive by troops there. The warhead atop the missile was seized and impounded by a team of Navy SEALs operating from a carrier off the coast, whose commander announced he would no longer accept orders from Bluemont, would remain in stand-down, and would await orders from whatever government in compliance with the Constitution was created.
Global reaction was compounding by the hour, some announcing that Bob should act as temporary dictator, president, or whatever he wished to call himself. China made clear it was occupying up to the Mississippi and again issued the threat that any action against their humanitarian aid being offered to the “stricken former United States” would be construed as an attack upon their mainland. But just this morning, word had come in via the ambassador in China—who had served under the Bluemont government but after Bob’s broadcast announced his allegiance to a properly formed government—that the Chinese foreign minister had informed him that as long as no action was taken against their occupation forces or their homeland, China would recognize the new government.
If anything at this moment, rather than a help, John saw himself as a liability for what Bob was attempting. In its dying gasps, Bluemont had played a recording of his conversation, heavily edited, to make it sound like he was indeed threatening to murder everyone inside of Site R. Unfortunately, no one had thought to record the conversation from their end, and John realized the best thing now was to distance himself from Bob until everything settled down.
But beyond that, he was weary and exhausted from all that had transpired, and the thought of yet more years of struggle to come had become overwhelming.
The turbines of the Black Hawk started up, and Bob motioned for John to step away for a moment. Bob reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, and offered one to John, who accepted, and Bob lit John’s and then his.
“Thanks for getting me hooked on these damn things again,” Bob said.
“Sorry, sir.”
“I might have to call on you, John. But for now, maybe it is wise you just head back home for a while. That doctored recording does make you seem like a hard-ass.”
“I saw it had to be done, sir, and I didn’t want you in that role. Better me than you.”
“Thank you, John.”
They both stood silent for a moment.
“A question, John.”
“Anything.”
“Would you have done it?”
“What?”
“Smashed the place apart and driven those thousands out into the cold to starve?”
John looked past him, gaze lingering on the distant hills of Gettysburg. All the sacrifice that happened there. All the sacrifice endured there and up now to this moment.
“Sir, don’t ever ask me that question again,” John whispered.
Bob nodded. “Understood, my friend.”
The helicopter rotor began to turn. The two dropped their cigarettes, John grinding his into the snow to put it out.
Bob held out the pack, offering the rest to him. John smiled sadly and shook his head.
“I once made a promise, sir.”
Bob looked at him quizzically and then seemed to understand and nodded.
“I’m quit now, quit forever. This is the final day.”
EPILOGUE
“May the peace of the Lord be with all of you on this most blessed of days of renewal and beginnings. I hereby declare the academic semester to be open.”
There was a scattering of applause as Reverend Black, newly appointed president of the college, stepped away from the lectern of restored Graham Chapel of Gaither Hall, the name having been changed in memory of an honored couple who had resided in Montreat for most of their lives and actually been married in the chapel in a long-ago age.
There was the traditional closing hymn, the school song, led by the choir, and as they finished, the congregation started to leave. But then a lone voice from the choir began to sing a song that struck John to the very core for all its symbolism. The lone female voice echoed in the restored chapel.
“Try to remember the kind of September when life was slow and oh so mellow.”
All stood frozen in place, and more than a few began to weep. John looked over at Makala, remembering the first time he had brought her to this chapel. A student up on the stage, unaware that she had an audience, had started to sing that song from The Fantasticks. It had become something of a theme of the time they had been through, a song of remembrance and loss.
Young Jennie was nestled in against her mother, having fallen asleep through most of the service, but was now stirring, looking up sleepy eyed at her father and smiling.