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Chapter 1

Jacob LeGaroux eased away from the window just as Mazie rolled past in that rattletrap she called a car. He remained motionless, quietly watching as the taillights disappeared around the bend in the drive. Having a servant definitely had its advantages but in this case, it had its share of pitfalls as well. Lack of privacy was only one of them.

He watched a few moments longer, just to be sure. Mazie had come to him seven years ago and for the most part, she’d proved satisfactory. She was a descendent of slaves and therefore, in his opinion, not overly intelligent. But, he thought, that’s neither here nor there. It doesn’t hurt to be careful, especially with Atlanta so close.

Turning from the window, he was finally satisfied that he had the big house to himself. Working on his Atlanta project was priority number one. This was one of the most crucial times in his life. His presentation had to be letter perfect. Ben Tidwell was going to name his successor any day now.

Benjamin Tidwell had been in firm command of the People’s Purist Party for the last twenty years. Yet, his announcement at the last gathering had not come as a surprise. It was apparent that Ben was laying the groundwork for his potential candidacy to the presidential ticket for the 2000 election… 2004 at the very latest. Slowly but surely, he’d been appearing to sever ties, moving into the background of ethnic superiority. Naming his successor was one of the final steps. The only men in contention for that honor headed up two of the five main regions. Jacob had control of the southern grounds. His most dangerous rival, Gregory Blair controlled the central.

Jacob’s plans had been slowly evolving for over four years. If all went well at this next meeting, his dreams would come to fruition. As chairman, he’d have both the power and the approval to move forward. On July 19^th 1996, the United States would be awarded a whole new prospect for the future. In slightly over seven months, he would personally unleash the real fireworks during the Opening Ceremonies at the Atlanta Olympics. He had a dream, a dream that was so close he could feel it. As it was described in the Bible, this would be the new beginning, the rebirth of America.

He could see his Eden… his paradise. Jacob envisioned a nation of undeniable superiority. His would be a nation, selectively populated by the right people, not the racial mish-mash of today. I’ll have it too, he vowed, one way or the other. That image swelled in his mind, encompassing his being with the potential. The Party had already poured millions into this endeavor and now, it was just a matter of time. The beginning of the end was in sight.

In slightly over two weeks, the entire leadership committee would be meeting here to listen to and approve his final strategies. Jacob knew that Ben would be critically judging his depth as well as his foresight. If done properly, that strategy session would be his crowning achievement. Jacob had hopes that his name would be the one emblazoned on the gavel at the next coronation gathering of the PPP. His plans for Atlanta, if successful, would make that hope a certainty. Suddenly, he felt light hearted and happy. Mazie would be gone for the rest of the day. He had plenty of time to indulge and dream.

He circled his desk, moving to unlock the door to the small storeroom behind his office. He flipped on the lights in the windowless room and gazed at the planning table and his masterpiece. Jacob had painstakingly constructed a multilevel duplicate of the Olympic Village currently being constructed in Atlanta. He had people in all phases of the ongoing construction. Jacob knew every inch of the proposed structures without ever seeing them first hand. His information was as good as the FBI’s... maybe better, he thought smugly. I probably know things that they don’t.

Balsa wood miniatures of the Atlanta Olympic compound and assorted venues were on the top level of a clear sheet of Plexiglas. Beneath the street view were the basements, gyms, training areas and various garages required for an event of this magnitude. Beneath that layout was a replica of the Atlanta sewer system. That was the most crucial part of the entire plan. The sewer was the soft underbelly of the Olympics. Security cameras mounted in the larger conduits would be easily defeated. His biggest obstacle was the infrared sensor system installed along the smaller concrete tunnels. Fortunately, that was no longer a major concern. Three of his own people had hired on with AtTec Security the moment their contract approval was announced. All had been retained as full time employees.

Street level packet bombs would be detonated only moments before the sewer routes disintegrated beneath the crowd. The ongoing panic would do as much as the actual bombings. Jacob moved a tiny toy van through the streets, getting a feel for the routes that would introduce the various incendiary devices. The possibilities were there. All he had to do was pull it together.

Looking across his miniature city, he gazed at the huge map that decorated the back wall of the room. Color-coded pushpins identified successful hits on the enemy over the last five years. It gave him an immense amount of personal pride to see that his region held the highest success rate. Most notably were the Pensacola and Albany hits. That, he thought, will not go unnoticed.

Jacob remembered back to the Illinois hunting trip. He and Blair were the only real contenders. Gregory Blair’s territory was the largest, encompassing a huge chunk of the Nation’s breadbasket. While Jacob’s territory was much smaller, its importance was looming larger every day. The biggest thing that was working in his favor was the placement of the 1996 Olympic Games. The last strategy meeting was held several months ago in a secure base camp outside of Chicago. All of the Party leaders contributed their thoughts to possible sites and the potential ramifications yet it all boiled down to just one thing. The location of the games put it in his purview. Since then, Jacob had been working feverishly on the different scenarios, finally settling on one master plan.

At the time, Gregory Blair tried to circumvent him by proposing the northwestern regional duchy for the winter games. The smaller Idaho and Dakota alliances were only bit players. Fortunately, the council decided that was a less desirable alternative. They needed maximum impact for maximum effect. Then too, it was common knowledge that the northwest branch of the Party was still in disarray. It was in the rebuilding process after an unfortunate incident.

Federal infiltration three years ago almost ruined them all. It’s a good thing, he thought, that I can say almost. It was only the barest of luck that enabled them to uncover the phony members. Their bodies were now fertilizing a potato field outside of Twin Falls. Paul Calhoun, one of his prize recruits, had been there at the time. He was teaching an advanced demolition class to a group of selected Party members. From what he said, by the time they got done with the Feds, even the vultures weren’t interested.

The muted ring of his office telephone dragged him out of his reverie. Out of habit, he closed and locked the storeroom door although he was the only one in the house. Moving quickly to his desk, he glanced at the small, discrete Caller ID screen built into the base. His mouth turned to a tight, grim slash as he picked up the receiver.

"Good afternoon, Jacob," said the smooth oily voice of his caller. Jacob would have recognized the voice anywhere. Suddenly, Burghman’s arrogance rankled Jacob even more. Only his very good friends were allowed to call him by his first name and Doug Burghman wasn’t a friend.

He could tell by the tone that this was not a social call. "Enough with the BS Burghman. What do you want?"

Doug Burghman was Jacob’s local Judas. The man openly curried Gregory Blair’s favor but kept an insidious foothold in Jacob’s camp as well. He suspected that Burghman was a plant, conveniently transferred to this area in order to keep an eye on Jacob’s doings. Maybe, he thought, reporting directly to Blair or perhaps, Tidwell himself. Jacob never had been able to find out for sure.

Burghman liked to brag that he could ruin someone with just a stroke of his pen. Actually, thought Jacob, he can and has. His position had been instrumental in keeping certain factions under control. Doug Burghman was a supervisor with the United States Probation Office in Savannah yet, he harbored fantasies of unmitigated power within the party. The man had grandiose ideas that bordered on tyrannical at times but his ego and ambition far outdistanced his ability.

"Well," drawled Burghman, the underlying phoniness evident in every slick syllable. "I just thought you should know. I believe we have a problem. I had a very interesting visit a few minutes ago."

Jacob waited for him to go on but he never did. Burghman seemed to think that he could keep a listener poised on the head of a pin with this maneuver but it wasn’t working. Jacob didn’t have time for this egotistical foolishness. "Interesting in what way Burghman?" he snapped.

"Now, just settle down Jacob, I’m getting to it," Burghman’s tone was contentious but civil. "It was from a social worker with Georgia Child Protection Services. Her name was Ms. Christy. Naturally, another damn mudder," Burghman began. "She was asking for copies of Paul’s probation reports from November 1992 on."

Suddenly, Burghman had Jacob’s undivided attention. "Why? Why would Child Services be nosing around? Paul doesn’t have a kid anymore. What did you tell her?"

"Simple, told her that the computers were down but I’d send over some hard copies as soon as I got to it." Now, Burghman’s tone changed, the pace speeding up dramatically. "As for the why… are you in your office? I want to fax something over to you."

"No," he lied, "but hold on and I will be. Call me back in two minutes." Jacob cradled the receiver, his mind racing. Up until then, it had been a very nice relaxing day. In less than two minutes, the secure line was ringing. He answered it quickly, his knuckles tinting to white around the receiver. "Okay Burghman, what is the problem? Specifically this time," he snapped.

Burghman started the story just as his fax line picked up an incoming call. It was a fairly new fax machine and Jacob hadn’t figured out how to turn down the volume on it. The twangy electronic handshake between the two electronic devices was annoying but he tried to ignore it as he listened.

"Okay," Burghman began, "it seems that Calhoun’s old girlfriend is back in the picture after all. There’s a custody fitness hearing the first week in November and the social worker wanted information on the kid’s father."

Jacob frowned, trying to think of why. Paul Calhoun had no interest in being a father. As far as he knew, Paul’s name wasn’t on the birth certificate. What bearing would paternity have unless she was seeking child support or something? If that were the case, it would be the legal department wanting financials, not probation reports.

The paper was inching out and Jacob checked the header identification. Good, he thought, at least Burghman is thinking. He’s using his private fax line, not the one in the central office. Now, he concentrated on the rest of what Burghman was saying.

"Anyway, the bitch said that an interview with a former neighbor tweaked her interest. She was just doing some follow up before the fitness hearing. At first, she was real chatty though. Then she clammed up. Anyway, it seems this neighbor was a bit of the observant sort. An aspiring writer. You’ll see what I mean in a minute." Burghman’s smug tone was back.

Jacob pulled the last page from the fax machine. The paper was still warm and he took care not to smudge the printing until the ink set up. He scanned the first few paragraphs quickly. It was some kind of a story about a whale by a Julie Daniels.

"Burghman, what does this have to do with anything?" he asked.

"Dammit Jacob, are you dense? Didn’t you read it? You may not be worried but I sure as hell am. As innocuous as it seems, this damn custody thing could be the death of us. What if the caseworker or this Daniels woman talks to the wrong person about this? Or worse yet, someone else reads this?"

Burghman went on; his voice almost shrill with trumped up bravado. "There’s been too many people snooping around as it is. I don’t know if I can stall the social worker. I think she fancies herself a crime-buster in pantyhose. I can’t be sure but she seemed a bit suspicious when she left. One thing I do know Jacob. If some sharp detective puts one and two together, he’s going to come up with three. Then, we’ll all go down. You, me, Gregory, Ben, all of us. You got it?"

How could this compromise them? He’d done a quick scan of the piece. He’d seen nothing in there relevant to the PPP. "Dammit Burghman, don’t you dare speak to me in that tone of voice." He heard the mumbled apology and went on, a bit calmer now. "Now listen," he began, "If you’re so worried about this social worker, don’t we have someone in Social Services? Have her transferred or something."

"Figure the chances LeGaroux. Social Services is a screwed up pack of misfits and social do-gooders," Burghman snorted. "We’ve never been able to get a plant in there. There’s nothing I can do on that score."

"Oh well, regardless Burghman, this is foolish. There’s nothing in this thing that says anything about us. Don’t be like Chicken Little. The sky isn’t falling, trust me."

Jacob’s fingers tightened on the receiver as he listened to the response. A chill washed over him, his skin tightening with the veiled threat beneath his caller’s calm words.

"LeGaroux, look at the fax again. This time, really read it. I don’t think I’m being Chicken Little. Don’t forget, I’m in the business. I know how quickly one small detail can unravel everything," his caller hissed. "In most cases, this incident would have no bearing on anything but from what the social worker said, this Daniels woman even made mention of Calhoun’s penchant for unusual vehicles, namely, details of a certain motor home. He doesn’t still have that thing, does he?"

That perked Jacob’s immediate attention. "Frankly, I don’t know. I made him repaint it after that Albany stunt though. I haven’t seen it since." Very few people knew about that except the Feds and they hadn’t released that crucial bit of information.

Burghman went on with his harangue. "Think about it Jacob, eyewitness testimony, in the wrong hands…" He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

"The Daniels woman isn’t in Savannah anymore. My people in the utility department said that the account was transferred to Richmond Hill somewhere. That’s all I could find out. I could only ask so much. I’m looking for Calhoun’s old girlfriend now… she could be a problem. That social worker had too much information. I haven’t figured out what I’m going to do about her yet, but I’ll think of something. But the Daniels woman…that one is yours. You’re going to have to handle it Jacob. If you don’t… can you say ‘Witness Protection Program’? Look at the mention of dates. Really look this time."

Now, Jacob LeGaroux really read the full essay instead of just skimming over the high points. He noticed the first of many clues that this damn Daniels woman had unconsciously given the Child Welfare people in Savannah and felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. Burghman was right.

Calhoun was one of the more promising of his earlier recruits. Young and impressionable, he was highly intelligent and cunningly adept. A brief stint in the Marine Corps gave him the knowledge and Jacob’s vision for the future gave him the tools. Paul and the Marines parted company abruptly, leaving him bitter and adrift at first. Yet, his time in the Marines further convinced Paul of the inequities in today’s society. The mudders were taking over and it was up to them to stop it.

Paul Calhoun had a felony conviction stemming from his time in the Marines. The Corps had opted to forego prosecution and had given him a dishonorable discharge instead. Public opinion of the military was on a downward spiral at the time and they wanted to avoid any unfavorable publicity.

Jacob smiled when he thought of it. In a way, he was glad that Paul’s admirable plan had been discovered. If not, he might be butting heads with him instead of the insipid Gregory Blair. Paul Calhoun was much younger but every bit as ambitious. He had been charged with stealing $50,000 worth of weaponry from the Marine’s munitions depot. His ambition was to create a paramilitary guerrilla unit that would some day rebuild a white Southland.

That was nine years ago. Jacob took up his cause without ever meeting him. He couldn’t help but admire the young man’s dedication to his belief of his own supremacy. Slowly but surely, the court appointed lawyers disappeared. In their place were several high powered attorneys covertly hired by Benjamin Tidwell’s organization. They were granted a change of venue and the trial was held in the South where the party’s tendrils were firmly rooted.

Back then, Jacob did not yet have a grip on the Federal system but the lawyers successfully pled for a lesser charge. Paul Calhoun was quietly convicted and given a suspended sentence with ten years supervisory probation.

An existing salvage yard was purchased in anticipation of Paul Calhoun’s sentence. Within months, Calhoun Salvage was in business. Surprisingly, one of Calhoun’s hobbies wound up being a magnificent recruitment tool. After a year, Paul’s salvage business had expanded into a larger, much more lucrative enterprise, illegal dogfights.

Dogfight aficionados were particularly open to the purist principles that Jacob believed in. Personally, he shunned violent activities, preferring the more genteel arts like opera or the symphony. To each his own, he thought.

For the most part, he was immensely proud of his protégé. However, as Jacob learned the hard way, one had to be constantly vigilant when it came to Paul Calhoun. His mind shifted back to the situation at hand.

Paul was annoyingly flamboyant at times, foolishly spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on various toys. First, he’d found that jury-rigged crane at an auction. Calhoun tried to justify his purchase by saying that with a few modifications it would do anything a stable heavy-duty rig would do. Jacob had yet to see that happen.

The maneuverable space at the salvage yard was at a minimum. Very few areas had enough of a cleared surface to adequately lower the outriggers needed for ultimate stability. Only Calhoun’s niggs knew how to operate it safely but even they would clear out when they saw Lassiter and Calhoun coming. Baron Lassiter was the Bryan County Sheriff. He was also an important member of the PPP in this part of the South. Unfortunately, ‘Boss’ Lassiter was every bit as repugnant as he was useful. He and Calhoun had an ongoing rivalry over who was the best with the remote control wand of the crane. There is no telling what would happen when those two got together to play with toys, he thought.

That modified motor home was another of Calhoun’s toys. Jacob could still remember how his skin crawled once he saw the artwork for the first time. It wasn’t from revulsion but from fear.

The motor home was a rolling advertisement for White Supremacy. Foolishly, Paul had used it for the Albany strike. It’s a miracle, thought Jacob, that Paul didn’t get stopped on his way back to Savannah. Fortunately, Jacob had the situation well in hand by the time he learned that the FBI had a description.

It had taken every bit of tact and diplomacy he had to convince the board that Paul’s mistake would not come back to haunt them. Burghman’s position as Paul’s Probation Officer, he promised, gave him a stellar alibi anytime they needed. How could anyone dispute the squeaky-clean word of PO Burghman?

No one would, unless they started looking. Now it seemed that this situation was coming back to haunt them. Him, in particular. Heavy-duty damage control was required. This social worker had gotten some information from somewhere and could be putting one and two together. So far, she couldn’t know that she was on the brink of the answer.

The actual dates would scream involvement if they started pulling records together. The technology of today made underground operations increasingly difficult to conceal. So far, they hadn’t known where to look but as he reread the fax he realized how quickly that margin of safety could change. A real investigation would point directly at Paul Calhoun. After that, it wouldn’t take long for them to connect the dots.

Jacob LeGaroux’s thoughts overshadowed the voice coming through the receiver, drowning out the litany of Doug Burghman. His lips twisted in loathing as he thought of how today’s world violated every tradition of his family heritage. None of them belong here, he thought. America should be for the real Americans, not the vile half-breeds that are threatening to take over now.

The bleeding hearts of the past were destroying the future. His future, and that of all honest-to-God American men. They needed a major event to make them see the error of their ways. Jacob wished he could figure a way to blow up the Statue of Liberty, just to make a statement. He never could stand that thing. The words engraved on the base of the monument still set his blood to boiling. 'Give me your tired, your poor - Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…'

Give me your tired, your poor… my ass, he thought. Those huddled masses were sapping the life right out of his country, abusing a system that his own forefathers strove to protect and achieve. It was time he gave them something all right. A quick kick out of the country would work but that wasn’t possible yet. For now, he’d settle on some well-placed warnings. The coup de’grace was coming. It just wasn’t time yet.

Hitler’s ideologies hadn’t been all that wrong. He just went about it the wrong way. The Third Reich was too arrogant, too showy. There were other ways to deal with it. He turned his attention back to his caller, biding his time as he listened.

"Well Jacob, if we don’t cool a few heels real quick-like, we might as well forget about Atlanta. I don’t think Ben would be too happy about that. You, of all people know how important the next few weeks are."

This time, there was no mistaking the threat behind the smooth southern drawl. Jacob’s nape itched furiously as he longed for the simpler time of his ancestors. It was a live and let live philosophy that ruled. Until the North stuck their nose into it, the South had enjoyed prosperity and grandeur. Now, they were the ‘second class’ citizens, forced to contend with social workers, federal investigators and snoopy reporters.

Over the years, he’d had his fill of all of them. None of them seemed to comprehend what truly was the number one problem now. The Equal Rights Amendment is what is killing America, he thought. It gives ‘equality’ to all but the true Americans. Their Civil Rights were consistently being curtailed. The bleeding heart liberals were painting him, and others who shared his views as ogres, aberrations of society that were to be reviled and vilified.

They had to be on constant guard. Jacob despised the false face that he had to wear in order to operate in this so-called modern society. The supposed ‘freedom of speech’ part of the Constitution was really just a figure of speech. Jacob’s only comfort was that he knew that it was only a matter of months before they all would be able to come out into the open. But now was not the time.

But Burghman was right. This needed to be dealt with and dealt with quickly. Time was now a crucial factor and they had to operate in utmost secrecy. He thought back, remembering the sixties and when they’d been forced to go underground. The disposal of those three social workers in Mississippi is what did them in. Benjamin Tidwell still talked about that. He hadn’t been chairman then. If he had, the entire situation wouldn’t have gotten out of hand. Jacob couldn’t help but think that if Tidwell had been chairman, they wouldn’t be in the sorry fix they were today.

The Party had been jeopardized repeatedly but since Tidwell took over, any reporters or investigators that got too close disappeared, quietly and creatively. Not all had been permanently dealt with, especially the reporters. Some were skillfully convinced that their chances of future productivity would be greatly enhanced by another location. Tidwell was remarkably good at the subtleties of persuasion. Unfortunately, several had been resistant to that suggestion. Now, their productivity was limited to the fertilization of the azalea and ligustrum bushes on the back lawn bordering Elbow Swamp, their tongues, and pens forever silenced.

It looked like this was going to be another time to be creative. He couldn’t risk exposure. "You deal with the social worker however you see fit," he ordered. "I’ll handle the other two." Tersely, he ended the call, unhappy that he’d been forced to utilize Burghman’s expertise in this one. He knew that Burghman’s aspirations included taking over the southern region eventually. His support of Jacob as the next chairman was strictly self-motivated. He had dreams of grander things.

He had managed to stay one step ahead of Burghman for the last 20 years or so. I’ll stay ahead of him once I’m named as chairman too. It’s just a matter of time. Burghman will tip his hand eventually, he thought, and I’ll be there to take him down.

In a lot of ways, their group wasn’t much different than the old Italian Mafia. Silence and utmost loyalty were the keys. Burghman knew silence but Jacob didn’t think that the word loyalty was in the man’s vocabulary. He was too good at the game. The upper echelon hierarchy of the Party was all political. Jacob had been working for years to solidify his position. Everything hinged on the next few weeks.

However, he thought, Burghman is right. This needs to be stopped before it goes any further. Jacob walked to the window, staring out over a pristine lawn to the wooded wetlands that fringed his property. He chewed his lip as he tried to sort through his thoughts.

Suddenly, he felt the increasingly familiar rush of low blood sugar. Stress seems to bring it on quicker than anything does, he thought. I’ll have to get with my doctor soon. Jacob reached in his pocket and felt for one of the sugar laden orange slices he always carried. Quickly, he popped it in his mouth.

In minutes, he felt better. Focusing his attention to one problem at a time, he moved away from the table and considered the task at hand. The Daniels woman’s knowledge could be the linchpin that would burn them all. Julie Daniels was a loose end; one that needed to be clipped. Clipped before he was.

He grabbed the newest Richmond Hill telephone directory and turned to the ‘Ds’. Sliding his finger down the columns, he found six listings for Daniels. Deciding on the role of a telephone salesman, he blocked the telephone number identifier. Dialing them, one by one, Jacob hit pay dirt on the fourth call when the lilting voice of a teenager answered the phone.

"Julie Daniels please," he asked in his most congenial voice.

"One sec," said the young girl. Then he heard the phone being muffled as the voice yelled for her mother. "Mo-o-o-m," he heard, in that long drawn out fashion of kids. "It’s for you."

Without a word, he hung up. He had what he was looking for. James R. Daniels… 1434 Buckton Terrace. That was one of the nicer parts of town. Very few of the properties there were rentals. He’d get Lassiter on it right away.

Flipping back to the ‘M’ section, he searched for the other name. It wasn’t there. He turned to the Savannah listings. Nothing there, either. Cursing silently to himself, Jacob knew she wouldn’t be as easy to find. From what Paul had told him, Marla Meyers sunk into oblivion almost two years ago.

Actually, he was surprised she wasn’t dead by now. Most don’t live very long once they fell into the crack scene. He never had understood Calhoun’s attraction to her sort. Oh well, he thought, the Meyers girl is one loose end that Paul will have to tend to. Most of this is his doing anyway. If she were still in the area, he’d have the contacts to find her.

#

Callie came to full awareness slowly by degrees, not quite sure what had roused her. The timid light of early morning was brightening the eastern sky. She felt the touch again and knew it was Bob. He was lying next to her, propped up on one elbow looking at her solemnly while he traced the sensitive skin of her throat.

Blinking uncertainly, she wondered about his serious expression. He’d seemed fine when they went to bed last night. "Bob? What's wrong? Are you all right? Have you been up all night?" Callie saw his slow smile begin and she relaxed, starting to ease closer to his warmth.

"No baby, I'm fine. Just thinking." His eyes locked on hers and unconsciously, she stiffened. "I just want to talk to you about something," he continued, "something serious. Are you awake enough?"

Callie hated serious talk, especially from him. Something was wrong, she knew it. Keeping her voice on the flippant side, she answered evenly. "Sure darlin’. What's up?"

"Callie, how do you feel about real commitment?"

Unable to resist the obvious tease, she countered. "Darlin’, I know lots of people that should be committed but aren't." She saw his frown. He was serious, he was very serious. She had to re-group. Now, she turned to fully face him and stroked his cheek softly. "Honey… I don't know. I guess I haven't given it a whole lot of thought. What kind of commitment are you thinking of?"

"I can’t help but wonder why you still refuse to marry me. What are you afraid of? Or is it that you just don’t feel enough for me to take that step?"

Taking his hand, she kissed his knuckles softly and responded as seriously as she'd ever been in her life. "Bob, I have been committed to you since the first day we met. Don't you know that by now? I don't think we need to be married to have that commitment, do you? For right now, I think that marriage would just choke you and then we'd both be miserable."

He was quiet for a long moment, thoughtful. Mentally she held her breath, hoping he didn't take what she said wrong. "I love you Bob, with all of my heart and soul but I don't think getting married just because I’m pregnant is any answer for either of us. There would always be that lingering doubt."

"I tried marriage once and I wasn't worth a shit at it," he agreed. "But that was because it wasn’t the right kind of a relationship. Without even knowing it, I’ve been looking for the right kind ever since. I thought I’d found it in you but now I’m starting to wonder if what I feel for you is just one-sided."

Callie was terribly confused. "Bob, I'm sorry, I don't understand."

His voice grew stronger. "Callie Franklin, I’m only going to say this once so I hope I get it right. I do not want to marry you because you are pregnant and it’s supposed to be the right thing to do." Bob continued uncertainly. "You know that I went 40 years without ever knowing who my father was or why he wasn’t there. I loved my mother but she was wrong."

He stopped for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "It took me a while to realize but she never gave Danny a choice. He didn’t even know about me until I was already grown. Then, he became as much of a father to me as he ever could or would have been. I’m telling you right now that will not happen to my son. Regardless of what you say, I will be a part of my son’s life. Either here with you, or someplace else. One way or the other, I’m going to be there for him."

Callie knew learning that General Moran was his father had set him back emotionally. The revelation had come at a time when all of their nerves were stretched to the breaking point. He and Callie were both still reeling from the news of her unexpected pregnancy. She was afraid that he was transposing the negative emotions of anger and betrayal into falsely bolstered feelings for her and the baby. She had to be 100% certain that he wasn’t setting himself up to be a martyr in order to make up for what he didn’t have as a child. That was why she had steadfastly refused to discuss marriage.

"But," he continued, "I need to know something from you. You seem to be dead set against marriage and I have to accept that. I guess I’m telling you that no matter what you decide, I will be there for you and for the baby but I can’t stay in a one-sided relationship any longer."

She tried to find the words but couldn’t speak. Is that what he thought? Callie blinked hard trying to stop the building pressure behind her eyelids. Her mind was spinning. Was he leaving? He’d been tense and moody off and on ever since they’d found out she was pregnant but she didn’t think he was unhappy. They’d had no cross words. What had she done? He hadn’t said a word about anything. "What are you saying?" she finally choked.

"I’m saying that if you won’t marry me, fine. But if I’m going to stay here I need to know if you are as committed to me as I need to be to you. That’s all." Now, he brought out a small velvet box, placing it in her hands as he stared into her eyes. "I ordered this before you found Cypress Cove. It just got here yesterday."

Hesitantly, she tore her gaze from his and looked at the case in her hands. It wasn’t a ring box. It was slightly larger and bore the gold embossed logo of one of Washington’s premier jewelry designers. It was the same jewelry store that had made the special filigree band for her watch.

"I suppose I can understand why you are so against marriage. Nowadays, a wedding ring means nothing," he went on. "Some people change them as often as they do their socks. I don’t want that to happen to us. I need an oath, one between you and me, a personal promise that we can both trust in when the going gets tough. A leap of faith, I guess. The concept is about an intense belonging to one person. With all that you are... nothing more, nothing less."

Bob took a deep breath and Callie knew that he was baring his soul to her. "With or without a marriage license, I still need a commitment Callie, a commitment to me. To be mine, and mine alone. I’m talking something more intensely meaningful than just marriage. It's an internal commitment, and the depths of which you can't understand until you go there."

She could tell so much by the tone of his voice. He was sure of himself in this, and growing surer as he went. "Baby, this is a concept that is only coming back around again. I don’t know if it even has a real name."

He stopped for a minute, seeming to gather his thoughts. She saw a moistness in his eyes. "I need this Callie. It isn’t binding or legal unless you want to make it so. But I can’t go on without it. Not like this."

Her fingers trembled as she opened the black velvet case. Inside, was a sparkling silver filigree choker. Dangling from the center was a ring-sized coin surrounded by dual bezels. One was firmly affixed to the free-swinging coin in the center. The outside bezel was matching filigree embedded with precious stones. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Bob smiled at her, apparently seeing her appreciation for the artistry of this particular piece of jewelry. "There’s something unusual about that pendant. Can you see what?"

Now, she pulled it from the case, flipping the swinging bezel back and forth. Then she saw what he was talking about. "This is ingenious Bob. Your design?"

"Yes," he grinned as he moved to show her how it worked. "The coin part has a small clip at the back. You flip that to take it off the choker and then the outer bezel comes away. I kind of thought it might be handy to have in case you ever change your mind about getting married."

Callie followed his instructions and saw that the outer bezel, when removed would double as a matching ring. A wedding ring. Clever, she thought. Callie slipped it on her right ring finger and wasn’t a bit surprised to see it was a perfect fit.

"Now," said Bob. "Look for what else is different."

She searched for the clasp but there was none. Callie looked up curiously.

Bob smiled gently. "That’s part of what I mean Callie. Once it goes on, it doesn’t come off, no matter what. Understand?"

She did. Callie only had one question in her mind. "When and if we ever hit some rough patches Bob, what if someone asked why you stayed with me? What would be your reason?" she said softly, praying he’d say the right thing.

"That’s easy Cal. I would say that I stay because regardless of the problems we may have at the time, you’re still the only woman who completes me. The other half of my whole, so to speak. The part that’s been missing all these years. I would like to think that you feel the same way about me, regardless of the marriage thing."

She heard his sigh. "Well, think about it baby, it's up to you," he said. "No one else can make the choice for you."

He pulled his hand away from hers. She grabbed it back before he could get out of bed. Callie was happier than she'd ever been in her life. "Bob, I don't need to think about it. My choice was made a long time ago. It's you. I need you as much as I need air to breathe… more probably. I’m yours, no ifs ands or buts about it. I told you before, you're stuck with me till you boot me out."

His face told her everything as his slow smile widened. "Figure the odds, baby." Bob stretched back out beside her, pulling her closer as he talked. "Good. What do you say we go into town this afternoon and find a jeweler to close the circle?"

Callie pretended to seriously consider it. "Well, we could I guess. But I think it’d be better to go in on Monday." He cranked his head, looking at her with his unspoken question. "It only makes sense darlin’. The courthouse will be open we can find out what we need for a marriage license at the same time," she said coyly. "That is, of course, if you are still willing to marry me." She jumped at the sudden sound of his uncharacteristic whoop. Then she felt as if the breath was being squeezed from her.

Just as suddenly, he lurched away releasing her, his eyes wide as he stared at her protruding abdomen. "Holy shit, Cal, what was that?" he sputtered. "Oh God, did I hurt you?"

Callie laughed, running her palms over her belly. "No darlin’. This is one of those contractions that Doctor Haverty told us about. Braxton-Hicks I think." She took his hand, bringing it back to feel and get comfortable with the rigidity of her abdomen. She’d been having them periodically over the last couple of weeks. This was the first time he’d felt them. "The doctor said I’d be having them steadily up until delivery." She looked up at him and smiled. "Oh geez Bob, don’t worry."

His eyes were still wide and startled. "You sure? You’re not in labor yet, are you? You sure that’s normal? Do they hurt?"

"No way darlin’, really. These are just little practice contractions and no, they don’t hurt. They’re totally normal. It’s the body’s way of preparing for birth. We’ve got a long way to go." He still looked skeptical so she tried to reassure him. "Don’t worry honey, from everything I’ve read, I’ll be screaming like a banshee when the time comes, so you’ll know."

Callie sat up, trying to massage the stiffness from her back. She looked over at the doubtful frown and couldn’t resist. "But," she said, "unless you want our son to be ring-bearer, don’t you think we’d better figure things out?" He smiled, pulling her back down next to his side. Bob lightly massaged the tense muscles of her spine as they talked.

They spent the morning making their plans. Bob was stubbornly resistant to the idea of getting married in the courthouse chapel but was insisting that they be married before the baby was born. He wanted his father there and their friends. Callie was too deliriously happy to argue. They had plenty of time. The baby wasn’t due for over two months. Besides, she thought, he wants to marry me for me this time, not just because of the baby. That was all she’d been waiting for.

Deciding on November 4^th, Bob called everyone he wanted to attend. Callie got on the other phone and called her best friend, Julie Daniels, and asked her to be her Matron of Honor at the small ceremony. She didn’t need to ask if Julie would help her with the arrangements. With Julie, whirlwind planning was her forte. If that is, you could get her there on time.

Their wedding day was only three weeks away but Callie was reasonably sure they could pull it all together by then. Besides, she thought, being one with Bob was all that mattered. Like he always teased; you don’t sweat the petty stuff. It was better, he said, to just pet the sweaty stuff.

#

Marla awoke in a sticky sweat. She’d had that nightmare again. Wondering if she’d ever be free of its hold, she rolled over and looked at the clock. 6:45 Now, she really panicked. Her next shift started at 7:00am. This was a good job. She didn’t want to lose it. She scrambled across the barely rumpled bedspread, lunging for the telephone and punched in the numbers from memory.

Impatiently, almost afraid to breathe, she listened as the hospital switchboard took forever. Finally, the atonal voice of the operator answered.

"Maternity please," she said, as professionally as possible.

Her hands tightened into fists. She was so afraid she’d screwed up. I did before, she thought, but it won’t happen again. I won’t let it. She didn’t blame the authorities any more. In a way, getting busted that day was the best thing that ever happened to her. Marla knew that she needed to take responsibility for herself and her own well being before she could begin to care for all that the baby needed.

At least she was able to see Laurel now. Supervised visits once a week, but it was a start. As soon as she’d quit feeling sorry for herself and blaming every act of man and nature, she’d entered Savannah’s Drug Intervention Program. She’d been institutionalized for only a short time. It was enough to flush the crap out of her system, but not enough to get the baby back. That would take work, and lots of it.

Savannah Memorial had given her a chance. She’d worked her way up from dishwasher to janitor. Then she applied as an aide and was accepted. At first, they would only allow her to work in the Geriatrics ward, which was okay, but depressing. All she could do was try to bring a smile to those gentle old faces. So many of them were alone. It was heartbreaking and she couldn’t help but be constantly reminded that she was alone too.

Sometimes, she lay in the shoddy room of the Starlight Motel and wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to just die alone. Laurel was too young to really remember her and she seemed to have a loving foster family now. Maybe it would be better. Marla had no family to speak of. No sisters or brothers and she’d never known who her father was. Her mother was a blown out alcoholic somewhere up in Rhode Island. She’d given up years ago, and so had Marla. She shook herself mentally. I haven’t given up. I will win.

Marla Meyers had been on her own since 14. She’d never finished High School but she was taking extension courses now. She should be able to get her GED in another month or so, as soon as she completed all her credits. That’ll give me a better leg up, she reminded herself.

While she waited, she looked around. Another couple of weeks, she thought, I’ll be able to get out of this seedy hole. I’ll get a real apartment. I’ll find one with a playground for Laurel and a real kitchen, not just a cooler and a hot plate, she vowed. Laurel will have her own room and go to pre-school and I’ll work triple shifts if I have to, but I will send her to ballet lessons if she wants. If nothing else, the Drug Intervention Program taught her that if there’s a will, there’s a way.

She had the will. Now, she needed to work for the way.

Suddenly, Marla finally heard the crisp greeting of the Head Nurse, immediately plowing into her apologies. "Ma’am, this is Marla Meyers, I’m an aide and I’m supposed to start my shift at seven but I overslept." She tried to slow her breathing in order to make sense. "I am so sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

"Marla, honey… this is Mrs. Waters," the voice answered. "You only left two hours ago. I don’t think you’re late. Not yet, anyway." She heard the nurse chuckle. "I told you it would catch up to you hon. You can’t keep pulling double shifts. You need the rest and the time away from here."

Relieved that she wasn’t on the hotseat again, she answered, sagging against the headboard of the rickety bed. "I know, but I don’t want to look bad. I just panicked. I still have to prove myself. I have to. And sorry for bothering you."

"Hon," the woman answered. "Don’t worry about it. You are doing fine. Everyone loves your touch with the babies and you do wonderfully in delivery. You could be a really good nurse, you know. You have the touch."

Marla felt the pressure against her eyelids. It was from both relief and gratitude. She wasn’t used to praise or kindness. She’d never known much of either. "Mrs. Waters… thank you." She felt her throat constrict. She was so close to crying again.

Now, the nurse’s voice hardened, but in a teasing way. "Now, young lady, get some rest and report for duty at seven in the morning. Seven sharp."

Mrs. Water’s ‘drill sergeant’ manner made her feel better. "Yes ma’am. On my way ma’am."

Then she heard the woman’s response. "Aw, shut up and go to bed you dingbat."

"I will," she said. "Thanks."

"No problem, kiddo."

Marla hung up the phone, rubbing her forehead as if she had a headache. Damn, she thought, I’d almost kill for a hit. Even a joint would work. Might perk me up and make me forget for a while. Defiantly, she straightened her spine. "No," she announced firmly to the empty room, taking a measure of comfort at her own resolve. "Never again. What I need is food."

She opened the cooler, surveying her dwindling supplies. She had two Diet Cokes, two eggs and three slices of bread, if you counted the heel. That was breakfast. Tomorrow was payday. She’d hit the grocery store then. Lately, Marla was incredibly frugal. She allowed herself thirty dollars a week for groceries and ten dollars in folding money. The rest of her paycheck went into the bank. That bank account was her stability, her way of proving her worth to both the Child Welfare Authorities and to herself.

She didn’t allow herself the privilege of an ATM card either. Ready access to that money was just too tempting at times. If she didn’t have the cash, she didn’t spend. Now, she dug in her uniform. She still had $4.37. That was enough for Burger King. Marla pulled the money out of the pocket and shucked out of the synthetic material. Her well-worn jeans felt like silk as they slid up over her legs.

Tucking her remaining cash in the pocket, she headed out the door and into the deepening dusk. Locking the door, she turned around and faced the weedy courtyard of the aging motel. Now, it looked almost romantic in the last sunlit gasps of day. The rosy color of sunset hid the peeling paint and the warped roofing. Even the abundant weeds blended into a pleasing mat of gentle color among the mosaic patches of sandy, barren soil.

It’s not a bad place, she thought, just not one that I want Laurel to see. Then she heard the raucous laughter of the drunks next door. No, she amended herself, this is a bad place, and it’s one I don’t ever want to see again. Not after next week. I swear.

Marla had been working steadily, ever since she was released from rehabilitation. Tomorrow’s paycheck should boost her balance to over five thousand. Next week, she planned on going apartment hunting. There were some nice sounding places advertised in the paper but she’d have to see how accessible they were to the Chatham Area Transit lines. It would be a while before she could afford a decent car.

It was a short three blocks to the nearest Burger King and she couldn’t help but notice how delightfully cool it was. Impulsively, she decided to catch a bus to the historic district of downtown Savannah. It was still early enough. She’d head back to the dingy room after a little exercise. As the bus slid by, Marla looked longingly at the stately homes, gaily bedecked for Halloween. Here and there, she saw clusters of tourists being led on some of the scenic tours that Savannah was famous for.

Strolling down Bay Street, she smiled absently at the happy, smiling couples. Some had small children in tow. One little girl bore an amazing resemblance to Laurel. Resisting the urge to reach out and fondle the child’s burnished copper curls, she turned left toward the Waving Girl Statue. It was her favorite place to sit and think. The small niche along East River Street overlooked the water and it would be bustling during the day but fairly quiet in the evening. The Waving Girl monument was lighted enough to be safe but secluded enough to be a good dreaming place. It was here, that she let herself daydream.

A house was out of the question for now, but the apartment had to be decent sized, with two bedrooms and lots of space for Laurel to play safely. She had just turned three and Marla fostered hopes that she’d be able to celebrate her child’s next birthday in their own place.

There was a custody hearing the first week of November. Marla really had to have a decent place by then. She was cutting it awfully close but her caseworker, Ms. Christy, said that there was a good chance that would help to influence the judge in her favor. She clung to that faint glimmer of hope but sternly promised herself that she wouldn’t let it get her down if it didn’t work out. It would eventually. Sometimes, she thought, life is going to be one step forward and two steps back. I’ll deal with it.

It all depended on so many things though. First and foremost, it depended on a constant series of clean drug tests. She’d been totally clean for 8 months now. It may not sound like long to most folks, she thought, but for me, it’s a minor miracle. With the exception of her pregnancy, it was the longest time she’d ever stayed off drugs or booze since she was 12.

She’d given up blaming her mother. After counseling and therapy, Marla realized that her mother had been trapped by dependency long before she came into the picture. Her work at the hospital had kindled a deep interest in the medical field. She was particularly interested in the role that genetics played in human development. She sat, pondering the darkened river before her; both pleased and saddened that she now understood the concepts that had been drilled into her during therapy.

By virtue of her genetic structure she’d been set up for failure from the moment of conception, perhaps, as had Laurel. Thank God, she thought, for modern intervention. Laurel won’t have to be trapped the same way. She’d make sure of it. Marla sat up straight, suddenly implicitly certain that she would escape the insidious tendrils of illicit drug use. In her mind, there was no other option.

Looking at her watch, Marla realized that she’d better be heading back. She dreaded going back to the sour air of the flophouse but she needed to get some sleep. I’m not really tired, she thought, but maybe I will be by the time I get there. Instant sleep will keep me from having to look at those dingy walls any more than I have to. Walking slowly, she continued to ponder her life, such as it was now.

The dreams still came at times, but her dreams of that previous life bordered on nightmares. Somehow, the emphasis had shifted. Her prior memories no longer resembled the foggy euphoria and consummate bliss of a deepening habit. Now, the stark reality of those times revealed only the horror and the burgeoning sense of loss. Marla had just turned 28 and the reality of the waste was paralyzing. She’d spent over half of her life dancing to the tune of addiction.

It’s funny, she thought, how different people react to similar situations. Her own birth, 28 years ago had sent her mother spiraling over the edge, into the well of despair and degradation. Now, eons later, the loss of Laurel had given her the will to reach up to grab the edge and the courage to ask for help.

Suddenly, a drunk came bounding out of a nearby doorway, pawing her heavily while slurring his disgusting proposition. With a start, she realized that she’d wandered down to the cobblestone strip of bars and tourist traps. It was party central down here every night of the week and it was the last place she wanted to be. Marla stepped back, almost falling as she pushed the drunken man away in distaste. She wrinkled her nose at the vile stench of too much alcohol and too little personal hygiene.

He continued to pursue, backing her into the iron fencing that edged the Savannah River. Marla pushed; grinding the small of her back against the rails as she tried to muscle the drunk’s heavier bulk away from her. She was within moments of screaming when the man’s weight was magically whisked away.

"Partner, I don’t think the lady’s interested."

Marla looked up in awe. The deep voice belonged to a giant, or at the very least, the largest man she’d ever seen. That impression was compounded by the 10-gallon cowboy hat tucked low over his forehead. Then, the drunk said something rude and started to advance again. This time, the larger man stepped in front of her protectively.

Looking down at the persistent idiot in front of him, she heard the steely edge creep into his voice. He still seemed congenial but there was no doubt that his patience was wearing thin. "You heard what I said Pard. You don’t want me to have to go and get physical, now do ya?"

The thwarted man glared at them both for a moment, starting to say something but snapping his mouth shut instead. He turned on his heel, almost falling in the process before weaving his way back into the bar in search of more amenable prey.

"Ma’am, you okay ma’am?" He turned around, not touching her or coming any closer. Now, he bent his head low trying to peer into her face to make sure.

Her hands fell victim to the lingering effects of the sudden assault. With trembling fingers, she tried unsuccessfully to comb the unruly red hair back from her face as she answered. "Yes, I think so. He didn’t hurt me. Only scared me a little. But thank you." Marla glanced briefly up into the brown eyes above her, feeling the rising flush of embarrassment. Taking a deep breath, she tried to will the blush away but her voice was still a bit shaky. "I’m fine, really."

She edged to the side, hoping he wouldn’t think her rude. "Again, thank you. Now, I really must go." Then she jerked, startled by the suddenness of his move.

His hand was a blur but his touch was surprisingly light on her arm. "My name is Johann but everyone calls me Squash. I’m in the Army, stationed out at Hunter Field. Nice to meet you."

The polite thing to do would be to introduce herself but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember her name. Damn, she thought, get a grip. Instead she asked, "Squash?"

"Yeah, cause he’ll squash the sh…" A different voice was coming from her right and she glanced over quickly as the new man faltered a moment and then continued. "…he’ll squash the crap out of you if he’s behind you in the fast-rope." He shuffled uncertainly. "Sorry ma’am. Gotta watch my mouth. Just call me Flash. And sorry to interrupt but Squash, we’d better head back. Oh-dark thirty comes real early, you know."

Marla smiled, amused at his embarrassment. How was he to know that she’d heard far worse than that in her time? Flash was much shorter than the other man but he looked to be every bit as muscular. Both men could have been pin-ups for a physical fitness calendar. Salt and pepper, one black, one white. Paul would have a fit if he saw her talking to a black man. Then she thought, tough shit. He’s been history for over a year.

"Hello Flash." Her eyes drifted back to the larger man. She considered what would be best to call him. He didn’t look like a Squash. That settled it, but for some reason, all she could force was a whisper. "Hello Johann, nice to meet the two of you."

It sounded like she was talking to both of them but she realized that she’d almost gotten lost in the eyes of the man above her. Quickly, she pushed her mind back to reality. "Now, I really must go. If I don’t beat feet I’ll miss the last bus."

This time, Johann didn’t try to stop her but she heard his voice calling behind her. "Hey, what’s your name?" A motorcycle rumbled past and she didn’t know if he heard her or not. From the distance, she heard his echoing retort. "Hokay Luci," spoken in a ridiculous Cuban accent, "but you got some splainin to do."

I’ll say I do, she thought, but the goofy smile stuck as she climbed the ancient stone stairs up to the Bay Street level. "Nice man," she commented to herself. Now, I wonder what fast-rope is. And what time is oh-dark thirty? Then she thought no more about the rescuer she’d left on the street below.

The last bus was just belching its way to the stop and she ran to catch it.

#

Squash’s eyes followed her as she climbed the steep slope layered with old paving stones from another century. Her tennis shoes were scuffed but clean, her jeans slightly frayed at the hem but devoid of what he called ‘hippie holes’. Smiling slightly, he remembered how she looked up close.

She wore little makeup. Frankly, he thought, she doesn’t need to. It was doubtful that her coloring could be enhanced artificially. She had a short, almost pug nose with a generous spray of faint freckles in constant competition with the reddish fringe of her lashes. He was sure she was a natural redhead. He wondered if a temper went with that wild mop of unruly red curls. He decided that it didn’t have to, anyone with dimples like that had to have a sense of humor.

He felt a playful jab to his ribs. "Christ Squash, Luci is the best you could come up with?"

Grinning widely, he answered. "Hey Flash, it works for me."

His companion looked thoughtfully at the now empty alleyway leading up to the bus stop. "Yeah, but did it for her?"

Shrugging slightly, he said. "Who knows. As the Colonel says, gotta wait and see." Now he grabbed Flash by the shoulder in a half bear hug. "Come on boy… lets head for the ranch."

The younger man pummeled him playfully in the ribs. "Boy my ass, you big frikking ape, I’ll whup the hell out of you any day of the week and twice on Sundays."

Squash swatted him back answering, "Yeah? You and what Army?" They both headed to the parking lot where Flash’s car was parked. It was a Butterfinger yellow 1972 Dodge Challenger with a matte black spoiler. The speedometer pegged at 140 but Squash knew from personal experience that it would go much faster than that. The initial acceleration was phenomenal for a land vehicle and Flash took care of the car as if it were his child.

Flash, whose real name was Reginald Wyeth, bought the car two years ago as a wreck and spent every spare moment restoring it to factory condition. Squash still remembered how obsessed he’d been when he found the ad in the classified section of the newspaper. Somehow, Flash equated the restoration of the car with his own rebirth once he joined the Army and eventually, the PID Squads.

Private Wyeth was the youngest member of the PIDs. Born in 1972, he was still a juvenile when Colonel Bracken found him in one of Washington DC’s juvie jails. The Colonel was doing volunteer work there during his down time. Even Flash admitted that he’d been walking on the fringes of hard time since he was in grade school. Stealing cars, petty theft, gang fights, they were all on his list of probable offenses. Each time he was caught, he’d spend a little time in jail and be sent home with a slap on the wrist.

Sometimes, late at night, Squash and he would sit up, just talking. Flash’s face would soften ruefully when he’d relate those years. Squash remembered one night in particular. It was past two in the morning and they had the late duty. There wasn’t much going on so they drifted in and out of idle chitchat to pass the time.

Flash said jail was a cakewalk until he met the Colonel. He sat across the office, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, as if it hurt. Then he said, "You know Squash, I thought I was one baaaaaad dude up until then. By the time he finished with me, I wasn’t much more than overcooked spaghetti. Compared to me, even Beetle Bailey looked macho." He lapsed into the accent of the streets. "You know white boy, that man knows moves only the Devil could invent."

He continued, his voice still reflecting his ongoing awe of his mentor. "You know what else? That was the most humiliating moment of my life. He whipped me like a redheaded stepchild, right there in the exercise yard in front of all my homeboys. The man didn’t even break a sweat. I wanted to kill him."

Stopping for a moment, Flash smiled slightly at the old memory. "First, I wanted to kill him. Then I decided I wanted to beat him fair and square. I wanted to be bigger than him, faster than him, better than him." Flash looked down the hall toward the Colonel’s office, remembering.

"I started talking to him. Really talking, I mean. He told me that it was up to me to take that first step. To trust. Trust in myself and my real comrades, not my homies. He said I wouldn’t know reality until I took that leap. That old ‘leap of faith’ thing he’s always talking about."

Flash grinned, his voice amused yet awed as he recounted the story. "The sly old bastard knew just what he was doing too. He knew all the right buttons to push. I took that ‘leap of faith’ and here I am. Best thing that could have happened. Even my mama is proud of me now."

"So," Squash’s voice wheedled. "You ready to take on the Colonel?"

Flash sat up; his look of indignant surprise was hilarious. "Hell no. This nigger ain’t crazy, white boy. If I was to try and toss the Colonel, he’d knock me so far back in time that I’d be picking cotton and shouting ‘yahsa massa’ before I knew it." He shook his head in an exaggerated motion, his eyes wide for emphasis. "No way Jose. I’m just gonna leave that crazy man be. This black-assed home boy has developed a deep and abiding desire to continue breathing."

Squash grinned to himself as he slid in the passenger’s seat. That’s one thing I really like about the PIDs. Race is only a designation on the service record. Supposed color barriers disintegrated when you signed on. The PIDs were consummate professionals who recognized that division within their ranks brought paralysis. Any kind of paralysis in a military situation would invariably bring death.

Glancing over at the man now buckling himself into the driver’s seat, Squash had a random thought. He had never before put the concept into words but to him it made perfect sense. Racial division was one of the most insidious and destructive forces that plagued mankind. In the PIDs, the one thing they all knew and accepted was that death was colorblind. It’s always there, he thought, sometimes only a heartbeat away, waiting for every one of them. It was a shame that not everyone could understand that. The world, he believed, would be a much better place if they did.

Squash remembered an incident a few months ago. He and some of his buddies had gone up to Bragg to teach a complimentary training course. On their way back they stopped at a small roadside truck stop for dinner. The tables were small so they split up, taking four of the available areas in the busy diner. Three of the tables were waited on quickly and efficiently while Private Wyeth’s and Sergeant Tyang’s table remained untouched.

When Johann politely asked why they were being ignored he was told that they would never serve the dirty races in that diner. He still remembered the shock. He and his buddies sat, staring at each other open mouthed, unable to believe what they had just heard. They stood as one, announcing that to their way of thinking, the only dirt they saw was the filth on the necks and minds of the restaurant patrons and staff.

They marched out, leaving the stunned waitresses, still holding their completed orders. The business owner tracked them down and tried to bring theft charges but the Colonel took care of it. He still remembered that one too.

Colonel Bracken left his office door open and they all lurked outside, waiting. The Colonel listened to the man’s claim quietly, then they heard the wheels of his desk chair roll slowly back. They all held their breath. Colonel Bracken was not known for his temper but when he was riled, they all stayed out of his way. The man was lightening fast and built like an ox. As big as I am, thought Squash, I wouldn’t ever want to go toe to toe with him.

There was a small scuffle and then the Colonel burst out of his office, dancing the restaurant owner backwards on tiptoe. He maintained a firm grip, holding him just under the jawbone and danced him all the way through the outside doors. Without ceremony, he tossed the sputtering man off the curb and into the gutter. Colonel Bracken never said a word. He only brushed the imagined filth from his hands and walked back into his office, smiling all the way.

Johann grinned, suddenly buoyant. He popped Flash on the shoulder and declared. "You know what Reggie. I really, really like you."

Flash scowled at him a minute, his eyes twinkling in the glow of the dashboard lights. "Sure you do Squash. I told you that you shouldn’t have that second shooter. You’re just feeling all warm and fuzzy for that redhead, is all. Fasten your seat belt. You’ll be over it by morning."

#

Callie looked quickly at her watch as she rang the doorbell. She was early but she didn’t think Julie would mind. Julie’s oldest child, Kendra opened the door, smiling brightly at their visitor. "Morning Kendra. Is your mom about ready?"

Kendra’s face crinkled mischievously. "Callie? How long have you known mom now?" she said, her voice tinkling with delight. "Dad says she was even late for their own wedding too."

Callie heard Julie’s voice coming from the back of the house. "Hey, it wasn’t my fault that the zipper broke," she countered. "Come on in Callie. I’m just putting in my eyes. Makeup’s next so I shouldn’t be but a few more minutes. There’s decaf on the stove. Go ahead and help yourself."

Kendra and the two boys were just finishing their breakfasts. Callie knew the school bus was due soon. She followed her friend’s instructions, helping herself to a cup of coffee before sitting down to wait. Carefully, she set her cup on the table, taking care not to move her friend’s glasses.

It was one of Julie’s quirks. Her glasses had to be in the same place every time she took them off. She claimed that she would never find them otherwise. Callie smiled to herself, thinking of the little peculiarities that made each person an individual unlike anyone else. Julie was severely nearsighted but she despised having anyone outside of the family see her with glasses on.

She had been devastated when she learned she was not a candidate for the newest extended wear contact lenses. Julie groused that she was a slave to the daily cleaning ritual. It was one of her biggest gripes. Callie always listened patiently, resisting the urge to remind Julie that all she had to do was wear her glasses instead. Then, there’d be no more ritual.

However, Callie knew that suggestion would be met with a howl of protest. Her refusal to wear glasses in public was the only touch of vanity in Julie Daniels’ makeup. In all other things, Julie was phenomenally sensible and down to earth.

As usual, the Morning Air news program was on. It wasn’t one of Callie’s preferences but she wouldn’t presume to change the channel. Absently, Callie half-listened to the television, picking up the newspaper to browse instead. Paula Skyler, one of the co-anchors of The Morning Air was cheerfully addressing the early birds of the world. The woman had been the darling of the media ever since she burst into the spotlight several years ago. Her face graced the magazine covers regularly. She was also Julie’s idol.

Callie recalled the last conversation she and Julie had regarding Paula Skyler. The latest ‘People’ magazine gossip columns were linking her to some married Senator named Tidwell. Julie had been indignant, showing Callie the article and a picture of them together. It was supposedly taken at a small restaurant in Chicago a couple of months ago.

Personally, thought Callie, I still don’t see the attraction. Perhaps, she decided, it could be the ‘power factor’. Benjamin Tidwell was a prominent force in the political scene. His name was being bandied about as a presidential contender for one of the smaller but rising political parties in the year 2000.

Callie visibly shuddered at the idea of Tidwell for President. "Perish the thought," she muttered out loud. Tidwell had modified his stance in recent years but she would never forget his stance on Civil Rights back in the late sixties. She was still a kid but her parents always made sure that their daughter was kept abreast of current events. It was a teaching that stuck to this day.

Shoving the image of a President Tidwell into the background of her mind, she concentrated on other things that might bring those two opposites together. Besides, she decided, he was married. Julie insisted that they must be just friends. There was no way that her idol could be attracted to someone like that. Callie couldn’t help but agree. Senator Tidwell looked like a jowled frog next to the aristocratic elegance of Paula Skyler.

Julie had been a devoted follower since the Skyler woman broke into broadcasting fifteen years ago. She claimed that watching the other woman’s growth was fascinating. Julie had gone to college with the best of intentions but never secured her degree in journalism, dropping out in the third year to marry Jimmy. Sometimes, she said longingly, that she wondered where she’d be today if she hadn’t gotten pregnant that summer.

Callie tried to convince her that there was no way of telling. An actual degree was no measure of talent. Julie toyed with the idea of going back to school but Callie doubted that she was really serious. Julie’s humor was caustically self-deprecating at times. She couldn’t seem to see her own potential. Callie wished that she had some magic potion to give her for confidence. Perhaps, she thought, those feelings of inadequacy contributed to her friend’s on-going hero worship.

According to Julie, Paula Skyler was everything she wasn’t. Julie was barely five feet tall with curly dishwater blonde hair that bordered on frizzy. Paula was five-ten or better with a sleek chestnut colored pageboy that whispered sensuality. It was a startling contrast to the parchment purity of a flawless complexion but the contrast worked.

She turned away from the television, letting the voices become one with the background. Callie had just settled into an article detailing some of Atlanta’s plans for the Olympics next year when a startled gasp caught her attention and she looked up.

Julie was in the doorway, staring at the television in disbelief. Callie turned and looked for what had shaken Julie so dramatically. It was the local newscaster talking about an apparent robbery and murder on Savannah’s southside. It was at the home of a popular caseworker with Child Protection Services. The woman’s co-workers went to check when she didn’t report for work or answer the telephone. They found the body of Angeline Christy late yesterday afternoon.

The newscaster went on to say that Ms. Christy had been stabbed to death. Police located her abandoned car in an alley near the city’s waterfront area. They were asking for information from anyone who may have been in the area between 2am and 5am yesterday morning.

"Oh my God Cal," Julie gasped. "That’s impossible. I know that woman. Or rather, I met her. The first time was almost a year and a half ago." Julie stopped, knitting her brows together in worry. "I never told you about it, but I got involved in a rather awkward child custody case. It was a little girl by the name of Laurel. Anyway, Ms. Christy is the social worker who was handling Laurel’s placement. I spoke to her a second time not more than a month ago. Ms. Christy called to verify some of what I’d written in the ‘Whale’ story."

Callie looked at her curiously. She’d read a lot of Julie’s essays and stories but she didn’t remember that one. "What Whale story?"

"Want me to get it Mom?" asked Kendra, now coming in to watch the news as well. Callie saw Julie nod silently, her attention still riveted to the television set and the news.

"I wrote it about a year and a half ago," said Julie quietly. "I had to find a way to fortify my resolve in doing what I had to do. Oh Callie, the whole situation was just so tragic. You’ll see what I mean once you read it." Julie shook her head sadly. "Ms. Christy asked for a copy for her files."

Kendra was back, flipping through a 3-ring binder, apparently looking for this story they were talking about. She handed the binder to Callie. "Here it is. Mom keeps all her really good stuff in this one. The ‘Whale’ story is the best."

Callie could feel the girl’s pride in her mother’s abilities. She hoped that some day, her child would feel the same way about his own mother. Taking the book, she settled back, propping it on her belly as she read.

She gave me her Whale

by Julie Daniels

It’s hard to imagine how one small thing can impact you so greatly. I have been impacted now, and smacked in the face with the realities of today. No longer can I sit silent and unspeaking. Not now, now that she gave me her whale.

Laurel was born the middle of October 1992. The blessed event had been heralded and watched by the entire apartment complex with great expectations. Something the reader has to understand, this is an upscale neighborhood. Not rich, but comfortable. Nothing drastic around here, a couple of drinks, that’s about it. Heroin, cocaine, crack… those are expected facets of the slums to the west. The only grass that grew around here was in the manicured grounds surrounding the apartments.

The father of the anticipated child had been a source of constant irritation. His hookup with the mother provided even more. There were parties… constant, never ending parties. Traffic in and out of our quiet little place in the world was, at the very least, troublesome.

I was in the apartment across the hall. I did my best to overlook the common foibles of youth, even though they were both in their mid to late 20s. It didn’t matter, there was a baby coming.

The man’s political tenets also gave me reason to pause. He seldom said anything to me directly, but my children often mentioned his sneers and slurs at their friends. They seemed to get worse with every passing day. I wondered what he did for a living but never asked. My friendship was with the expectant mother, not him. He was in and out often, sometimes gone for days at a time but they never seemed to lack for money.

I got a call from the mother. A baby girl had been born, healthy, squalling, and perfect in every way. They were both doing fine. A week later, I get a surprise call from the daddy, that the mother has spinal meningitis and is in the hospital again. What else could I do? I cared for a newborn, unprepared, and unprovided with the necessities, such as diapers or formula. The baby was just dropped. It was my problem. I handled it.

Not even two weeks later, I received another call. The mother had been home for a little over a week by then. She asked if I would tend to the baby while she went to the store for something. I readily agreed. I hadn’t had a baby in my house for years. I was looking forward to the spoiling, even of a relative newborn.

Needless to say, she didn’t come back. A day passed, then two, then almost three. On the morning of November 12^th, I finally got through to the father on his cell phone. He said he was somewhere in Florida, over 6 hours away. He complained bitterly but I told him that I wouldn’t do this anymore. The care of the baby was his responsibility, not mine.

I saw him drive up on his motorcycle but before he could get the kickstand down, my front door slammed open. It was Laurel’s mother knocking over everything in her path. She must have been on her way back when he drove up. All I know is, something made her panic. She was screaming, accusing me of everything short of murder.

I could smell the alcohol and something else I couldn’t identify. Then she took a swing. I am not a big person, but I had the baby cradled in one arm and I caught her fist with the other. I backed her down, twisting and making her sit. She did, bleary eyed but finally listening. I told her she could have her baby back when she got her shit together.

Little did I know that it might take years?

I kept the baby one more night until the mother could sober up. The father never did come in to check on either of them. Instead, he roared off on that motorcycle to parts unknown.

I stayed up most of the night, wrestling with my decision. Gut instinct was in direct opposition but I decided that I was not going to let myself be pulled in. I knew what a sucker I was. Helpless animals, lost causes, and babies. I’d go to death’s door for them all. I wasn’t going to do it again. I’d been suckered enough.

So I’ve stood back and I’ve watched, determined that I wouldn’t get involved. I wouldn’t interfere. What the mommy and daddy did was their own affair. For me, the baby was a non-entity. She was cute, but that was it. I was determined not to care.

The father seemed to care only about himself. He bought flashy cars, spent money with wild abandon. Little of it went to the mother of his child or the baby. It went to barmaids and topless dancers, restaurants and nightclubs. Anywhere he could be seen as the big spender. All the while purporting to be caring for the ‘Apple of his eye’.

After that first incident, the mother cared for Laurel devotedly. However, as the months passed, I began to notice that her eyes were constantly glassy, her speech slurred. I passed that off to fatigue. I knew how little sleep a parent really got, especially with a toddler. I also passed her initial disappearance off to an attack of post-partum depression.

I still kept a neighborly distance. As a matter of fact, I’d distanced myself from them entirely. Or so I thought.

On June 21^st, the father drove up in the most unusual motor home I had ever seen. The very rear of the vehicle looked like it had been altered in some way. There was an air brushed mural where a window would have normally been. At first glance it looked to be a patriotic rendering of some sort. From the window of my apartment, I curiously analyzed the painting. Then I realized it was a bizarre racial statement instead.

I remember thinking how happy I would be to get out of there once and for all. We were moving in less than a month yet it didn’t feel soon enough. I ignored the sounds of another squabble breaking out in the apartment across the hall. I’d managed to stay out of that situation for the last eighteen months. I was determined that I wouldn’t let myself get involved now.

The next day, I got a panicked call from the mother. She was sick. Desperately ill from the sound of it. Once again, the father and that obscene motor home were gone. She was all alone. I grabbed my trusty thermometer and rushed over. She was sick, very sick. Her fever was over 102. She had rebound syndrome in the mid and lower abdomen. I was sure it was appendicitis.

She started talking, almost delirious. Her boyfriend was gone to Albany on business but she wouldn’t call him. She said he’d just laugh. She told me that she went through heroin withdrawal at 18 and it felt the same as now. I started rethinking my ‘layman’ opinion. I’d heard rumors, so I asked. "So what have you been doing lately?"

She didn’t answer. I’ve found out since that she’s a crack addict.

Anyway, she supposedly went to the hospital and once again I volunteered to keep the baby, Laurel. This is really her story in a way. Or my story of her.

One of Laurel’s favorite toys seemed to be a small blue plastic whale, just a bath toy. From the moment her mother left for the hospital, Laurel wouldn’t put it down. Perhaps it was because it was the last thing her mother handed her before going out the door. I don’t know.

What I do know is that for the next 7 hours, this toddler kept it in her hand. If she happened to lay it down and forget it, she was panic stricken until we found it and it was once again safely in her grasp.

We had dinner; she ate well, not a bit upset as long as the whale was there. We talked baby talk. She pointed out the eyes, the tail, the fins, and the color. Her talk would be nonsense to most, but I knew what she meant.

Then we had her bath. Finally dressed in her PJs, we went in for the night. I rubbed her temple gently while she drank her bottle. When I spoke, I kept my voice as soothing as I could. I knew that even at that young age, she was tense and upset. She wouldn’t let me leave. All this time, Laurel was still clutching her whale.

After almost two hours, I felt her finally give in. By that time, I was laying next to her on the bed, more than tired myself.

I felt a small hand creep across my neck, a cold rubber object in hand. I reached up, grasping it gently. I heard a tiny little voice, rich with the slur of sleep but also one of trust. "S’ok," she said. Laurel let go of the toy.

Laurel gave me her whale. To keep safe and secure until tomorrow.

That night, Laurel gave me more than her whale… she gave me more than her trust… she gave me the belief in knowing I can make a difference.

If only in one small life.

Callie’s breath whooshed out in a rush, chilled by the emotional impact of the essay. "My God Julie. What happened then?" she breathed.

Julie sighed heavily, her face sadder than Callie had ever seen. "Oh damn Callie, it’s all so horrible. The mother never went to the hospital. She got caught in a crack house that night. The girl didn’t intend on coming back. She was going to kill herself instead. I knew once I looked in the diaper bag. I did the only thing I could at that point. Anyway, the state stepped in and took the baby." Julie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, trying to keep the memories at bay. "I never saw any of them again. We moved shortly after that and in all honesty, I’ve tried not to think of the whole situation. It’s just too difficult."

Sadly, Julie went on. "I just can’t believe that Ms. Christy was murdered. What will happen to Laurel now? What about all the other children? Will the next caseworker be as genuinely caring?" Julie gazed at the television once again. "Callie, I don’t think there are many like Angeline Christy. Too heavy a workload and too many needy children cause professional burnout in most. I know I’m right about this. She truly cared."

"You know," Julie continued, "I remember something she said. It’s all too true. Ms. Christy said that the parents she worked with were usually the ‘lost children’ of yesterday, all grown up. She said it was her job to stop the cycle. To me, it makes sense. There are always exceptions, but it seems that the majority of children that get caught up in the bureaucratic wheels of Social Services have parents who were in those same wheels years ago. Or should have been. Laurel’s mother was like that. I pity her too, she never had a chance."

Julie’s daughter had been silent up until then. Callie heard a sniffle and glanced toward the teenager. Kendra was so much like her mother. She seemed to feel everything on a deeper level. Callie could see the tears glistening in her eyes. The girl’s voice was serious, more serious than Callie had ever heard.

"Mom, you should publish this essay. For her and for Laurel. Ms. Christy deserves that much respect, as does Laurel. I wasn’t that young Mom, I remember."

The girl swallowed hard, seeming to plead with her eyes as she continued. "Mom, I know that whole situation almost killed you inside. But it’s like you said in the Whale story. You can make a difference. And Mom…you do. You do make a difference, to everyone you touch. Me… the boys… even a stranger. You do! And you can make even more of a difference. This story is good enough to grab the hardest heart."

"Oh Kendra," Julie moaned.

"But Mom," Kendra interrupted. "I love your stories, you know that. But no one can read them when they’re sitting in on the bookcase in your office gathering dust. You’re a good writer Mom. No, you’re a great writer. When are you going to think of yourself for a change? Your life revolves around Dad and us kids. It isn’t unreasonable to expect us to support you in something once in a damn while."

Callie could see that Julie’s temper was flaring. High spots of color showed on her cheeks. "Dammit Kendra, don’t you use that tone of voice or that language with me. You know very well, it isn’t that at all. Your dad will be retiring in a few years and then, there’ll be plenty of time. You kids will be more independent by then and it’ll give me a chance to find a decent agent and get the existing manuscripts shopped out. I’ll be able to concentrate better then."

"Concentrate, shmoncentrate." Kendra retorted, flouncing from the room.

Julie sighed, rolling her eyes as she muttered, "See what you have to look forward to?"

However, Callie thought, she’s right. Julie can make a difference. They all can. "Maybe so Julie, but I, for one, agree with Kendra. May I have a copy of this? I have a couple of contacts. I’d like them to read it. With your permission, of course."

"Sure," Julie replied, still hesitant. "You might have to re-type it though. My printer is about ready to have a nervous breakdown. Doesn’t print worth a flip anymore. I don’t see what good it will do but I’ll set it up to print while I finish getting ready." Julie left the room and Callie went back to the ‘Whale’ essay for a moment, pondering the possibilities.

Paula Skyler was still chirping out the latest news but Callie’s attention was no longer on the Morning Air news program or the newspaper article on the Atlanta Olympics. She was thinking of the personal hardships that military dependents face. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, wondering how I will deal with them.

Callie’s husband to be, Colonel Robert Bracken, was the commanding officer of the Primary Incursion and Demolition team training center. Julie’s husband, Chief Warrant Officer James Daniels was his Operations Officer. Callie knew that he hadn’t been home much since they started developing the new program. Ever since the PID squads had taken down the Afghani terrorists back in July, the PID program had accelerated at break neck speed. Callie had seen dozens of new bumper stickers touting ‘Honk if you love CLAP! Close, Lethal and Proud’.

CLAP One was the nickname given to the program. Originally meant to be a derogatory designation, the PID teams took to it right away. PID was also a medical term for Pelvic Inflammatory Disease which was a significant symptom of gonorrhea. Bob always said that it was inevitable. The reference to ‘the clap’, a tacky common name for a sexually transmitted disease was just too good to pass up.

There were over 100 PID hopefuls in training right now. Of those, maybe 10% might make the grade. That’s where Julie’s husband was now, running the final training maneuvers. He was scheduled to return on Friday. ‘Doomsday Deliverance’ was going to start next Monday.

Doomsday Deliverance was the popular term for the grueling week of physical and mental tortures that every potential candidate endured. Some would make it, but the vast majority would fall out of the program after the first few days. The SEALS had their ‘Hell Week’. Clap One had their ‘Doomsday Deliverance’ and even former SEALS would sometimes fail these final tests.

There was a month long stand-down scheduled after DD week was over. They were long overdue as it was. Fortunately, the ‘stand-down’ made the timing of their wedding feasible. They were getting married on November 4^th. The clock was ticking and there was so much to do between now and then.

Julie came back into the room and handed her a couple of pages. Tucking them into her purse she noticed that Julie had hers slung over her shoulder as if ready to leave, but her face was still glum. Callie decided to try to lighten the mood and hoped the day wouldn’t be darkened by Julie’s sad memories. They were going shopping this morning to try to find Julie an appropriate dress for the wedding. Callie hoped this wouldn’t be an all day ordeal. She wanted to finish the temporary nursery before Bob got home tonight. "Okay Jules… are you ready to go or not?"

Julie looked up in mock surprise. "You mean you aren’t going to stall on this too?" Her friend tilted her head to the side, eyeing her critically. "I swear Callie, you’ve grown since I saw you a couple of days ago. You sure you’re going to have time to get married before the baby comes?"

Callie smiled. "Now Julie, you’ve had kids. You know that you bloom the last couple of months." She looked down at her expanding girth thoughtfully. "But, I never dreamed I’d bloom this much."

She wished her mother were still alive. Callie had no idea how things ran in her family. However, her obstetrician said that the physical effects of pregnancy were as varied as the women experiencing them were. Julie was right though. At this rate, she’d outgrow the billowy maternity dress she had ordered.

"Bloom?" Julie said incredulously. "If you keep ‘blooming’ as you say, the kid’s gonna be as big as his father by the time he’s born. I’m sorry honey, but you’re huge. What does the doctor say?" Coming from anyone else, Callie would have been insulted.

Instead, she just rolled her eyes. "Yes Julie, I know. Doctor says I’m probably carrying a lot of water. That’s why they keep doing the ultra-sounds. He says there’s a shadow that shouldn’t be there but all the tests are normal. Junior here, is healthy and growing like a weed."

"Well, at least you’re lucky Cal," Julie said appreciatively. "You haven’t gained an ounce anywhere but your belly. I’ve got a heck of an idea Callie. Postpone the wedding till Christmas. If you just wait another couple of months, you’ll be back in that size 8 you’re always moaning about."

Callie’s face reddened a bit but she gave the other woman a teasing sneer. "Very funny, Miss Smarty, the baby isn’t due for at least 6 weeks and it really would be better to be married first, know what I mean? Figure I better get it over with before Bob changes his mind."

Julie actually sputtered on her quick sip of tepid coffee. "Who? Bob? Are you crazy Callie? I’ve known Bob Bracken for years and I always said that one of these days, he was going to find a woman he couldn’t walk away from. I know Bob well enough to know that he’d have married you months ago if you hadn’t been such a stubborn holdout." Julie took another sip of coffee, scrutinizing Callie over the rim. "What’s up with that anyway? Why wouldn’t you marry him? Don’t you love him?" she asked.

"Oh cripes Julie," she sighed. "That’s one of those things that is so hard to explain. I love Bob, adore him. I darn near worship the ground he walks on. But I had to be certain in my own mind where his head was at. Understand?" Julie said nothing. She only looked across her cup skeptically serious.

Callie continued, intent on finding some way to make her point. "Julie, it isn’t like back when you and Jimmy got married. Back then, people felt they ‘had to’ get married. Personally, I think it’d be one hell of a note for Bob and me to ‘have to’ get married at our ages. I’m perfectly capable of doing this by myself." Callie heard the snicker and glanced over sharply. "Okay, okay. So I couldn’t quite do this by myself," she retorted, resting a hand on her pregnant roundness, "but you know what I mean. Did you know that he’d been married before?"

"Yes," Julie admitted, "but that was before my time. I never knew her."

"Well anyway, I gather that it ended badly. Bob was pretty bitter about it. I don’t want that happening to us. I had to be certain that Bob wanted ‘me’ for keeps. For me, not just because of the baby." Callie stopped, trying to gather her thoughts as she fingered the delicate filigree of the new necklace. "What Bob and I have is special. I want to keep it special and if means going against so-called social traditions, then so be it. This is our life, no one else’s. We just had to work a few things out first."

"New necklace?" Julie asked coyly, her smile teasing. "Callie, I think I understand. Maybe better than you think I do." Now she stood, tapping her foot in mock impatience. "Okay, who’s driving? You or me."

Callie looked up, deliberately arching her eyebrows in mock indignation. "You, of course. I can find my way to your house. That’s the extent of my road knowledge anymore. All the road construction is making me crazy. I’m lost in Savannah and you know it. The darn street detours confound me." It was too much of the truth to argue with and she hated being reminded of it. "Besides, you know that even with a compass, I couldn’t find my way out of a round room."

"I know Cal, just messing with you," Julie gloated cheerfully as she pulled her car keys from her purse. "So, are you quite ready to go now? We haven’t got all day, you know." She turned, eyeing Callie’s expanding girth mischievously. "I just hope they don’t have to add another panel in the front of your dress. That could take all day and you have the nursery to finish, remember?"

#

Colonel Bracken swung out of his office, briefcase in one hand and his travel mug in the other. He hoped there was a fresh pot of coffee brewing. Heading for the break room, he was surprised that the day had passed so quickly. He’d been on the go all day. Of course, most of the other officers were overseeing the off-site maneuvers with the latest batch of trainees so his workload was tripled. Being busy always made time fly.

Rinsing his go mug thoroughly, he reflected on the qualifications of these latest recruits. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly in rueful memory of how he used to have to practically beg for men to apply. Primary Incursion and Demolition Squads were an unknown entity back then. Now, after their stunning success in the Afghani terrorist take down at sea this summer, men from all branches of the service were clamoring to qualify.

The core members had always worn the understated PID Patch with pride but now, more so than ever. Some were making noises that the CLAP 1 designation ought to be included as well. He didn’t think the top brass would go for that one though. It was best to leave it as a casual nickname. Public image and all that malarkey was a fine line, difficult to walk at times.

Bob knew better, but he could also understand how some of the enlisted men would see the upper echelon officers as humorless lumps. He used to think so too. Sometimes, he still did. In his 24 years in the Army, he’d seen both sides of the fence, the enlisted side as well as the officer side. Robert Bracken was a true mustang, coming up through the ranks the hard way.

He knew that he was up for a promotion and he didn’t know how he really felt about that. General Moran claimed that after the Afghani thing, it was almost a done deal. Bob hated to think of it because he knew that refusing the promotion would be the death knell on his career. However, he still firmly believed that he could accomplish more as a Colonel than he ever would as a Brigadier General.

Covert operations were what he was best at and undercover missions required a form of anonymity, the ability to blend in. There was too much pomp and circumstance attached to those General stars. He’d take his eagles any day. He could go anywhere with them. Military protocol was always a priority but it was a bit more relaxed in the PIDs. This was where he fit, fit as a Colonel, not as a General.

Pouring himself a steaming mug of fresh coffee, he overheard a couple of the guys squabbling over something. It was Squash and Flash. They were already dressed in their civies and looked like they were planning this evening’s entertainment. Both were sitting at the round table, hunched over a map. Curious, he moved closer, peering over their shoulders unnoticed. "Damn Flash, taking the bus? What’s wrong with your Dodge?"

The young private looked up, his generous face stretching into a wide grin. "Not a thing, Colonel." Jovially, he elbowed Squash. "But ole Squash here, seems to have a problem."

"Problem? What kind of problem?" Then, he noticed that Sergeant Bjork was shifting nervously in his chair, the tops of his ears flushing bright red.

"Not a problem sir." The big Swede spoke quietly, the red flush now creeping down to his neck. "I met a girl."

Flash jabbed the larger man again, delighting in his friend’s embarrassment. "Yes, a real honest to God primo redhead. A real carrot-top." Private Wyeth’s voice rose as he stepped the teasing up a notch. "Now all Squash has to do is find out if it’s for real or if it’s Memorex." He seemed to know what was coming and spun out of the chair before Squash could grab him. "Oops. Sorry Squash, wrong commercial."

Bob didn’t think he’d ever seen Squash so patently smitten. Of all the men, he probably had the least active social life of any of them. Sergeant Johann Bjork was an eight-year veteran of the Green Berets. He’d been one of the first to sign up for PIDs four years ago. The man was exceptionally cross-trained as both their primary door breacher and the team medic.

At first glance, the medic designation would seem incongruous but Bob had never seen a more gentle touch, even on a man half his size. Bjork said that his family had a large cattle spread up in Northern Minnesota, right on the North Dakota line. That explained his penchant for the boots and the cowboy hat. For him, it fit. It was how he’d been raised.

Bob remembered when Major Morley, his Executive Officer had first signed on. He’d commented that Sergeant Bjork seemed to have a moral problem. His impression was formed when he saw the sergeant for the first time. Squash was sitting in the barracks reading the latest medic alerts. As usual, when deprived of the wide expanse of the great outdoors, he unconsciously held his head tucked forward. For the uninitiated, the impression would be of a man with very low self-esteem.

Then he stood, coming to full attention and stepping back from the whirling blades of the overhead-ceiling fan. Bob thought Major Morley’s eyes would pop from their sockets. "Jesus Christ," he’d breathed, "that’s the biggest damn man I’ve ever seen in my life. I hope to hell he’s on our side."

If asked, Squash would quietly state that he was 6’8" but in reality, he barely managed to squeak in under the physical requirements for enlistment. Bob couldn’t be sure but his eye told him that the sergeant was far closer to 6’9" than 6’8". Once you added the boots and the cowboy hat, he looked like a monolith.

Squash may have looked like Goliath but a gentler giant couldn’t have been found anywhere. Normal Army policy would never have placed him in a full-combatant company but the ingenious young man surprised all of the so-called experts. He adapted and modified the necessary equipment and armament to accommodate his physical requirements. It wasn’t regulation but for the PIDs, it worked beautifully.

Sergeant Bjork was an amazingly efficient soldier, incredibly lithe and graceful despite his size. Yet, give him a wounded man to tend and he’d magically turn into the essence of Florence Nightingale. His touch was soft and sure. He was a natural born healer and often spoke wistfully of going to medical school when he retired from the Army.

Bob sincerely hoped he would. He wished the very best for all of his men and held a genuine interest in what was going on in their lives. Squash having a girl was a twist, not unexpected, just unusual. "A redhead, huh? Where’d you meet her?"

"Down on River Street." Squash’s answer was almost a whisper. "She kinda needed some help."

"I see," said Bob, reserving his judgment for right now. River Street could mean anything from a tourist to a whore. "What’s she do?"

"Dunno." Now, the man’s fingers were clenched and the red blush was back.

"Okay," he replied. Damn, thought Bob, getting anything out of him is going to be like pulling hens teeth. "So, where’s she live?"

"Don’t know that either."

Now Bob leaned down, looking directly at the fidgeting man. "Damn son, did you even talk to her? What’s her name." Sergeant Bjork just stared silently at his fingernails. "Okay, let me see if I’ve got this right."

If Squash didn’t look so damn miserable, he thought, this would be downright hilarious. "You’re going to find this one particular redhead, in a town the size of Savannah. Yet, you don’t know what she does for a living, where she lives, or even what her name is. Have I got all the facts straight?" Colonel Bracken pretended to ponder the notion, rocking back and forth on his feet as he sipped the last of his coffee. "Not a problem. Piece of cake. You’ll find her."

"Yes ," Squash replied with conviction. "If she’s findable, I will."

Colonel Bracken just smiled, shaking his head as he refilled his cup for the drive home. He took his leave, reminding them out of habit, to check the watch before they went out on this evening’s quest. The reminder was pointless but old habits died hard.

Traffic was heavy and it was almost an hour before he pulled into the crushed gravel and shell drive of the place he now thought of as home. He’d only been gone one night, but it always felt like forever. Checking to the right, he saw that Elmo, Callie’s pet emu seemed to be behaving himself. Through the heavy fencing, Bob could see the large bird settling into his nesting area for the evening.

It had taken a while, but Bob and Elmo finally came to some sort of truce after their initial introduction. He would have preferred a dog but Callie was insistent, that Elmo was as much a part of Cypress Cove as they were. Bob smiled contentedly, watching as the giant bird lowered his head and hissed at him as he passed the pen. Its pea-sized brain couldn’t differentiate between a crouched man and another emu.

In a way, thought Bob, Elmo’s lucky. His natural instincts tell him to trust no one until he is sure. People however, don’t always have that built in defense mechanism. They trust too easily and too often, foolishly.

Turning his pessimistic thoughts away, he looked at the steady rise of the land and the sweeping vista that was Cypress Cove, and knew how incredibly lucky he really was. Callie had found this place on a fluke. She hadn’t even been house hunting but just drove up on it one day and knew it was for them. At first, he’d has his doubts but room by room, Callie was working her magic on the interior. He paused for a moment, letting his eyes sweep over the stately lines of the once elegant manor.

The old girl was undergoing some major renovations along the back. Fortunately, most of it would be out of immediate sight for their upcoming wedding reception. He hoped that the daytime temperatures stayed agreeably warm so the guests would be able to move freely along the wide verandahs that flanked the front and sides of the house. The craftsmen they’d hired had done a wonderful job. The front of the tabby shell structure no longer bore the deep gouges from the gunfire during that vicious terrorist attack back in June.

He stopped, turning to the side as he looked over the ridge to the still, green canopy below. He’d almost lost Callie back then. First to the actual attack and then to the deep swamps that stretched for miles along the Ogeechee River. Only a miracle kept her alive. Shaking himself from the horror of the past he reminded himself that he now had a future. A future with Callie. She was his future and his miracle; and the baby she was carrying was their miracle. As she said, together, they made magic.

Swigging the last of his coffee, Squash’s problem passed through his mind one more time. I sure hope she’s not married, he thought. He grinned, subtly amused at himself. Christ, he thought, I’m already thinking like he has found her. Hope to hell she’s worth it.

Then he thought no more about it. He knew that the lady waiting for him right now, was worth everything and more. Whistling cheerfully, he bounded up the steps and swung through the beveled glass doors. The house was silent but he could smell the first aromas of dinner. He knew she was here. He’d seen her blue convertible in the back drive by the service entrance.

Tossing his hat onto the peg of the highboy in the foyer, he continued on to his office. He peeked into Callie’s studio as he passed, almost surprised to not see her. Like as not, she could usually be found in there, doodling diligently for her syndicated comic strip. She usually kept a month or more ahead of the deadlines but with the baby coming, she wanted to have at least 3 months worth of strips stockpiled. Checking his messages and incoming faxes, he saw that nothing required immediate attention and went in search of his bride.

"Yoo-hoo, anybody home?" he called. There was no answer but the aromas emanating from the kitchen drew him like a magnet. She was baking something and his stomach growled as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks instead of hours. I’ll just take a quick look, he thought.

"Oh no you don’t, big guy. Not if you want fresh bread for dinner." She came up behind him, snaking her arms around the best she could for a hug. "Sorry darlin’, I was in the back. I didn’t hear you come in. Good to have you home."

He turned, hugging her gently while he kissed the top of her blonde head. "Good to be home, baby. What’s for dinner?"

Callie looked up at him smiling but she didn’t chide him about his single-minded quest for food. "Just plain old pot-roast but I’ve got sourdough bread baking. I just put it in so dinner will be in about an hour. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home."

Bob bent down, looking at her. Reaching up, he wiped a smudge from her cheek and looked at his thumb curiously. "What the hell you been doing baby? Painting?"

Now, Callie became animated, talking in a rush as she pulled him along to follow her. "No, no, no, no, no. More than painting. Just wait till you see!" Callie didn’t move like she was eight months pregnant. Unlike most women he’d seen, she hadn’t developed the puffy uncomfortable look. From the back, she looked as slim and trim as ever. The majority of her developing bulk was confined straight forward; her breasts perched imperceptibly above his growing son below. Bob was every bit the proud papa. He carried the series of ultra-sound pictures in his wallet and would often pull them out for a peek when he was alone.

He was still concerned about the fuzzy shadows on the pictures but the doctors assured him that it was probably just an abundance of amniotic fluid that was interfering. Dr. Haverty said they were keeping a close eye on the baby’s development and that all was going well. However, with the problems Callie had in early pregnancy, the doctor thought it was best that she have bi-weekly ultra-sounds, just to be certain. His wallet held the photographic saga of his son’s steady development.

They were both taking the Lamaze classes. Callie wanted a natural childbirth and wanted him to be with her in the delivery room. He was still a little bit squeamish about that. He remembered one of the movies in the class. The woman was spread wide in the stirrups, each step recorded in excruciating detail. Thankfully, they had dimmed the lights and Callie didn’t see him blanche when the attending physician performed an episiotomy.

He’d felt the cold flush of insane fear and had to swallow hard to keep his stomach in its place. Then, the actual birthing began and he was enraptured. Bob was nothing short of awed at that ongoing miracle of nature. Now, he wanted nothing more than to be there, comforting her through every step of the process, finally holding their son in his arms.

Callie led him back through their bedroom and into the adjoining room that would someday be a private den. For now, it would serve as a temporary nursery, holding a fragile looking wicker bassinet until the baby’s room was finished and he was old enough for a crib.

They stopped in the doorway and he looked, almost speechless. They’d been together for two years but her ongoing artistic talents never ceased to amaze him. "Isn’t it lovely?" she asked.

He couldn’t move. Bob was drinking in everything at once. She had painted a mural on three of the four walls. Billowing clouds soared above the muted tufts of the treetops below. To the west, a pastel sunset glowed surrealistically. It was exactly as he’d seen a hundred times when he was flying. "Damn baby," he breathed, "it isn’t lovely. It’s fricking beautiful."

"Isn’t it?" she said, squeezing his arm in delight. "I wanted the baby to see what his father sees when he flies. The magic. The serenity."

"Well, you’ve done it Callie." Now, he moved to the furniture, looking at her first to see if the pieces were still wet.

"They’re finished. Go ahead. I was just touching up a nick in the mural when you got home." She watched anxiously as he drew his fingers across the finished surfaces, trying to figure out how she did it. "It’s called faux painting. I saw it on the Home and Garden Network and decided to try it in here," she said. "I think it worked out very well."

"I’ll say. Even I would never guess that these were from a scratch and dent sale."

They’d picked them out at Home Depot a couple of weeks ago. He’d grumbled about having to lug the heavy pieces in here instead of having them delivered. Now, they looked like exquisitely crafted pieces of delicate marble veneers. The feathery blush of the various greens melted into the painted treetops of the murals behind.

Bob found it difficult to believe that these were the same bland chunks of lifeless lumber that he’d hauled in here. Now, they glowed in richly understated taste, a hundred times more fitting than anything he could have bought ready-made. He had wanted to get all new furniture but she was insistent that they save money for the baby.

It was funny in a way. He used to be the one who was the miser but as she lay in Intensive Care, only one scarce heartbeat from death, he’s promised her that she’d have the best of everything if she just pulled through. As he looked at the finished furniture, he also realized that he was the one getting the best of everything.

Later, comfortably sated from dinner, they relaxed in the living room. He was sprawled on one of the couches, going over some of the official reports he’d brought home with him. They both favored large, overstuffed pieces and Callie was curled up on the other couch, crocheting a small afghan for the baby’s room. The house was silent except for the occasional crackle from the fire in the large fireplace and the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the dining room.

"Bob," Callie started, her voice hesitant and worried. "Are you sure? That the General and Mrs. Moran will be okay in the guest quarters on base? I’ve almost got one of the upstairs bedrooms finished. They could stay here, you know. It would give you guys time to get to know each other again."

Bob looked over at her. Her hands were busy with the yarn but her face was screwed up in that cock-eyed expression she got when she was fussing. "Baby," he said patiently, "number one, you don’t need to be climbing those stairs. Number two, believe me, the guest quarters are way good enough. Marion always favors them when they travel anyway. Three, Danny and I will work things out in our own good time. And last, but not least, the last thing I want is for us to have company on our wedding night."

At that, she giggled. "Yeah right. Like there’s going to be a hot time in the old town on that night. We’ll be on restriction by then, remember? Not till 6 weeks after the baby’s born."

He pretended to grumble. "Damn, forgot about that. How in the hell are we supposed to consummate our marriage?"

Smiling fondly, she shook her head. Laying down the crochet hook, she ran her hand over her protruding belly. "Somehow Bob, I think consummation is rather moot at this point in time. Don’t you?" Callie’s face turned serious and her words were barely audible. "It’s all coming so fast, isn’t it?"

He saw the sparkle of tears. Damn, he thought, she’s going to cry a