 
Their Bit

by

Corbert Windage

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 © Corbert Windage

cover photo © Geraktv | Dreamstime.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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***

Their Bit

by

Corbert Windage

"Mates, a special treat before you reach your staging areas none other than the Showster with the Moster; Mister Benny LaBean has flown in to see you off."

A splattering of applause greeted the colonel's announcement. The troops, mainly Australians and New Zealanders with a company of British regulars thrown in for good measure, had expected Vera Lynn. Something nice and feminine to look at before descending into the green hell that was Burma.

Fighting the Japs was bad enough; but in the jungle, enemies that at first appeared innocuous enough soon declared war on friend and foe alike. Branches and leaves and razor-sharp kunai grasses acting as artillery, began the assault. Nicks and scrapes that on a western battlefield could normally be ignored here opened the way for all sorts of nasty infections. These openings acted as a dinner bell for the ever-present insect air force of flies, gnats and chiggers. Mosquitoes of course, needed no such breach in human flesh to begin their mission, just shade. Shade and night were their operating parameters. The latter, depending of course on the time of year, was furnished them up to fifteen hours a day, with a four-fifths jungle canopy providing the former. The diseases waited patiently. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery, just to name a few, were the by-products of Nature's assault, particularly during Monsoon season. Vipers, crocs, as well as the occasional tiger, were the troops main concern, but veterans considered these one-shot terror weapons at best. Like the Japanese, who certainly weren't immune to the same ravages, this enviroment seemed to know instinctively that killing one intruder quickly was far less efficient than debilitating the whole.

"Bleeding Benny LaBean!" one soldier exclaimed, "My grandmother had her knickers in a twist over that old fossil, and she's been dead well-nigh fifteen years."

The colonel heard that and several similar comments from the assembled battalion. He too was a Vera Lynn fan; and she was scheduled. Unfortunately for these lads, her arrival was delayed in the morass created by a late monsoon. Ten miles back might as well be Trafalgar Square for this lot. H-hour, the time they were to push off, was in less than ninety minutes.

"Pity - for them," he thought, "less competition for me."

He had known of Miss Lynn's visit for better than a month. That knowledge caused him considerable discomfort as he was reduced to rationing his hard to come by mustache wax. Now, his facial adornment stood gloriously statue stiff, curling at the ends. Dashing, if he did say so himself. But these celebrities were a fickle type, tending way toward, in the colonel's opinion, an overt fixation of fraternization with the common soldier while ignoring the superior breeding and culture of the officer corps. Most of these, like Benny LaBean, could be dismissed as like gravitating to like. Miss Lynn's origins were no less humble. However, her singing fame, combined with her stunning good looks, was certainly worthy of the attention of her social betters. Besides, winning the heart of Miss. Lynn, her incumbent popularity with him on her arm was certain to draw notice on the societal pages. That, in and of itself, could secure several different types of advancement, to brigadier for example.

"Now, now, lads." the colonel spoke quickly, "none of that. Mister LaBean just got here ahead of the weather. Regrettable Miss Lynn did not. Due to his – age he's not going to perform."

This was greeted with a mixed chorus with "Thank God" being clearly in the majority.

"Instead," he waited till the murmuring died down. "Instead, he's waiting at a tent about a half a mile up the trail, waiting to give you a send off with a hearty wave and the occasional handshake. Be good lads now, and remember your manners. And let's knock the Nips for six. Goodbye and God bless. General Mortenson."

Turning the stage over to the senior operations commander, the colonel hurried back to his jeep. There his driver waited, crouched in the back seat next to the radio, a headphone pressed to one ear.

"Bloody bastard better be following his orders," the colonel thought. "Nothing like a little threat of front-line duty to keep an orderly on his toes."

"Well Cogswell, report!"

Corporal Cogswell started. He tried to jump out of the jeep and stand to attention. Instead, his foot caught on the passenger seat sending him sprawling. Embarrassed, he scrambled to his feet, bringing his right arm up in an openhanded salute. "Idiot," the colonel thought.

"Beg to report sir," the corporal said, staring straight ahead.

"Get on with it corporal. Oh bloody hell." The colonel raised his swagger stick in a quick motion, like he was swatting a fly. This idiot would stand there saluting until the second coming unless the colonel returned the courtesy. Visibly relieved Cogswell dropped his hand.

"Sir, the –er- package left operations 'eadquarters approximately thirty minutes ago. But, - er – her – that is the package's transport is mired down and not expected to arrive for another 'our or so sir."

"Another hour," the colonel thought. "And how old is this intelligence, corporal?"

"About twenty minutes or so, sir."

"Forty minutes," the colonel calculated to himself. Then aloud, "Okay corporal, let's get a move on then. It's impolite to keep a lady waiting, you know."

"Right you are sir."

"Troops will be here any moment now Mr. LaBean," the young lieutenant said. "You sure you won't have a sit down sir? There'll be more than 2,000 all told coming past."

"Thank you lieutenant, but I've been sitting quite long enough."

Benjamin Mortimer LaBean stood stock- still. Head turned left, his eyes strained to focus on the small hillock where the troops' campaign hats came bobbing into view. "Stout lads," he thought. "The best the empire had to offer. No! Not the best. Those were fighting in Europe." Or so the papers would lead one to believe. For the life of him he couldn't, wouldn't believe that. As the first troops topped the rise, they seemed as fine a specimen of manhood as any he had seen. Considering whom they were going to fight and where that fighting was to take place these men, at least those who survived, could look back with pride. They may be second, or even third stringers when it came to being adequately supplied, or raved about in the papers; but now as the first men drew close, the raw determination in their eyes was second to none.

High command in Australia had repeatedly turned down his request to entertain the troops at the front. "Benny you're just too old," one general had told him. His persistence finally resulted in the concession to entertain the men at the embarkation points. Placed in with the more contemporary acts the results had been mixed. If he started the show the troops soon grew restless. They wanted to see the girls, or at least a fanciful facsimile of what they were leaving behind. An old man and a ukulele might as well been an organ grinder with a trained monkey. His songs simply weren't their songs. By the time of the third troop movement he was the closing act; and no matter how hard he tried, more and more their eyes glanced toward the transport ships that they would within minutes board. Their non-commissioned officers already began to stir and hover about them, impatiently waiting for Benny to finish so they could begin bawling orders, begin rounding up their charges.

Benny cut his performances short, sparing a few minutes to talk to the lads about the nation's gratitude. Then all the acts joined him on stage for a final salute, and it was over.

Surprisingly, he did start to receive a somewhat regular flow of fan mail again. Troops who were homesick, some who were impressed by his parting sentiments, would write asking for an autograph picture. Some actually wanted some of his songs that had made it to vinyl; and, after awhile, his old recording studio agreed to re-release some of this music gratis, their bit for the war effort. This Benny sent along with a cheery note of thanks and always, God's blessing.

Some kept up a regular correspondence. A part of Benny liked to think that the military censors stayed their dreaded black pens in deference to his celebrity. But all too soon he realized that where these young men were simply lacked any strategic geographic locations such as towns or cities to talk about.

The newspapers told much of the story anyway. And more.

Sometimes the letters abruptly ceased. Benny began scanning newspaper casualty lists. More times than not, there was the answer. Cold, impersonal, the print stated the facts of war, name, service number, KIA: Killed in action. Some, the lucky ones Benny thought, were wounded. Initially, he made an effort to visit when the hospital ships brought them home. Seeing the horrors that war could inflict for the first time left him horrified and heartbroken. He stopped visiting.

He also stopped reading the papers.

"Blimey," Corporal Cogswell thought, "does this pitiful excuse for a man, much less an officer, really think he has a chance with the likes of Vera bleeding Lynn?"

"Mind the shoulder, corporal," the colonel said.

"Traction's a little tricky, sir." Try nonexistent, you old walrus, he thought. Although the jeep's nose was pointing straight down the road, the corporal had to struggle to keep the wheels alternately caromed at a forty-five degree angle left and right to maintain some semblance of normalcy; doing this while constantly shifting in order to maintain speed would have been tricky for someone blessed with four hands. Cogswell had to contend with the standard two, and was gradually losing the fight. Waves of mud rose, constantly threatening to swamp the jeep's occupants.

"There, there, just topping Winfield Ridge. There she comes," the colonel almost shouted.

"Thank God," the corporal thought. "Just a few more yards and we'll begin climbing ol' Winnie. Road should smooth –

After a while, Benny shamed himself for a coward. Oh he still kept up his correspondence; and when a soldier returned home and dropped by his modest cottage, he was always gracious and set out tea and biscuits. Sometimes the soldiers chatted about Benny and his career, such as it was. Rarely did they steer the conversation to the war. When they did, he listened intently. Sometimes during these narrations, when some particular horror became too much, they broke down. Benny was quick with a grandfatherly pat, assuring the soldier that he was home now, and there was no need to continue.

1944 rolled in, and the war rolled on. While it was clear that the Japanese were on the run it was equally obvious that tough fighting lay ahead. In Burma, Japanese hopes were still buoyed by the possibility that an offensive toward India could result in the Indians overthrowing their British colonial masters. To this end, the Japanese set their sights on an attack toward the border towns of Imphal and Kohima. The fighting had been straightforward and bloody. Now the Allies prepared to counterattack and push the Japanese back through Burma.

This "forgotten army" contained many of the same soldiers, now veterans that Benny had seen off two years earlier.

Benny, now eighty, pulled every string, called in every last favor, to be there to see the lads off. Not at some debarkation port, but there, at the front. At first, just as two years prior, he was told that it was out of the question. Benny made the argument that he fully understood the risks involved, and who else in the entertainment industry, he asked, even wanted to go? He cornered every member of the Australian parliament he could find to make his case. He showed them the stacks of correspondence from the past two years along with press clippings from his hospital visits. One member of the parliament, who had been a lifelong fan, finally ascertained to his satisfaction that Benny was of sound mind, his request genuine. He gave the go-ahead and made the arrangements.

On a cargo plane loaded with canned fruits and vegetables, Benny LaBean flew the circuitous route to northern India.

An angel's hand stroked his face and sang. He couldn't see her, but she sang quite beautifully. Corporal Cogswell felt his body dip and rise. "Odd," he muttered. "What was that soldier? What – oh for heaven's sake what is his name?" "Cogswell ma'am. Corporal Cogswell," said a disembodied distinctly British voice. Oh well, so much for heaven.

Cogswell opened his eyes. Vera Lynn might not truly be an angel, but she was the closest he'd seen in a long time. Seeing him awake, she smiled and leaned over him. He could smell the fragrance of jasmine in her hair. "Corporal Cogswell, can you hear me Corporal?" He struggled to say something, but his tongue felt unnatural, swollen. Miss Lynn's first aid training came to the fore. The water from the canteen was tepid, but to Cogswell it tasted colder than any pint he had ever quaffed. God! She is beautiful. Little wonder the colonel-The colonel!

"The colonel?" he asked, surprised how strong his voice was. He turned his head quickly realizing he was on a stretcher on the back of a jeep.

"Shhh, quiet now corporal. You've been wounded in an explosion. Apparently some Japanese infiltrators mined the road. You're safe now," Miss Lynn said.

Cogswell closed his eyes beginning an inventory of limbs. Vera Lynn had seen this reaction before. "You're all there Corporal. Trust me. Just a mild concussion along with nicks and scrapes." She spoke so sincerely he did believe her. Nevertheless, he continued satisfying himself, sending and receiving acknowledgements from toes to fingers. Again he opened his eyes, his question lingering.

She matched his stare. "I'm sorry Corporal. The explosion was on his side. It threw you out, but he – he didn't make it." She let this sink in before going on. His wallet was destroyed in the blast. The only thing we could salvage was this." She laid a circular tin on his chest. "We're heading back to the rear until the road is swept. A few days comfortable bed rest and you'll be good as new. I'll come around to see you, if you don't mind?"

He was smiling, had been since she mentioned the part concerning the colonel. "Mind," he said absently. "No, I don't mind at all. Here Miss Lynn," he said returning the tin of moustache wax. "Here, I know he would've wanted you to have this."

On down the trail they came. Some passed him by with barely a notice. Some offered a smile and a brief hello. More than a few lingered. Among them many pen-pal veterans, and among these small handfuls, men that he had either seen in hospital recovered and back once again as front-line soldiers and two that had taken tea at his home.

"We've form a kind of club among ourselves," a gaped-tooth soldier informed him. "We call ourselves LaBean's Boys. Even had us some membership cards made up, last time we got down to Calcutta. There's about fifty or so members in good standing, meaning they're still standing, if you know what I mean," he said with a wink. "So we're what you'd call an exclusive club. Not even the hoity-toity who ran the show before the war, and'll probably end up running things when it's all over can get in. Less of course, they been through the fires, met you, either by letter or in person. Those that's had that honor are gold club members." He fished his card out of his wallet, and held it up for Benny's inspection. "We appreciate all you've done to keep our spirits up old boy."

The lieutenant at Benny's side motioned with a slight nod for the soldier to move on. "Not until the Showster with the Moster gives us one of his funny ditties. Come on Benny. I see you've brought your uke. Give your boys a tune to send us off."

Benny smiled, trying to contain the tears that threatened to spill over. "Sure boys," he managed to say, "I brought Maureen just in case. I'm sure she still has a song or two in her. We'll be proud to play for you."

Benny LaBean played. The soldiers trooped by. Some held out membership cards nodding with pride that they were LaBean Boys. Benny played and sang, one song, then another and another, until the last soldier disappeared from view.

Copyright 2011 © Corbert Windage

Now, enjoy a sample of Harold Fleenor's new novel from Accio Books

"The Valor Road"

The Valor Road

by

Harold Fleenor

Copyright 2011 © Harold Fleenor

The Harrison Traditional School no longer exists.

The building is still there; but its original purpose – to educate, like the innocence of its former students – is gone forever. In its place stands a testament, not just of brick and mortar, but also of beliefs, both forming a crucible that withstood a tempest of fire and blood. Perhaps it is because of that knowledge, a certain dignity emanates from those scarred gray stones that scores the subconscious.

The nearest town –Schonefield, lies barely five miles below the Canadian border. The town still retains the flavor of its original founders, which some current residents privately refer to as "survivor modest." Humbled by the surrounding majesty of God's handiwork, no building in downtown proper stands taller than two stories. Each one reflects the utilitarian nature of its builders. Squared with modest facings, some whitewashed; proprietary shingles embedded deep in the masonry, a necessary concession to the occasional gusts that blow in from the Rockies like a punishing wraith. Main Street, actually dual one-way streets separated by a wide city park medium, allows both residence and tourist an opportunity to retain the expansive atmosphere while still permitting local business a clear shot to catch the eye, and hopefully the dollars, of the temporary visitor. The park, though aesthetically pleasing, nevertheless gives the first time visitor a strange sense of spatial dislocation. It's as though the sure encompassing vastness of the state was, by design, scaled to the miniature of an Edenesque creation. The town overall appears almost as a bad afterthought, weak and scattered, an abandoned Babel. The penalty assessed for such folly, as if divined by heavenly fiat, that what was once small and compact, now stand condemned, not only to separation, but also to suffer an eternity of illusionary drifting apart. Even the addition of what the locals refer to as 'the burbs' appear no more substantial than planets orbiting a dead star.

Geography has been kind to the area. Both the eastern Ksawra Mountains and the Canadian Rockies drain their potentially devastating winter melt into two rivers. The Tabak River, which flows through Schonefield, and the mighty Koocanusa River, which drains the Rockies contribution down its length. These rivers permit Schonefield's bowl shaped depression to remain relatively dry, allowing time and nature to meander along.

South of the town begins the climb out of the valley via the high hills of the Betten range. The West Road undulates and doglegs through scenic landscapes of until finally reaching Prairie Point a few miles west of Highway 93. Here the junction with Highway 27, which begins snaking back down to the south, presents a breathing panorama. On the way, Highway Ten, a branch off 27, leads into the heart of the Betten hills. Several miles of conifers, oaks and maples, suddenly give way on the southeast side, to a horseshoe shaped twenty acre clearing where sitting back off the road stands what once was the Harrison Traditional School.

The school, named for President William Henry Harrison, began, as most private schools, as a dream of its founder, George Morgan. Barely a dozen senior classes would pass through before it would graduate from private school to a pantheon for all Americans. Today, the Federal Government is anxious to obtain the land; "to preserve and present it in the proper light" is the term most used. Those who own the property have so far successfully declined the government's offer. "Time and changing administrations," claimed one of the investors "has a tendency to place filters over the proper light, and end up placing fast-food restaurants next to icons. That, God willing, will never happen here."

Turning in one drives slowly, almost reverently, to the parking lot nearly an eighth of a mile away. Passing by the eighteen willow trees, standing nine to a side like an honor guard, most succumb to the temptation to read in hushed voices the bronze plaques embedded atop three-foot concrete pedestals commemorating those who fell defending the building - eleven teachers, three administrative and three food services staff, and Schonefield P.D. Patrolman Lawrence T. Harper.

Entertainment systems off, voices muted; children are admonished to be both quiet and on their best behavior. For most, this is an unnecessary warning. They, like the adults, are familiar with what happened here. The story of Harrison is only three years old. Its scab of inoculation only now has begun to fall away revealing an indelible psychic scar. Those old enough to remember the horror of 911 receive an unwanted booster.

Adults bring different agendas. Most want affirmation, to see where their own values were made manifest. They bring their children for that same purpose. With others, the tragic consequences of those same values reinvigorate the desire for social change; envisioning the day when the twain sins of patriotism and firearms will separate not only never again to meet, but hopefully be destroyed, each in its turn.

With the young, as it usually is, things are much simpler. They stare with awe usually reserved for an anticipatory visit to the amusement park or, for the older teens, seeing their favorite rock star. The battered building, reconstructed with its six bastions, seems to speak to everyone equally. Nearly all visitors, young and old, male and female, ask themselves the same questions:

What would I have done? That they ask in their heads.

Could I have done what they did?

That question they ask with their hearts.

History records what has come to be known as 'The Schonefield Incident' as lasting from 4:49 am on Monday, 9 May 2022, and lasting until the last pocket of organized enemy resistance succumbed at 5:05 am Wednesday, 12 May 2022. The attack, all 48 hours 16 minutes of it, marked 207 years since the last foreign invader left American soil. At that time the entities of Schonefield and the state of Montana lay decades in the future.

Her nametag says Lauren Hartman-Ortiz, but the ID is really unnecessary. Her face, framed by auburn hair, should have, segued her from pretty teenager to beautiful woman. But there is a hard edge to her features, particularly around her eyes, that at first glance compels some to stare to the point of rudeness. Last year, a writer from her college newspaper after interviewing her noted that:

"Her eyes convey a depth one would expect of someone much older, much wiser. At mention of the Schonefield Incident... their expression - a combination of what war veterans who have seen continuous combat call the "thousand yard stare", that and immense sadness. Placed on such otherwise youthful features they both draw in, while warning their subject. With no intended insult to an outstanding lady of grace and politeness, her eyes truly personify the dichotomous relationship of attraction/repulsion that writers of vampire fiction have long sought to clarify."

In the future, once time and oxidants exercise their inevitable sway, Lauren will be able to once again walk in relative obscurity, a mild curiosity to some, but still a living legend to others whose interest in history is more than just passing. For now, she takes little pride in the recognition by these visitors to her former alma mater. She knows some, especially teens and young adults, considered her some kind of hero. This thought alone invokes a shudder of dread. She patiently explains that the survivors are just that, nothing more, nothing less. Her reply will never vary for the 82 years she lives. Once again something veterans recognize at once: "The heroes are those that died so the rest of us might live." Never a prideful person, her religious upbringing and her parent's values stick fast with her. But she is not what one would call a fanatic in anything; she simply is the archetype girl next door.

Since May 9th 2022 only two things about her unsought celebrity disturb Lauren: One is the look, and it was almost always from women, particularly older women, who seek her out. Mainly they grip her hand or arm like she was a holy relic imbued with healing power. Sometimes they claimed that God has a word for her. These received Lauren's patent smile and thanks once the message is delivered. Others, especially those with tears streaming, embrace her and in a chocked voice say, "Bless you." Lauren expected this from the parents of the children she had helped shepherded to safety. But such raw emotion from total strangers moves even her strong personality.

The second, and indeed the most visceral reaction, occurs when someone tries to use her High School nickname. She uses her disarming smile and patience to remind them that her name is Lauren. Usually she never has to say anything else. There were so very few things from that year that belonged to her. This went even deeper.

This was something, one of the few things of Braden that was left her.

Her nickname was given, and like most things received during High School, as a bit of a joke tinged with love and truth. The love came from fellow senior Braden O'Day. The truth? Well the truth came from her younger brother Sheldon. (God had she actually called him a brat? Yes, no denying that, but he was a brat at times. But there was also no denying how many times over the past three years she had forced herself to remember, despite the painful tears, those virtuous qualities beginning to manifest in him that she was certain would define him in manhood. Manhood he never, in chronological terms, came closer to than being a high school freshman. Manhood he would attain, like few others who lived far longer, on a wooded hillock during a fading spring afternoon in May.)

Braden liked her, and truth be told (always), she liked him. Braden and Sheldon got along despite the age difference. Finally, Braden decided that if he was ever going to break the ice he'd better try and find out some of Lauren's favorite things.

"Candy," was Sheldon's immediate answer to Braden's questions. "You want to get on Lauren's great side then the key is chocolate. Tons and tons of the coco beans, my friend. The greatest export from Switzerland since the watch. And not the cheap stuff that inhabits the shelves of your run-of-the-mill checkout line, no-sir-ree-bob-a-dee-bob. My sister has what is known as an acquired taste. You know what I mean? You do? Good! Now don't be discouraged; all is not lost, my friend. I happened to have overheard her talking to one of her girlfriends – not snooping mind you – but well, you know she leaves her door open and I came moseying by just as she was saying how much she loved, loved is the very word she used, Lady Godley's creamy caramels. Yeah I know twenty nine fifty for a box of fifteen. Sure, it's highway robbery, but what can you say?"

Later Lauren and Braden would find time to laugh till the tears flowed. But that first date was a disaster. Although he had access to his not-to-inconsiderable trust fund Braden wanted to earn the money himself and to that end had worked every odd job he could find. This resulted in him being worn to a frazzle by the night of the date. He could barely stay awake through dinner even though Lauren looked dazzling. She could tell that he was tired because his eyes were constantly glazing over and refocusing. He finally admitted, rather sheepishly, just how tired he was as well as the reason for it. But he assured Lauren that with a couple cups of coffee he would once again be back in the proverbial pink. The coffee helped, he later told her, but he did regret no longer seeing two Laurens in front of him.

It was right before the movie that he sprung his surprise.

Lauren unwrapped the box of caramels and indeed, was surprised. Braden's infectious smile, along with the cost of the caramels and the effort she suspected he went through to make this night a special one, all that lead up to this one moment. Lauren smiled and ate one caramel and fussed over both how good it tasted and that Braden shouldn't have spent so much just on a box of candy. She tried to beg off eating a second but Braden insisted. As they walked into the movie theater she casually asked how he got the idea she liked caramels. "Your brother told me," Braden admitted. "He really cares about you, you know." "Yeah, I know," she smiled, and excused herself to the ladies room shortly after they took their seats. Entering a stall she called her brother's videophone. Sheldon answered with a cat that ate the canary grin. "When I get home I am going to kill you," was all she said in a deliberate, measured voice as she broke the connection.

The movie was a good one. Pity neither of them saw much of it.

Braden smiled at Lauren, slid his arm around her shoulder and settled in for what all their friends had told them was the movie of the year. Fifteen minutes later, during the first car chase, Braden's double vision was back. He blinked once and his vision returned to normal. He blinked again and promptly fell asleep.

Lauren's problem's started around the time of the second car chase.

She had had one prayer already answered. Braden had fallen asleep and under normal circumstances she would've gently woke him up. Now she hoped that the movie would go on forever. Or at least until the worst of the hives, which were already tearing, and would soon close her eyes abated. She quietly snuck a couple of tissues from her purse and these were soon reduced to sopping rags. By the end of the movie, and with the house lights coming up, Braden started and realized that he had slept through nearly the entire show. His arm was still around Lauren who was turned away from him and...Oh no she was crying. Assuming his falling asleep as being the cause for her distress, he started to profusely apologize. But Lauren just waved him off assuring him that it was she who was sorry. Lauren turned and Braden got a second shock. First he noticed her eyes were nearly swollen shut. The tears streaming down her face were new genuine tears of embarrassment. Angry red welts mottled her skin giving her the overall appearance of a having come out on the losing end of a fight with a colony of fire ants.

"I'm allergic to chocolate!" she blurted out.

"But your brother..."

"Is dead the moment I get home!" Lauren interrupted, burying her head on his shoulder.

Now Braden began with fresh apologies. Lauren shushed him and asked him to guide her out through the side exit. She kept her head buried on the side of his chest and felt his arm around her. Throughout all her misery somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice said that this wasn't bad.

Not bad at all.

Actually the fresh air combined with the nearly two lost movie hours helped put Lauren on the downside of her allergic reaction. By the time they got to Braden's car she could see fairly well. It was on their way home with the window down that she asked him to turn on the radio. Blaring through the speakers were the electronic riffs of The Cars and the words "Candy O." It was one of those little defining moments in ones life when the stars seem to line up just perfect. They immediately looked at each other and both burst out laughing. Candy Ortiz, Candy O. It was too perfect to shrug off as mere coincidence.

Eight months later, with word of the unusual circumstances of their date having made the rounds, capped off by the how she acquired her new pet name, Lauren was Candy O. She and Braden dated for the rest of the school year (for the rest of his life, Lauren had to constantly struggle not to remind herself) and were the unanimous choice for prom King and Queen.

Lauren did not kill her brother, but was contented to threaten him by alluding that she would allow Braden that pleasure. But the truth was she did love chocolate. It just didn't like her. Before that fateful day of 9 May Braden and Sheldon had made their peace and were once again fast friends. Sheldon, in a rare turn-around had even come to her room one afternoon and apologized. They actually talked for more than an hour. Talked! Not yelled, not talked at, but to each other. In the end, they both realized that their sibling war was over. What would have grown between brother and sister, as with what, if any future she and Braden might have had, Lauren would never know.

What she did know was that since May 9th she would never again allow anyone to call her Candy O.

The infiltration was accomplished in a matter of weeks. The open border between Canada and the U.S. made this procedure relativity simple. Years of cached arms are unearthed, oiled and made ready. Civilian clothes are exchanged for military fatigues, and weapons distributed. Curt orders issued as each man finds his unit. Speeches are unnecessary. Those took place up to two years earlier in the depths of the Motherland. Even the comradely renewal of friendships takes place with little more than a motion of acknowledgement. A nod, the silent handshake, a wink is all that most permit themselves. All seven thousand men realize that the borrowed time they have lived on since arriving in North America is running out. Their uniforms and weapons show clear relation to their country of origin.

None know, as they board the thirty-two trailers that will take them the twenty- eight miles to and across the border, that the promised massive nuclear attack by their Motherland will not be forth coming. There was never any serious intention to do so. Instead, they have been betrayed to the American military as renegades. To their masters they are. An uncontrollable right wing faction whose excessive patriotism could not be reconciled by either appeals to honor or direct orders. The old political order had done its job all too well. Inculcating young men and women with the righteousness of a bankrupt philosophy forced the newer, more enlightened order to walk a tight rope between the internal appeasement of a rabid nationalistic military, and the promised economic reforms demanded by the general population.

But the exact betrayal by their revered motherland only occurred within the past twenty minutes and the group's exact objective was not disclosed. Old feelings die-hard. Even the most liberal of the reformers still grew up under the old system. No matter how much the new order complies with the people's desire for a consumer economy, no matter how deep the secret greed of their imagined coffers they eagerly await to plumb, the new masters still realize that their revised international status places them firmly in the back seat of an economic transport driven by the United States. While the new order certainly wishes no direct confrontation with U.S. authorities, the now classified renegades are still 'their boys.' Warning the Americans leadership of the impeding attack was surely enough to avert most suspicion they might entertain. Feigning ignorance of its exact location would be the very least they could do for their brave men whose only crime of obstinacy to the new political reality would cost them their lives. Plus, let it serve as a warning to the 'winner' that their former foe still is worthy to sit at the international grown ups table, maybe not as equal as before, but still not to be ignored as a second rate trifle either.

Their own intelligence analysts had estimated (correctly) the time it would take and the locations the U.S. satellite intelligence assets would monitor for the incursion. Starting at both coasts would afford the "Group Ecuador," the time needed to cross the border at Montana and raise what hell they could before they were slaughtered. The prima facie embarrassment was, considering the degree of courting the West had lately invested in the Motherland, an acceptable trade off.

Lauren was already drawing the bulk of the crowd toward her electric motor tour bus. Lloyd Foster's bus, parked more toward the entrance now begun to attract the overflow. Lloyd's sturdy 6'2 frame is as much a beacon to the crowd as Lauren's comely smile. Friendly, there is nonetheless a distance about him that deflects many, especially young girls with flirting on their mind, like rank body odor. Lloyd's charges are therefore mostly male. Men and their sons who wish to see what they consider a real hero. Some are younger men who come to mentally compare their mettle to the man in front of them. These try jealously to divine what qualities make a hero and in some measure, inculcate their discoveries into their own make up. Most walk away disappointed.

Lloyd and Lauren represented two of the three surviving seniors from the HTS class of '22. The third, Rhoda Delcum, formerly a patient on the 5th floor of the Dorsey Health Center in Helena some 500 miles away, had died earlier that year. They had become engaged Christmas of '21, with Lloyd presenting her a half-karat solitaire. He argued with her parents, insisting Rhoda be allowed to keep it until Mr. Delcum took him aside. He explained to Lloyd that Rhoda's physician thought it best to return her jewelry until the crisis passed. Lloyd responded that she would think he'd abandon her. The argument was settled when her dad, voice breaking, said that he thought well of Lloyd and had looked forward to having him in the family. But as far as what Rhoda thought, "Look son, she loved you when she was with us, but now! Now it's doubtful whether Rhoda will ever be with us again."

There had been other visits to her parents. But it soon became apparent to Lloyd that with the Federal Government stepping in with the offer of supplying the best medical care possible as well as footing the bill, the Delcums wished to move quickly to the status of being the grieving parents of a martyred hero.

The attention, especially for Andrea Delcum now that acceptance was replacing shock, was alluring. She was quite aware that the local notice she received was tainted. Herbert Delcum's womanizing, already the stuff of legend, had guaranteed the local wags a comfortable supply of gossip from which they had fed on for years. The mixture of genuine sympathy for Rhoda with the pity cum laughter she imagined in their eyes equaled a potion that Andrea could not bear to drink. Even her own attempts at playing Herb's game were ham-handed failures, forcing her to conclude that she wasn't much of a flirt nor possessed (as Herb's dalliances constantly reminded her) much natural proclivity toward sex.

Her daughter at that time was, according to the doctors, gone probably never to return. Even now Andrea could not suppress that twinge of jealousy that had grown steadily since Rhoda's junior year. Even if local college were to be Rhoda's lot, she would at least be free. Young and free to explore and experience life just like Andrea had before she had made what was amounting to the greatest mistake of her life – meeting and marrying Herb. Even her engagement to that Foster boy evoked envy in her so great that at times it took all her strength not to scream.

In such a contaminated environment, what Andrea wanted most was revenge: a divorce that separated Herb from half of his worldly goods. Well, now that was quick and doable, as one of her erstwhile lovers, a divorce lawyer, had assured her. But for the locals she had to do something big. Something so large that, once she divested herself of Herb the Philander, she could show them her backside and they would know that it was meant for all of them, real personal like. What had happened at Schonefield and Rhoda's subsequent fate gave her a gift straight from a Greek tragedy - the national spotlight!

In Andrea Delcum's heart of hearts she wanted to care less what some hick from Podunk, Idaho watching the Morris Melton Show thought of her, good or bad. The fact was that Herb had absolutely refused to allow her to accept any of the repeated invitations to appear on the show. "My God Andrea, are you totally insane?" he had shouted after first making sure that they were out of earshot of their sympathetic neighbors. Sympathy, which, in Herb Delcum's mind, was becoming a real nuisance since it forced him to rapidly dismantle several regional affairs he had been enjoying for years. "You actually want to sit next to some woman claiming to be the illegitimate offspring of Ben Affleck, and who now is carrying his grandbaby fathered by Bigfoot?"

Her acquiescence was tempered with the secret knowledge that very soon, his input in her life would consist of one thing only: money. A call to the divorce lawyer, who she had first met some months before Schonefield would become a household name throughout the country, in an out of the way roadside bar some thirty miles away, was very friendly. Naturally, she knew his motivations had nothing to do with any displayed abilities on her part during their one and only tryst. The obligatory compliments done, he moved in for the kill. Once he was satisfied that smooth talking along the lines of 'I was just thinking about how great we were together' wasn't going to pan, he changed tack becoming the consummate professional. Was the grieving Mrs. Delcum still interested in becoming the former Mrs. Delcum? If she was, she only need give the word.

Without hesitation the word was given.

He went on to inform her that his myriad talents included entertainment law. If she were interested in representation in that arena he would be honored to advise her. And, oh! By the way, he was sorry to hear about her daughter's tragedy, and prayed every night for her speedy recovery, but back to this entertainment law business. If she was interested, all she had to do was once again give the word, and she would be well on her way to quite a tidy sum of cash. Give the word and while he was drawing up the divorce papers he could make a standard contract that she could peruse at her leisure. Andrea thought about what Herb had told her and although she knew that what he said make good sense, she couldn't stop from asking the lawyer if he could, as a show of his abilities and good faith, arrange for her to appear on the Morris Melton show? She knew that with the repeated attempts by Melton's staff this too was an easy accomplishment. But seeing a clearer future had made Andrea Delcum feel magnanimous. On his part, the divorce/entertainment lawyer was almost beside himself in assuring her that this was small potatoes compared to what he had in mind. But if that was where she wanted to start. Sure! Consider it done.

With that, once again the word was given.

It was during this heartfelt grieving period the Delcums informed Lloyd with the finesse of a ball peen hammer, that they simply wanted to move on. Their advice to him was to do the same. No doubt about it, in their mind, Elvis, along with their daughter, had definitely left the building.

Lloyd's reply was to forego all the full-ride scholarship offers from colleges across the country, move to Helena and seek to find some type of menial work to keep his body fed and sheltered. However, like Lauren, he failed at first to factor in his unwanted celebrity status. But Lloyd was a quick study. Keeping the local press at bay was as simple as appealing to the city's movers-and-shakers, all of who nearly fell over each other in expressing their desire to help. Lloyd's love for Rhoda had not blinded him to people's feelings. He thanked those average citizens who just wanted to express their appreciation, and turned his attention to those who could possibly help with his immediate problem of obtaining room and board.

Big Jim

James "Big Jim" Moss was a sunbird; part of that rare breed that actually came north for the winter. A rich Texas cattleman, Moss had quickly ingratiated himself with the powers that be in the area in and around the state capital. An astute gauge of character coupled with a well-honed business savvy, Big Jim knew how to read and please any audience. Toward that end, today he sported the obligatory accoutrements that screamed Texas, Stetson, string tie and boots.

When Lloyd agreed to attend a closed door meeting with the pillars of the community it was Big Jim Moss who, at the end of the congratulatory speeches, came forward and pulled the young man aside. A few discreet questions and Lloyd's immediate problems were gone. James Moss had a modest ranch home some twenty miles distant. Lloyd was offered room board and unlimited use of the three cars nestled in the garage. Big Jim guaranteed him privacy and, figuring him averse to anything that smacked of charity, his official title would be caretaker at a weekly salary of $500.

Lloyd was stunned. When the Texan stuck out his hand and asked "Well pard, we have a deal?" Lloyd could barely express his thanks. "Listen son, there is no true Texan alive, that wouldn't give his left hand so he could use the remaining one to shake the hand of a defender of the Alamo. Hell most wish they could have participated in the battle!" At this Jim laughed and went on before Lloyd could say a word "I get the best of both worlds, I get to keep my hand and shake yours. We all know why you're here, your girl and all. Damn fine thing you did back in Schonefield, and it's a damn fine thing you're doing now."

"Tha...Thank you sir." Lloyd managed to get out. Big Jim Moss's Alamo analogy wasn't the first time Lloyd had heard that comparison to what happened at HTS. It had unsettled him then and now, even at the risk of offending the goose that had just dumped golden manna into his lap, his heart disengaged from his common sense and said...

"Sir I ran. And those that didn't...died."

Lloyd's voice dropped with the last word. He hung his head shamefaced. There it was out in the open air, maybe not for all to hear but this richer-than-Croesus Texas cattleman, but Lloyd knew that to accept his offer with that weight on his soul would make him feel worse than dishonest. Dirty was the word that came to mind.

In that eternity Lloyd could sense the growing concern of the rest of Helena's finest waiting to move in and congratulate something that he wasn't. He felt obligated to show the world what a papier-mache hero looked like. If nothing else at least the incessant adulation would be directed to where he felt it properly belonged. Starting with a once beautiful, now emaciated, young woman lying in a coma not three miles distant.

As he turned to address the crowd he was suddenly seized in the iron grip of Big Jim Moss.

"Gentlemen, Mr. Foster and I have some small details of a business proposal to work out." A collective groan greeted this announcement, but the persuasive Texan was ready. "Now hold on and give us a few minutes in private if you would. Bartender!"

Lloyd felt Jim's grip relax as heads turned toward the small mobile bar bisecting the south and west walls. The bartender, an elderly man, wearing a white shirt and bow tie gave Big Jim his full attention.

"Bartender! Will you please see to it that these gentlemen receive the proper lubrication for the rest of the evening? And if anyone cracks open his wallet to do anything more than to stuff your tip jar, take down his name and let me know. This tab is on me."

As he expected, his announcement drew immediate cheers from most of the assembly and a respectful but steady movement toward the now beaming bartender.

Big Jim remained smiling a moment longer, and still looking at the crowd, said under his breath. "Life lesson son. Jus show thirsty cattle the way to water and you can move the most stubborn herd." Then releasing his arm and turning directly to Lloyd, "There's an office right this way Mr. Foster. If you would do me the honor of a few words in private."

Lloyd's head was still reeling. The last time he had felt anything as close to the brink he was pulled back from was the frantic day in May when he was sure everything was lost.

Jim Moss took the lead. Once closed the heavy oak door of the side office immediately smothered the general din of the assembly hall. The Texan motioned to a plush black leather chair on the right of what Lloyd took as the Mayor's, situated at the head of the table This Big Jim took for himself and came straight to the point before he had even sat down.

"Unless I miss my guess, you were about to do something very stupid out there and, in your mind call it noble," he started out without a hint of a question.

Lloyd had regained his composure. Meeting Big Jim eyes evenly he said.

"Sir, I was going to tell the truth."

"And what truth is that; if you don't mind me asking?"

"That I'm no damn hero! Those people look at me like they expect to see some kind of Audie Murphy, and Sergeant York all rolled into one, and that just not me! Like I told you I ran!"

To Moss's left, a stand containing a tray on which sat a pitcher and several plastic glasses. Moss reached for the pitcher and pouring a glass of water offered it to Lloyd. He accepted it, nodded his thanks, and drank it down, just then realizing how thirsty he was. Jim refilled it and poured himself a drink. Looking for a place to sit his glass down Jim reached over and slid him a cardboard coaster.

"Mind if I ask a question Mr. Foster?"

"Go ahead, but it's Lloyd if you don't mind sir. Mr. Foster is my dad."

Jim smiled. This young man had all the markings that talents agents dreamed of. "Okay, Lloyd it is. Lloyd what exactly in your opinion is the definition of a hero?"

Lloyd thought for a moment. "Well like I said, Audie Murphy, Sergeant York; the passengers of Flight 94. Those type of guys." Then waving a hand at Jim. "The defenders of the Alamo," he concluded.

"Funny you should mention them," Jim said, taking a sip of water.

"Beg your pardon," said Lloyd, a bit puzzled.

"Nothing really. It's just, well, when one becomes even mildly successful in Texas, paying proper homage to the shrine of America's Thermopayle is done as a matter of course. Did you know that that is what most Texans are taught to consider the Alamo: America's Thermopayle?"

Lloyd shook his head.

"I'm not surprised," Jim went on. " I suppose every state contributes its share to the panoply that comprises the great American mythology. The Alamo just happens to be Texas's."

Lloyd thought for a moment. "I see your point. I guess The Little Big Horn would be Montana's."

"Exactly," Jim replied. "Custer and his brave men grimly, but with gritty determination, extracting a terrible toil before being destroyed by the heathen savage; all done in the vain attempt to bring to inevitable light of civilization to the untamed plains. Makes for quite a romantic story to what in reality was the final act of defiance by a brave people whose only crime for over 300 hundred years was simply being in the way."

Lloyd smiled at the thought of this and nodded.

"Lloyd my point is, it was the same at the Alamo. Like Custer, the Alamo defenders were like rats caught in a trap. The strategic value of their stand had gone the way of the dinosaur long before Santa Anna's assault carried the works. Their sand to continue the struggle pretty much dissolved once their defenses were breached and the Mexican troops were pouring inside. This is evidenced by the prisoners taken and subsequently killed, as well as the forty odd defenders who made a break for it by going over the wall when the outcome was apparent."

"I hadn't heard about anyone running away," Lloyd said in amazement.

"No surprise there," Jim chuckled. "Mexican sources, unlike Custer's Indians, kept diaries. For years, even to this very day, Texans who wish to keep the illusion of the grim defender keeping to his post and fighting to the end have questioned their validity."

"What happened to those forty? Some get away to live the rest of their lives in cowardly obscurity?" Lloyd asked.

And there it was at last. Goethe's kernel of the poodle. The guilt that laced through his voice with that last statement was what Big Jim Moss had been angling for. What Jim had initially been willing to accept as quiet humility, was actually an understandable case of survivor guilt. With the hell he had been through it was the most natural reaction in the world. Natural for anyone whose friends were slaughtered while charged with ensuring the survival of those that remained. Most men Big Jim Moss knew would have cracked like cheap leather before now and this kid, this man- child, had not only been keeping it together for nearly three years, he eschewed any limelight, wanting nothing more than to keep watch over his High School sweetheart.

In that instant Jim Moss, cattle baron from Texas, felt an inadequacy he'd never before known. At the same time he decided that come what may, Lloyd Foster was going to accept his help. It would be a delicate operation, but with years of business negotiations behind him, Jim Moss knew he was the surgeon for the task.

Reaching for the water pitcher once again Jim stated plainly, "No, Lloyd. You see Santa Anna was the self-styled 'Napoleon of the West;' and while that approbation worked with his troops, and certainly in Santa Anna's own mind, it failed miserably at San Jacinto, a few weeks later when Sam Houston's forces crushed him. But he was certainly a competent enough commander to plan for what some of the defenders would do once the mission walls were breached and his Mexicans began to pour in. To that end, he placed his mounted lancers, next to useless in the close quarter fighting inside the Alamo, but deadly in riding down and killing panicked men running for their lives on the open plain. They all were finished off before they got too far."

Jim Moss read what he had expected to see. Lloyd's face betraying a relief at hearing the fate of those who ran combined immediately with the self guilt he had lived with all this time. Now was the critical time of the surgery. One slip and Jim could lose him. Even worse Lloyd might lose himself. Destined to watch the love of his life die, (Some discreet inquiries by Jim had confirmed this eventually as very likely) Jim had a pretty good idea of Lloyd's life after that. Obscurity would take him out of the public eye and Lloyd would run to that.

But he would never run far enough to run from himself.

Drugs and alcohol would help, and by the time some anniversary or event that would remind people that it was high time to haul the HTS kids back into the glaring light of public attention, some enterprising reporter or corporate big wig (much like himself he thought acridly) would spend like a sailor, moving heaven and earth to find Lloyd Foster. If he were still alive, what they would probably find would make for a far more interesting story than any 'Schonefield Revisited' documentary could manage. There would be a tabloid feast with his demons as the main course. That done, the pitiable wrench that Lloyd Foster would have become would realize that the only true obscurity left to him was one last retreat, one last run, this time through the ultimate exit door. In Jim's mind, it made for one hell of a tragedy, one he was determined to prevent.

"Lloyd. How many children were rescued by the army?"

"Huh," Lloyd was still digesting the thought of long dead Texans succumbing to fear being pin-cushioned by Mexican cavalry. "Well sir," he began, but stopped when Big Jim waved him off.

"Appreciate your manners Lloyd. They're duly registered. But here we are talking man –to-man. You'd honor me by calling me Jim."

Lloyd smiled, "Jim," he said. Then remembering the question. "Ninety six. Ninety seven if you count me," his voice dropping again.

Jim reacted quickly, "I absolutely count you. You were, what eighteen, nineteen at the time?"

"Eighteen," Lloyd said.

"On the threshold of manhood. Still are in my opinion," Then seeing Lloyd start, Jim put up his hands in self-defense. "No offense intended. I'm merely speaking from the viewpoint of my advanced years. No sir! You did a man's job that day, no doubt. And, again, in my opinion, your continued conduct toward your lady defines you as more a man then most I have ever met in my life!"

"Just not brave enough to stand and fight," Lloyd said.

"Tell me Lloyd. Besides adding one more name to the casualty list, what would that have accomplished? " Then before Lloyd could answer, "Nothing son, nothing. Not one damn thing. You received the highest marks in the Tippecanoe Rifles for land navigation and radio communication, but were a mediocre shot at best. No offense intended son. But when something catches my interest, I tend to research it thoroughly. Tell me, when those cadets decided to drop off and rear guard I bet the commander... Braden?"

"Yeah, Braden O'Day." Lloyd said.

"I bet Braden," Jim continued barely pausing, "said something to you the upshot I'm guessing being something like no matter what happens keep on that radio calling for help. That and get the kids in the clear. Am I right?"

Lloyd - Witness

The fight for the building was over. Braden and Lloyd had remained at the edge of the woods observing the savagery of the aftermath. Smoke still rose from all quarters of the building, most likely from the series of explosions they heard while making their way back. The faculty had made a fight of it. There were enemy causalities strewn about from outside the building and its immediate environs. Up to a couple hundred yards away on the flanks the boys observed enemy soldiers being treated by their comrades. Both figured the front of the building would present the same scene. Whoever was in charge certainly wouldn't be happy. This was apparent by the execution style murders that took place in full sight of the boys. It was the cafeteria staff being butchered.

"Jesus, Lord God!" Lloyd gasped as the three women were first manhandled, slapped, then forced to their knees beside the back exit of the school. Questions of some kind were being asked but the answers were apparently not to their captors liking. Even hidden over 150 yards away both Lloyd and Braden could distinguish the ladies that had served them lunch for most of their lives. Mrs. Donna Hardesy, the head of the staff, had her head and hands raised in an appeal to heaven. She had always assured each and every child had a hot meal regardless of their ability to pay on that particular day or not. As stern as any of the teachers, lunchroom clean up was conducted under her watchful eye, and woe to the student that rushed through their assigned clean up chores.

They killed her first. Pistol shot to the back of the head that splattered her whites with gore a split second ahead of her body tumbling forward.

Next came Clara Boarth, HTS class of '21. Working her way through junior college, Clara was less than a month away from taking a belated trip to South America. In fact, just that morning she had showed the seniors her passport, which had come in the mail only the day before. To the boys watching helplessly that seems a lifetime ago and not the few hours that had passed. Once forced to her knees Clara too had folded her hands and begun to pray. Like Mrs. Hardesy, a single pistol shot killed one of the nicest people every to grace the halls of HTS.

Mrs. Sara Beth Warren was Harrison's tough-ol-bird. If Mrs. Hardesy was the lunch staff's stern but fair matron; and Clara the bright ray of sunshine at the serving line, Mrs. Warren was the camp commandant from Hell. Never seeming to have a good day in her life translated into never seeming to have a good word for anyone. "Move on. Let's keep the line moving," was the extent of her lunchtime vocabulary. As if she knew she was being watched by her former charges, she stayed in character to the end. When asked a question shortly before being beat down she replied by flipping her assailants off! A moment of confusion ensued as the universality of the gesture was apparently lost on the recipient. Once on her knees she was threatened once more. Her double bird answer was now fully understood.

Her murderer's reply was to unload an entire pistol in her face.

Both boys wept silent tears. Lloyd then suggested that they bring up the rest of Harrison's ROTC 'Tippecanoe Rifles' and make a fight of it from the wood line. They certainly would have inflicted considerable carnage, being armed with the M-1's Headmaster Morgan had bought from Fort Sheridan's clearance sale as well as the element of surprise, but Braden had nixed that idea.

"Mr. Morgan said our job was to protect the kids and move them to the Breakers road and that's what I intend to do."

"But," Lloyd whispered in protest.

"No buts Lloyd. Look any second now whoever's in charge of those guys is going to get them organized. Once that happens, my guess is that their going to probably fan out and head this way. They have to realize that Harrison's a school, but they're already wondering, where's the kids? Then they're gonna look right at these woods, see the dirt road and head this way. So let's catch up with the kids. Hopefully the girls have kept them moving. Lloyd, I know you're angry, so am I, but you have to keep your head. It's on you to raise the military or the police, somebody on the radio. Tell them what's happened here and tell them to come a-running. That plus your aces on land nav. Your job will be to get them to the junction. Head 'em south from there. Help's on its way. Morgan said it's coming from that direction. You're not our only hope, but you're sure one of our biggest."

Lloyd bit down hard not to tell Braden that he had no desire to shoot a back azimuth, but wanted nothing more than to shoot whomever those bastards were. They backed off and made for what they both hoped was the mobile student body of the former Harrison Traditional School.

Lloyd had replayed that conversation in his mind time and again. What Braden had said was so clear the town drunk would have figured it out almost immediately. Braden wasn't counting on leading the group out. He wasn't even planning on being with them once they hit the junction of Breakers and Highway 31. Lloyd was just so damn mad at that moment he wasn't thinking.

"Yeah Jim you're right. That's what Braden said alright," Lloyd replied. "He was planning to make a stand the moment we saw what had happened at the school. He knew they would catch up to us otherwise."

"Slow Jim, slow," Moss thought to himself. "This is it, that delicate moment where you'll either save or lose him."

"Thought so and here's my point Lloyd," he began. Those forty some odd men that ran from the debacle at the Alamo were running for their lives. All grand thoughts like independence for Texas and buying Houston time to recruit and train troops were gone. They just wanted to survive."

"But in your case," Jim continued, "You were in charge of children. Children Lloyd! Christ sakes man, there's a damn good reason why the command of 'Women and Children First' is one of the cardinal rules of ships in distress. And a ship's Captain always sends a seaman along to man those boats. They're usually young men like you. And they're in charge of that lifeboat. They man the oars and ration the resources. I'm not surprised that when the time came and Braden determined the circumstances dictated that the Rifles drop off and buy you time to hit that junction he acted. What still surprises me today is that the rest of the cadets agreed so readily. From what I've read they were normal kids, yet they rose to the occasion without dissent, even knowing what the probable outcome would be. And you rose too Lloyd Foster. Oh, I know you don't think so, but your duty was to those kids; kids that are alive today in large part because of you."

The look on Lloyd's face told Jim that he had never considered his actions in this light before. He had been so caught up in the whirlwind of post Schonefield interrogation, interviews and concern for Rhoda that by the time he had a moment to himself, a moment to reflect, the hero label had already been attached. Braden hadn't given him the choice. Braden had already decided that he would live, must live.

"I was never given the choice," Lloyd said aloud, more to himself than to Jim.

"Lloyd," Jim said, "Braden was your superior officer. I know that it was just high school ROTC, but he was in charge and he took charge. He made a tactical assessment and issued his orders accordingly."

"Besides," he went on pointing at Lloyd, "in the end you were willing to stand with them and, if you are honest with yourself, were probably minutes away from joining the rest of the Rifles. But it was your mere presence that helped all those kids. Even so it was a near run thing. Had the Army been any later... but they weren't because you stayed on the radio, and although you didn't know it at that time, you helped guide them on to your charges position. Lloyd, I can't make you feel better about yourself. All I can do is tell you the truth. That truth is some heroes die, and that's a fact; but some heroes live and that too is a fact. How you live determines whether or not those that died did so in vain. In my opinion, and the opinion of all who know you, your conduct ranks on par with the sacrifice of the Rifles. Your greatest challenge now is to live that exemplary life your courage has demonstrated."

Within twenty-four hours the caretaker of the Texas Star (North) was settled in.

The Watch

His was now free to sit by Rhoda's bedside. Here he recaps the day's events. He also takes the engagement ring and places it on her bony finger. Each visit starts and ends with prayer. He never fails to mention any development that has occurred, inventions, music, events, anything new that they should be experiencing together. Some days are harder than others. Those times he falls back on their shared memories. Reminding her how she would playfully tease him about his name, telling him that he needed to be at least forty before it would fit him.

"By the time we're forty you'll be saying how distinguished it makes me look. And people will stare with barely concealed envy at the handsome Lloyd Foster,' and who is that beautiful lady on his arm?' They will ask. 'Why that's Mrs. Foster, former Miss Montana and first runner-up in the Miss America pageant don't you know.' I made you first runner-up because I don't want your head getting any bigger than what it already is."

Lloyd always told this story or some variation of it while stroking Rhoda's hair or face or simply holding her hand. He didn't know if she heard it or if she did that it made her feel any better. But it worked wonders for him, and broke the hearts any of the medical staff that happened to overhear.

Initially the hospital staff tried to keep him out by reminding him that he was not a relative. But their hearts were never really in it. Everyone knew what had happened at Schonefield, and the part Lloyd and Rhoda had played in the tragedy. My God! The girl's own parents didn't come to visit anymore. It was as though they had shipped her here to die. Besides, many correctly guessed the city fathers would be well disposed toward them if a blind eye were conspicuously turned concerning young Mr. Foster.

City fathers or not, the hospital administrator, Hiram West, was duty bound to tell the Delcums of Rhoda's daily visitor. Speaking to both on a speakerphone, their initial reaction, banning further access, was exactly what he feared. Being no fool, West knew a potential public relations disaster when he saw it. And being considerably savvier in this area than the Delcums, he informed them that while he certainly acknowledged their right to restrict outside visitations, an order he hastened to add he had up until now scrupulously followed, that the young man had been, and technically still was, their daughter's fiancée. Should the Delcums insist and Mr. Foster decide to go to the news media with the story, well administrator West certainly couldn't speak for the entire hospital board of course but the young man, along with their daughter, were considered national heroes of sorts. They were America's darlings, and up until now the media has been respectful, steering clear of publicizing Lloyd's visits out of respect for the current circumstances.

"Allow those responsible for Rhoda's condition to remain the bad guys," West said. "There is no way on God's green earth, that you'll be able to sway what the public may perceive as nothing more than mean-spirited intransigence. You'll have reporters camped out on your doorstep wanting to know why. What will you say? That you want the boy to move on with his life? A noble sentiment, but if with that being true, do you think it'll read that way in all the papers? Let me assure you Mister and Misses Delcum it most certainly will not!

Most reporters I have known are a combination, half human and half something unclassified, but that happily lives in the dirt of ulterior motives and loves to dig. Those who haven't sold their humanity for a shot at a Pulitzer will take your explanation and go away happy to write about the dignified way you have tried to help a young man move on past the shared pain all three of you feel. Most, but not all. The young and hungry will continue to dig. Even when most of them have convinced themselves of the righteousness of your intention, there will still be a percentage, those most feral, who will conceive and ascribe the most base reasons for your decision. Then they will proceed to interview any and everyone looking to find a justification for their cockamamie theories, and you know what? Inevitably, they will find it.

No folks, I'm not implying anything except to say everyone has skeletons; and these aberrant creatures won't stop until they are found and revealed to the world. Finally, the lowest of the low won't even bother with even the pretense of research; without a scintilla of compassion they'll just make it up. Like Joseph Goebble's "Big Lie", if repeated often enough people will believe."

His argument was well taken by Mr. and Mrs. Delcum. Hiram West sadly believed to his dying day that the issue remained in doubt until the inference regarding the possible cessation of federal funding for their daughter's care was raised. It had been his trump card and he played it with the subtlety of a bridge master. Suddenly immovable intransigence quickly moved to sporadic grumbling, which easily segued to overall acceptance, once he threw them a bone by alluding to the possible therapeutic benefits that such visits might produce.

Hiram West replaced the receiver, leaned back in his patent leather chair and smiled. His gaze fell on the semi-circle of family pictures that graced his lacquered mahogany desk. The centerpiece was a portrait of his wife Louise, dead now seven long years from the cancer that had sapped her life with a frightening rapidity. Like Lloyd Foster, Hiram West had stood the watch with the love of his life until the end. Still smiling his eyes took on the sadness of remembrance. "Well Lou-Lou, chalk one up today for the good guys."

For his part Lloyd never knew what had transpired.

He was at his usual position by Rhoda's bedside when the nursing staff received the phone call. Two minutes later Lloyd was on the line with Lauren Ortiz.

"Lloyd, Lauren Ortiz, how are you?"

"Lauren! Why I'm fine. How are you? How's college?"

"I'm fine. College is a bear." Then with slight hesitation, "How's Rhoda?"

Lloyd let out a short breath. Anyone else would have received Lloyd's standard optimistic answer stating that Rhoda's on the mend, any day now she going to open her eyes and once again the sun will shine and birds will sing and flowers will shower the world with sweet fragrance. But this was Lauren. And though the club wasn't big the membership was certainly exclusive. Telling Lauren a lie or even a half- truth was unthinkable.

"No change still comatose."

"I pray for her everyday. So do many others. She's lucky to have you."

"I was always the lucky one Lauren, Lloyd said. Then quickly before the conversation could become even more maudlin, "What's up? Or is this just a social call?"

Lauren began by explaining how the Schonefield Group, a conglomeration of local businesses and some heavy outside money had leased HTS, the property as well as the environs up to a quarter mile in circumference. ("Real heavy outside money," thought Lloyd) Since Headmaster Morgan was dead, his wife Bea was in charge of the property. As well as assuming the job of headmistress of the new Morgan Traditional School, built about a mile south of HTS, she decided that if something was going to be done to honor the faculty and students of the 9 May tragedy it was going to be done right. As the owner she was therefore in a position to insist on a very unusual provisional lease. She would allow the Schonefield group to preserve the site, however they must adhere to several conditions namely:

Provision One. The school building's interior must be preserved in its present condition. This included blast damage as well as damage from small arms fire. The huge cafeteria could be altered to accommodate, like many national parks, audiences for a video presentation. Naturally placards could be placed at specific areas explaining what had occurred. Exterior construction must be exacting in its faithful reproduction of the original design, once again with as much damage preserved as structural integrity would allow.

"She always was a tough bird," Lloyd interrupted.

"That's nothing," Lauren said. "You ready for the kicker."

"Shoot," Lloyd said. He was smiling, remembering his several pre 9 May encounters with Mrs. Morgan. What Lauren said next caused the smile to quickly fade.

Lauren took a deep breath. "Lloyd, remember how she took over after...afterwards?"

Lloyd noted how difficult it was for everyone closely involved, including himself, to try and assign a name to what happened. To him calling it 'The Schonefield Incident' was as demeaning as it was insufficient. It was like calling rape, consensual.

He apologized reminding her that in the immediate aftermath Rhoda had been his sole concern. That, and the enormity of the losing so many close friends had unbalanced all of them. There had been the funerals, followed by the world's most watched graduation.

Graduation for two. It sounded like a Learner and Lowe musical. The hook song, the one that would send the audience into the night singing, was that instant classic: It Should Have Been Four. Yeah, it should have been. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. But one was dead and the other in a coma. "Lloyd Foster" and the crowd that shoulda numbered no more than a hundred at the very outside, erupted with the deafening applause normally reserved for victories athletics, conquering heroes and presidential State of the Union addresses. Press reports would later place the number that had managed to squeeze into the Consolidated Middle School/High School gym at two thousand, with over half of those from the press. "Jeez Louise!" Lloyd's Uncle Max exclaimed. "There's so many satellite dishes outside, it looks as though we're trying to contact the Galactic Council for a membership application."

Could someone remembered the solemnity of the occasion, and kept the Fourth Estate caged? No I suppose not. "Lauren Ortiz Hartman." Then it was her turn in the barrel. After receiving her diploma to the same cacophony that had greeted Lloyd, she sat back down

In a way she was alphabetically lucky, if such a term woulda been possible to ascribe to this façade. She sat at the end of four chairs; Lloyd occupied the other. Between him were two chairs draped in black crepe, each with a neatly folded gown toped with a mortarboard – Braden and Rhoda's. And Rhoda wasn't even dead, for cryin' out loud!

"Lloyd, Lloyd. You still there?" Lauren's voice snapped him back to reality. "Yeah, sorry I spaced there for a moment," he replied.

"Graduation?" she asked. Hard to keep anything from Lars.

"Yeah. What a zoo!"

"Gospel truth there, no doubt. I still get chills thinking about how surreal it all was."

"Yeah. Sorry. Anyway you were saying something about Mrs. Morgan taking over?"

"Well, afterwards you know. I remember it very well. It was a week later and I went back to school to see about getting my things and there she was personally directing the clean-up."

"Yeah, my folks got my stuff," Lloyd interjected.

"You were lucky in that regard, believe me. I wished I had never gone. Our lockers were set up outside, as the building was in such terrible shape it was in danger of collapse. I had heard that the structural engineer recommended bulldozing the site, but she would have none of it. Anyway, I found my locker, and I'm getting my things, when I hear one of the clean-up crew mention to Mrs. Morgan that everyone will need to leave soon because the fumes from the solvent they're going to use to remove the blood stains were pretty strong but that they would set up some big fans and open the plastic tarps that were covering where the doors used to be, and the place would air out in a few hours."

"Uh huh," Lloyd said.

"Lloyd, she absolutely refused to allow a single speck of blood to be removed.! In fact she asked the clean-up man what type of sealant would be best to preserve them!"

"Wow! That's certainly different. But I'm honestly not all that surprised."

"Really? Care to share?"

At this they both laughed. Harvey Miles, HTS's esteemed Chemistry and Biology teacher, had a habit of sneaking up on students engaged in surreptitious conversation. Without saying a word he would lean on the science table, prop his chin on his hand, and feign fascination, moving his head to and fro until the tittering from the rest of the class would alert the miscreant students that something was up. Upon seeing Mr. Miles they would usually lower their heads and wait for the inevitable "Really? Care to share?" that was always his standard line. Busted, the students would shake their heads realizing that they had just netted a zero in conduct for the day. They also knew that a weeks worth of good behavior would erase it. That was just the way Mr. Miles, indeed most of the teachers at HTS operated.

Harvey Johansson Miles 68, was within one week of retirement. "I'm walking out the door with you," He told the seniors all that last semester. Part-time fisherman and full-time Grandfather was what he was looking forward to. When the attack came, Mr. Miles, and a fortuitous supply of explosives, inflicted both surprise and substantial enemy casualties.

It was good to laugh again. Though neither said it, both Lauren and Lloyd though about how long it had been since either had. As if tuned in to each other's thoughts both abruptly ceased.

"Aw me," chuckled Lloyd one last time. "Good ol' Mr. Miles."

"Yeah," sighed Lauren. "I miss him."

"Me too," agreed Lloyd. Then he added almost without thinking. "I miss them all. Even the ones I didn't know so well. Sometimes I think... Well sometimes I think about them the most, the ones that I didn't really know. Strange huh?"

Lauren was surprised, but only said, "I know what you mean." She didn't want to go where the conversation was heading, at least not on the telephone. Later perhaps, in person, if Lloyd bought in on what Mrs. Morgan had in mind for them, they could find the right moment to continue down this path. But for now, especially for her own sake, she needed to steer the conversation back on track.

"So you're really not all that surprised about Mrs. Morgan's stand on the blood issue?"

"Well, don't get me wrong Lauren. It's weird for sure. But it's also keeping with what Dean Morgan told me about their trip to Texas one summer. They were in San Antonio, and of course went to see the Alamo. Now you know how the Dean was, always cool calm and collected. Well he told me that while both he and Mrs. Morgan enjoyed the tour, the historical ambiance was totally compromised by the encroachment of the city. He went on to say how they both longed to be there the day after the fight. Lauren, He was getting worked up just telling me about how he would have preserved the site in all its gory glory, yadda, yadda. You get my point?"

"Yeah I do. Thanks, it does explain a lot."

Lauren continued.

"Provision Two. The retreat route (Mrs. Morgan absolutely refused to have the word 'escape' uttered in her presence) it to be a paved walkway, circuitous and meeting all state and federal handicap regulations. It may not come any closer than ten feet to any site where the retreat took place. Twenty feet (Here Lauren paused a moment, then read on) from the site of the rearguard action, markers are to be placed explaining what occurred, who perished, and how many enemy dead were killed at any particular site. The entire walkway is to be named The Valor Road. Finally twin monuments are to be place at both ends of the circuit explaining what took place.'"

Lloyd was listening, but his eyes had strayed back on the shrunken form of Rhoda, which had suddenly twitched. It seemed that the machines were now doing almost everything for her. The doctors had explained that the machines could keep her going almost indefinitely. But the human body was not built for indefinite periods of remaining sedentary. Muscles atrophy at a rapid rate. Electric current would help forestall a complete breakdown of her tissue, but eventually...

"Lauren," he said much louder and harsher than he intended. "Sorry, I mean... well this is all fascinating. Bizarre also comes to mind; but that is because we both have been there and done that."

A thought came to Lloyd's mind of how the old Civil War veterans must have felt when they revisited the battlefields of their youth. A least Lauren hadn't said anything about him doing anything as out of the question as that.

"What I'm trying to say is what does this have to do with us? With me?"

"They want us to be a part of it Lloyd." Lauren said as calm as if telling the time. "At least to provide historical background. Maybe conduct the first tours. Definitely to record our stories for the different stations along this Valor Road thing. In fact, the last provision states that without our cooperation the entire project is null and void."

Now she says it, Lloyd thought.

Two hours later Rhoda opened her eyes, smiled at Lloyd, who was in the middle of his usual recital regarding their future, looked down and saw the engagement still on her finger. She then looked back at a now smiling, silently crying Lloyd. "The children," she grated, a bare whisper out of vocal cords shrunken, like the rest of her, from years of disuse. "They're all okay, thanks to you sweetheart," he said, unable to keep the utter astonishment of seeing her again out of his voice. "Sorry, shoulda told you," she strained out, sounding like wind whistling through electrical lines. He shook his head, smiling. "That's okay, later." She smiled once again, a grinning skull. "Love you," she mouthed. He took her hand, kissing the pale- dry skin. "I love you too, sweetheart." Eyes locked, they communicated that way a moment longer. A slight breeze caressed Lloyd's face. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and when he opened them he saw Rhoda's eyes, still fixed on him but staring at eternity. "Always," he said.

Her funeral was held three days later back at Schonefield. All eyes were on Lloyd Foster. He delivered the eulogy and no visitor to the coffin failed to notice the engagement ring that graced Rhoda's finger. Her parents were little more than bystanders. Their apparent lack of concern for their daughter, only three cursory visits in two years according to an anonymous hospital source, had had a telling effect on the public's opinion.

Herb Delcum, whose reaction at Andrea's desire for a divorce had cost him a night in Schonefield's jail, was confronted outside the cemetery by three long suffering mistresses, whose shock at discovering that, contrary to Herb's repeated assurances that each was next in line for the dubious title of Mrs. Delcum, there was competition. Only the quick action of Schonefield's police force, and the security hired by Jim Moss at Lloyd's behest prevented a solemn occasion from becoming a circus. The ladies, as well as Herb Delcum, were quietly escorted away in opposite directions. Herb immediate decision to leave town, followed by his mysterious fatal car crash a less than a week later, surprised no one in particular.

Andrea Delcum's Morris Melton decision was, as Herb had predicted, her undoing.

Her lawyer had never stopped trying to get her to see reason regarding the Melton show. Nor had the list of far most prestigious, and lucrative, offers swayed her in the least. Melton was the regional must see show, and she absolutely had to be on it! Sitting on the face of those who would pity her, became an obsession that Andrea Delcum, now the widow Delcum, would not be denied. Bowing to the inevitable, her lawyer had, true to his word, indeed made it happen. And although there was no northwestern Cathy Couch Potato claiming a paternal link to Ben Affleck while currently in a motherly way courtesy of Sashquash, there was the frequent guest of the show – a certain Mr. Roland, whose claim of psychic powers extended to communicating with the dead.

Too late did Andrea discover the truth in both Herb's and her lawyer's warnings. Once she had agreed with Mr. Roland that several of his messages had indeed come from her daughter, (that made good television after all, even she was media savvy enough to know that!) she was floored to discover that her newly deceased ex husband also had a word for her. Mr. Roland channeled Herb's message that he knew that Rhoda was not their daughter because of a Gulf War injury that had left him sterile. Herb, according to the psychic, now with Rhoda alongside, wanted to know who the real father was! Andrea's fervent denials followed by her breaking down as the closing credits rolled made for great television Morris told her afterward.

What her lawyer later told her was not so encouraging. All the previous offers dried up like water in the desert. No one wanted to touch the Schonefield Slut as one producer had called her. Considering she was damaged beyond redemption goods, her lawyer considered their professional relationship at an end. However, if she wanted to try and resurrect their private relationship...

Later that night, while the lawyer slept, Andrea Delcum walked off the seventeenth floor balcony and, if Mister Roland's prognostications were to be believed, into the company of her inquisitive ex-husband and daughter.

The following week the lawyer appeared on the Morris Melton Show.

Bea Morgan

It was shortly after Rhoda's funeral that Lloyd and Lauren met with the Schonefield Group. Neither was surprised that Bea Norton chaired the meeting. Lloyd wasn't surprised to find one of the chief investors in attendance was James 'Big Jim' Moss.

Both were treated with the deference they had come accept. When after an hour of sitting in on what seemed a myriad of procedural gobbledygook Lauren asked Lloyd if he was ready to leave.

"More than ready," he said.

Both stood up, and upon been recognized by Mrs. Morgan asked if their continued presence was necessary. She apologized and assuring them that she hadn't meant to keep them for so long. Would they be willing to make a verbal commitment here and now affirming that they would willing serve as guide for the first summer of the project?

Both agreed.

Finally, would both be willing to record their stories so that visitors to the Valor Road could hear, first hand, what occurred when and where. This would entail doing the actual recordings on site. Would you be willing?

Lloyd looked at Lauren. Her composed face told him that she had at least come to terms with her demons. Although how Lloyd had no idea.

"Yes," she said, clear and steady.

Lloyd for his part turned and caught Jim Moss's eye. With a bare nod to his benefactor, Lloyd turned to the assemblage and said, "Yes, me too."

Ever the schoolmarm, Bea Morgan then said, "Fine! Then you are dismissed." Catching herself, but not before the choked outburst of laughter from the investors quickly flushed her naturally ruddy complexion a darker shade of crimson she added, "Sorry. Old habits and all that. We'll be in contact and settle on a date for the recording as well as a salary I'm sure you'll both consider...," here she paused and scanned the group before again addressing Lloyd and Lauren, "adequate," she said with finality.

It was mid June before a settlement all parties (mainly Bea Morgan) could agree on. Some potential investors, sensing a low profit margin backed out. Jim Moss stayed on. Lloyd suspected that being in on the ground floor of America's newest Alamo was too great a temptation for the bona fide Texan to resist. That and his implied threat to bring in outside (again Lloyd read Texan) money swayed most local investors to stay the course. Their personal relationship had grown since that meeting in Helena. Jim asked him one day about his future and in typical Lloyd fashion he claimed to have honestly not given it much thought.

"Lot of world to see Lloyd, if you're not married to Montana," Jim said with a smile. He went on to explain what Lloyd already knew from his own research, that Moss Enterprises was a successful national and international business. There would always be a place in it for the likes of Lloyd Foster. No pressure mind you, jus something to think about.

Lloyd promised him that he would.

Lauren had finished up her junior year, and was working as a camp counselor in Wyoming when, in late August, the call came from Mrs. Morgan. Her and Lloyd's recollections were needed within the next week or so if that okay with her.

It was almost time to walk the Valor Road.

They met with the producer, Art Wellman back at Schonefield. He assured them that the utmost respect and consideration would be given them. If, at any time they found themselves unable to go on just say the word and arrangements would be made to complete their stories in a studio. It was for the sake of memory that they were initially asked to do it on location. He showed them the recording equipment and introduced them to his staff. He hastened to reassure them that he realized the potential pain involved in dredging up such horrific memories. But he added that countless generations yet to come would have their stories, in their words, of what took place that day.

Lloyd and Lauren both agreed, but with one caveat. Their story would not begin with the flight, but at the school, and at 8:15 when the school day began. It was in many respects, the last normal moments of their lives. It was a day they had relived over and over in countless daydreams and nightmares. It had to start like that day had started; fresh with the promise of a beautiful spring day coupled with the sadness that in less than a week the high school chapter of their lives would forever be closed. That, somehow, had to be conveyed to the visitor, they too had to remember their last week of high school. Could the producer and his staff capture the essence of what they were trying to say? Did he need more people? More equipment? Because there would be no second takes. None! They would tell their story. Each transient thought that transpired would be said aloud for the record. But this was one and only one comet ride into the sun. Your equipment fails and that on you. Now, once again, he was asked if he felt he would need a little more time.

The producer sat in stunned silence for several seconds trying to digest the sure magnitude of what Lauren and Lloyd were proposing. He was an Oscar winning soundman with more years in the business that these two had lived almost combined. However, at this moment he felt the like the lowliest grip on the second unit of a B movie. He had figured on getting their stories dealing with the tragedy of the flight, and counting his blessings lucky if he was to get a reasonably coherent version of that! Now what they proposed was virtually a minute- by- minute description of that entire fateful day. Here was his retirement, his Magnus Opus; his envelope ripping everybody-knows-who's-going-to-win-this-award moment. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Oscar for best documentary ever in the history of the damn planet goes to Arty Wellman ."

"More equipment," he thought, "Hell yes, he needed more equipment!"

"Would you mind if we postponed for say 48 hours?" he said.

They both assured him that a 48-hour delay would be fine.

Two days later everything was in place. Three sound crews, with a fourth in reserve, tested and retested equipment, which included wireless microphones, boom mics, parabolic dish microphones. There was even a camera crew to get what shots were possible. If Lauren or Lloyd burped, no less than twenty-seven microphones would pick it up.

Returning to HTS was the beginning of the emotional roller coaster ride for the former seniors.

Pulling up outside was the first shock for Lloyd. Lauren had already been back here once and was therefore a bit more prepared. Lloyd had last spied the building from the cover of the nearby woods on the early afternoon of 9 May. Then it was a smoking wreck. Caving in toward the center like a ship whose back was broken, the school had looked like a derelict wooden warship that had been surrounded and pummeled into submission by the entire enemy fleet. If floundering had been possible then the rubble of HTS would have foregone any thought of a graceful death plunge and sank straight down. Cleared of smoke and the scattered debris, the school retained the slight V- shape collapsing toward the center. The facing was mottled with small arms hits. Later he would note that every window in the back, the east side, had been replaced with a clear hard plastic cover. Blast damage had warped each window frame beyond any conventional repair. He knew that Mr. Morgan had taken the bulk of the staff to the roof where, Lloyd figured, he thought the best fight could be made. He thought back to the enemy bodies he and Braden had seen scattered about from the rear of the school. Evidence the bastions had taken the worse beating was in the blast damage splayed on their sides. None retained their crowning. Burnt star-shaped residue centered on entrance wounds punched through the two flanking the front entrance. Only now did Lloyd realize that, save the initial Canadian armored units assault on Schonefield, the bulk of the remaining enemy heavy firepower had been directed toward the school.

"That's were my George died."

Lloyd started. He had been so absorbed in studying the external damage that he hadn't heard Bea Morgan come along side. He looked at her still staring at what Mr. Morgan had called Redoubt One. Lloyd took notice of her hair. Normally worn in a netted bun on the back of her head, it was now free reaching nearly to her shoulders. Lloyd glanced back up.

"Looks like artillery hits," he said.

"RPG," she answered without hesitation. "Rocket Propelled Grenade," she added. "Bastards couldn't kill him any other way, my George. Had to blow him to pieces. Well that's okay. He took one hell of an honor guard to the afterlife with him that's for sure. They all did. When the contractor built the school, he chided George for insisting on rebar reinforcement on the redoubts. George told him that it wouldn't do at all for the wind we get around here to topple one of them. After the attack I had a visit from a military officer who'd examined the building. You know what he told me," She said absently, more to herself than to Lloyd. Before he could speak she went on.

"He said 'Man, that rebar helped that structure absorb those hits by having more give than a tank ever could.' That's what he said. My George," she said tapping the side of her head with her index finger. "He was an expert on static defenses. Always said, 'Honey Bee,' that's what he called me, his little honeybee. 'Honey Bee he said, if this school is going to mean something it has to last. Not just in the hearts and minds kind of lasting, but like the Great Pyramids," she went on. "Now Lloyd, I'll admit to some skepticism at first. Hell, we even had a fight or two over the cost, but look at it Lloyd, my George's flagship. It took one helluva beating but held together long enough to get you children to safety. He was right. My George was right."

A fervent look now distorted her features, giving her, for the briefest of moments, the archetypical appearance of an old crone. Again, before Lloyd could reply she leaned toward him as if preparing to share a secret.

"Harvey Miles gave 'em one hell of a surprise too," she continued. Had blasting caps in his car that day you know? His wife Glennis told me he was going to blow some stumps down at their lake house. Picked 'em up Sunday, just the day before."

Her eyes had begun to glaze again. A sure sign that she was entering a realm that Lloyd now begin to identify with the fanatic. Her George had lead a brave, but doomed defense to save the children. In her eyes, Lloyd saw her determination that that would never be forgotten. Perhaps she feared that it would become overshadowed by what an equally determined group of kids did barely three miles away. Harrison had become a holy shrine to her. Lloyd began to wonder if she would ever reconcile the equality of both events. To him there was no difference what so ever. It was like asking parents their favorite child. He prayed that Bea Morgan would one day see that the moral seeds planted here in word and deed, bore a proud harvest at the terminus of a place now called The Valor Road.

"Can you believe that Lloyd!" she enunciated each syllable like a rifle shot. "Harvey Miles forgetting something dangerous like that and bringing it here where it would be needed!" She broke off, shook her head, and then solemnly pronounced. "The good Lord does move in strange ways indeed."

Just like the way she had met young Lieutenant Morgan. She was up from Mississippi visiting relatives in Georgia. Cousin Dedra's insistence they attend the cotillion honoring the departing young men off to fight in the first Gulf War appealed to Bea. Raised to think of herself as atypical southern gentry, Bea was just young enough to still retain the stirring dreams of ante bellum Tara, and all that implied, as articles of faith passed down as duty from previous generations. "Who knows," her cousin laughingly told her, "you might be meeting the man of your dreams for the first time.

She did.

Unlike Bea, George had to be virtually forced at gunpoint to attend what he considered one huge waste of time. Fresh off final exercises that had seen George wield his company with such defensive efficiency that an entire enemy battalion had been declared casualty; thus opening the way for counterattack and victory. The battalion commander, a lieutenant colonel, had protested so vigorously that the matter had to eventually forward up the chain for adjudication. All that had accomplished was a confirmation of the field judge's ruling, the loss at a chance to command a battalion in actual combat for the lieutenant colonel and George Morgan being marked as a "comer," one who needed to be watched carefully as a potential future combat leader. Although gratified with the validation of his actions, George knew he had made an enemy in the lieutenant colonel and that was enough to put him off on attending any public celebration. It was an implied direct order from his commanding officer that forced him to rush his dress blues to the one-hour dry cleaners and attend.

There were no sparks at their first meeting. They danced and Bea took noticed of his nameplate even though they had been introduced moments before. She off-handily mentioned in the small talk of strangers the one military item that connected her family with his name. "My great-great grandfather claimed to have ridden with General John Hunt Morgan. A relation of yours perhaps?"

George smiled. "Then your great-great grandfather had the honor of serving under mine."

Bea hid her astonishment beneath the veneer of southern coolness. "My but aren't you the cheeky one Lieutenant Morgan. How am I to know that there is a scintilla of truth to what you say? Morgan's not that uncommon a name you know?"

George conceded her point but kept smiling. "True enough Miss...miss. I'm sorry I've totally forgotten your last name."

"It's Modern; like modern but with an accent over the o," she virtually hissed through clenched teeth.

"Well Miss Modern," George said, deliberately exaggerating the accented o, "you have a standing invitation to Casa Morgan the next time you find yourself in the vicinity of Schonefield, Montana. We have some of the General's papers, including a roster of his command. I'm sure we can find Trooper Modern listed among..."

"It was Captain, lieutenant, Captain Dupree; and your statement of 'next time' implies that there was a first time I found myself anywhere near Montana. I assure you I have not."

It was George's turn to be floored nevertheless he retained his smile. "Bodwin Dupree?"

"Y...yes," she stammered. "Captain Bodwin Dupree of the..."

"Thirty-second Kentucky Rifles," George interjected. "He's mentioned often and with great love and affection by the General for his courage and bravely."

And that was all it took. From that point on George Morgan and Beatrice Modern with the accented o were fated to be together. Marriage and life as an Army wife had its ups and downs but few regrets, the only one being their inability to start a family. Harrison was in part compensation for that. Children taught the values of a great country by the great man she had come to view her George as gave her lasting solace. He was her fount, and by extension the well- spring of each and every student that passed through the hall of the school. What the Rifles did after George's brilliant stand here was merely an extension of the training they had received at his hands. The world had to acknowledge that. With George as their gilding force they simply could do nothing else. He was certainly right there beside Braden, directing his every movement when it came time for the enemy to see the folly of invading a blessed country under the direction of a great man.

"Well that certainly answers one of my questions about that day," Lloyd said. Mrs. Morgan looked at him quizzically, lost still in the sweet memories of the past.

"He normally parked up front close to the building," Lloyd explained. "But that day he parked at the very back of the lot. My guess would be he remembered having them on his way here, but knew he would've run late returning home. So he parked where he figured it was a safe."

It was then Jim Moss appeared. "You all about ready? The crews waiting."

Lauren had already gone in now reappeared and gave Lloyd a quick nod.

"Yeah, I guess. Let's do this." Lloyd said and walked in behind Mrs. Morgan.

During the course of a normal school year, some grades, mainly the elementary, would have history or science fairs. Then the hallways would be transformed into displays ranging from an abbreviated version of a Civil War hospital complete with staff triaging wounded soldiers and piles of ersatz amputated limbs; or one might walk through the front door and begin a journey through the digestive tract, with small students dressed in strange costumes denoting them as enzymes, informing you that as a chewed morsel of food this is what your journey looked like once you were swallowed. In either case, easels would guide the visitor (many parents and the town newspaper never failed to show up, marking the fairs as an annual event almost everyone looked forward to.) through enlarged photographs and professionally typed explanations of what they were seeing. Sometimes whole classrooms would be converted into sidebar stages where one might behold a dying Lincoln, or a nuclear reaction.

Once inside, Lloyd's initial impression was that he had stepped into some weird architectural combination of both fairs. His attention was first drawn to the skylight that hadn't been there on the morning of May 9th. Encompassing the entire thirty- foot length of the entrance hallway, he had failed to notice the addition from the outside. The first display placard showing the ruined building in the immediate aftermath came as a surprise to him. Lauren was right about him being lucky not to have come back. The explosion that Braden and him had heard on their way back collapsed the entrance hall into the V-shaped rubble. They had been too concerned about keeping hid and the smoke was still to thick for them to notice. It was now, in Lloyd's estimation, a major miracle the building hadn't been blown in half!

At the end of the newly reconstructed hall, attached to the wall were two placards: The smiling face of Harvey Miles in his white lab coat contrasted with the stern countenance of Patrolman Lawrence Harper. The informational bios on both men ended with the same solemn pronouncement:

Teacher Harvey Miles – Patrolman Lawrence Harper fell here May 9th 2022.

Patrolman Lawrence T. Harper

Larry Harper was hit. He didn't know how badly, but he was in better shape than his patrol car, which sounded like it was going to seize up or throw a rod at any moment. He had heard the distress call from Cally Foreman, the day dispatcher. She had stayed calm and described the scene from her little window at headquarters, but that was almost unnecessary. Cally had been smart enough to pipe in the video from the station's outside concealed monitoring cameras. Scores of armed men, "military men," were her exact words, dressed in some sort of dapple gray uniforms were storming the building. In the background, he heard the unmistakable reports of small arms and automatic weapons fire. Police Chief Gregg Stennes was screaming at Cally to get on the State Police band and tell them what the hell was happening. "All units, reports are they're using tractor trailers as transports," Cally had managed to pass on before the outside scene showing an soldier on one knee balancing what looked like a bazooka on his right shoulder showed up on a monitor. Larry key his steering wheel mic button and screamed for Cally to get the hell out of there. He could have almost swore that he heard her snort a suppressed laugh before quickly saying in a voice that now broke with the realization that her time was up, "And go where Larry? Montana State, this is Schonefield PD, we are under attack by mili..." The last thing Larry heard was an explosion, then silence.

Attempts to raise the two other patrols were met with the same dead air. He had been cruising the back road of Highway 127, complying with a request from the state Game Warden to keep an eye out for deer poachers. Slamming on the breaks, he pulled the cruiser over, jumped out and quickly donned his protective flak jacket, loaded his shotgun with 00 shot, chambered a round and did the same with his service 9mm, placing it in the seat beside him. 127 was also know locally as Bottoms road, since it snaked its way through a low lying series of hills cut by a series of washes. Back in the cruiser, Larry headed up to Prairie Point. There he would be in a position to use his binoculars and scan the town. He'd also be in a good position to establish some type of radio contact with the State boys, or somebody with a hell of a lot more firepower than he was currently packing.

The jacked-knifed trailer sitting atop Prairie Point was just positioning itself as a road block, otherwise Larry Harper would probably had died then and there and, in all probability, Harrison Traditional would have fallen, students and all, in an coup d'main. As it was, the trailer doors were facing away as the speeding cruiser rounded the last curve heading toward the hilltop. Larry 's reflexes acted before his mind remembered Cally's last warning "...Their using tractor trailers as transports!" Both feet slammed on the brakes. Larry's training in high speed driving, initially the subject of light-hearted ribbing at the station, saved him as he whipped the steering wheel hard right. The big cruiser desperately wanted to fishtail out of control, but instead issued a screaming protest of blue smoke as Larry fought to lock in the new direction, 180 degrees opposite. The rear window and trunk begin to take hits, as the surprised tractor driver fired blind through Larry's unexpected, but welcomed, smoke screen.

Approximately two hundred yards separated the two vehicles when the first troops scrambled out of the trailer. "Bite damn it, bite! Larry yelled, willing the cruiser to gain stable traction and rocket him to safety. It was then he realized that he still had the break pedal depressed by one foot while the gas was floored with the other. "Aarrgh," he cried aloud while releasing the brake. He had violated a cardinal rule his tactical driving instructor had warned against: He had allowed his adrenalin to override his thinking.

Several things then seemed to happen at once.

The cruiser surged forward like a savannah antelope only to stagger under a pelting storm of lead. "Oh God, the tank gonna blow for sure," Larry's mind screamed. As if acknowledging that possibility, the cruiser suddenly lifted up causing Larry to scream aloud as he braced himself for the inevitable whoosh that would result in loss of control, and in all likelihood, a flaming, disintegrating tumble, that would finish near the bottom of the Point.

But instead the patrol car surged again. Freed from the conflicting operational orders of its driver, the wheels gained traction, freshening the smoke screen, and lunged around the curve to momentary safety.

Larry took a moment to calm down, easing off the accelerator. A quick glance revealed what he hoped was the extent of the damage. Minor hits if his initial assessment wasn't just wishful thinking. Tires seem to have survived (thank God). The gas gauge wasn't showing any radical drop in fuel. A quick glance in the outside mirror didn't show any tell-tell trail, but at this speed he knew that he could be hemorrhaging gas at a pretty steady clip and still not notice. The inside mirror was next to useless as the rear window was a collage of spider webbed hits. Couldn't worry about that now though, not with the dogleg coming up that would take him down and away, but temporarily in full view of the Point. Knowing that a cursory inspection could be fatal, Larry gave himself twenty precious seconds of appraisal time and stopped the patrol car just shy of the dogleg.

Slamming the gearshift into park, he was out and at the rear in two seconds. He had grabbed his nightstick off the passenger seat and within five seconds cleared the ruined rear window, punching the remains into the back seat. In his mind, it took forever to place his hands on the ground and go down to inspect the fuel tank. Fighting the feeling of being so vulnerable that all his mind wanted to do was constantly glance back at the curve that had provided him with temporary salvation, he forced himself to remain calm and do a quick but confidence boosting inspection. Satisfied there were no leaks, Larry next looked at the tires. Little wisps of smoke still lifted off ugly bald patches and the smell of burnt rubber was overwhelming. But, at least as far as he could tell, they still held air; one more mental lockdown like his previous one though, and Larry knew he would be driving on rims.

He had scant moments, on this the last day of his life, to reflect on how much extra time that his intuition had bought him. His conscious mind's batting average safeguarding his survival up till now was pretty paltry. Now, with his internal clock flashing triple zeros, he started back toward the wheel when an inner voice spoke to him clearly above the cacophony of fear and action demanding adrenalin. It said only three words. But they were words that although in the end would not save his life, would nevertheless serve to prolong it until the final mission of Patrolman Lawrence Harper was completed.

"Check the trunk!"

An anguished cry broke out as these words collided with his hyper keyed survival impulses like ocean waves pounding a rocky shore. He had left the car running, both to save time, and in terror that once turned off it would never start up again. Now some insane stream-of- consciousness demon was trying to kill him. Telling him turn of the ignition and use the keys to open the trunk. Then, as if the world had put blinders on his vision he noticed the manual trunk release latch on the floor of the left hand side of the driver's seat. Praying that the damage to the rear of the car hadn't jammed the mechanism Larry pulled the release.

A muffled click and the trunk arched open.

Immediately Larry's instinct kicked in. His police motorcycle helmet, kept in the trunk so Larry would not keep forgetting it at home, caught the morning sunlight and beamed at him with the intensity of an uncovered holy relic. "Yes! Thank you Lord," he hissed in quiet thanks to what he now attributed as heavenly intervention rather than an agent of Satan. Then he saw the oversize first aid kit and, knowing that before the day was over it was likely to come in handy, grabbed that. Behind that laid a pair of goggles, mandatory equipment for investigating the occasional chemical spills. Thinking of the shattered rear window, Larry removed his helmet long enough to don them. When he tried to close the trunk it would not catch. Enough was enough he decided, and left it up. A look down the sloping road that he would have to run confirmed what he already knew. The road facing the point smoothly snaked in and out of the side of the opposite hill. Rows of budding trees would provide some, but not near enough protection. Back behind the wheel he mentally calculated the maximum safe speed and distances involved. The news was not encouraging. Twelve maybe fifteen seconds to make the circuit and be in the clear. Damn! Why had he stopped in the first place? Too late for that now. Now the question was where to go? Where could he do the most good?

And for the final time the inner voice spoke.

Now, armed with little more than a newfound destination, he slammed the patrol car in drive and ran what he now suspected would be a fiery gauntlet.

Payback

There was in Lloyd estimation only one thing missing. A quick huddle with Lauren was followed by her agreement and then they both approached Jim Moss.

"A word in private if you don't mind Mr. Moss," Lloyd asked, remembering that night in Helena.

Surprised, Jim agreed and the three of them disappeared into what used to be the office of Headmaster Morgan.

Once inside Lloyd began.

"Jim, you've been a great friend to this project, to both of us, but to me in particular. Truth be told, you've probably saved my life."

Jim Moss opened his mouth but closed it again when Lloyd waved him off.

"Now, unless I miss my guess, you're about to try and say something very noble knowing it will probably come off sounding as... well shall we say something considerably less than that," Lloyd said solemnly but with a hint of a smile.

Lauren stood by his side listening. Her appreciation for Lloyd had always been high. Over the past several weeks her appreciation for James Moss (she couldn't get used to calling him Jim no matter the number of times he had asked. The age difference was just too great, she guessed.) had risen in no small part to Lloyd's telling her about all the man had done for him personally. He certainly had become (next to Mrs. Morgan) the driving force behind this project. He had always approached both them and the project with the utmost respect. That said, Lloyd's suggestion to her was as oblivious as it was practical. She only hoped that Big Jim would see it that way.

"We need you to listen to us as we tell our story." Lloyd said. "In fact, you would honor us if you just stood there and let us tell our story to you. You need not say a word. In fact, it's probably best you didn't. Just an appropriate nod or smile in the right place would make all the difference in the world, he paused. "How about it my friend? You up to hearing a tragedy from start to finish straight from the horse's mouths?" Lloyd turned to Lauren,

"No offense, he quickly added.

"None taken," she replied with a hint of a smile. Honor had been both Lloyd and Braden's hallmarks. Some might say in this age it was overstated, a throwback to another time. To Lauren it simply defined the character of the people, from her parents to her friends, she knew and loved.

"I know it's not the Alamo," he went on. "But it is the ground floor of a new chapter of American mythology. And it is truly an offer never to be repeated again."

Jim Moss stared at both kids, blinked spilling silent tears. If he lived long enough to make it to his lawyers, these kids would never have to worry about money the rest of their lives. That thought, as well meant as it was, appeared in the light of day so meaningless. He knew that money would never be a primary driving force in their lives. Still, it was all he had. Something about his Sunday school teaching when he was a young boy kept trying to surface in his thoughts. Lloyd, looking distressed started to say something, but Jim waved him off. He removed his Stetson and placed it on the former headmaster's desk.

"I would be honored," Jim finally managed to say.

After about twenty minutes of microphone placement and sound checks, Lauren Hartman-Ortiz and Lloyd Foster began their tale.

Lauren – The Yips

Lauren's class work had wrapped up last Friday. Now she was putting in the last of her required administrative time until noon when she was free, not only for the day, but until graduation. That was in two days, and she was fighting with the growing sense of impending loss that entailed. It hadn't helped what Clara Boarth had said after showing Braden, Lloyd Rhoda and her the bright blue and gold embossed passport and gushing about her up coming South American trip. Clara was proud to finally be going somewhere since appendicitis had side line her senior trip to Spain.

"Well guys, tell me. Anybody got the yips yet?" she asked.

"The what?" Braden asked; his boyish grin spread wide.

"The yips," Clara went on grinning herself. "You know, that five pound weight in the pit of your stomach, that feeling of dread knowing all this," she waved her arms in a semi circle, "is coming to an end. The class of '20 called it the yips. I know I got it this time last year myself."

"Clara," Lloyd said, "I thought you had appendicitis."

Everyone, including Clara, laughed.

"I know what your talking about Clara," Rhoda interjected as the laughter died down.

"Babe, you?" Lloyd said surprised at his fiancée's sudden confession.

"Don't you go acting like you all the sudden don't know what I'm talking about Lloyd Foster," she replied, giving him a good- natured shove. He rebounded toward her sliding his arm casually around her waist.

Rhoda snuggled slightly in his embrace and address the group. "Mister Macho here was saying just this past Saturday how much he's going to miss this place and he can't believe this is all coming to an end. Tell the truth. You did didn't you?"

"Yeah I did, I guess you might say I had a sudden case of the yip-yip hoorays," Lloyd said, grunting from the elbow Rhoda jabbed into his ribs.

This brought on another round of laughter. Lloyd recovered quickly from Rhoda's playful pummeling and added.

"But I'll tell you one thing I absolutely won't miss, and that's this uniform." He lifted the material from his chest with both hands all the while looking down and shaking his head. His dull gray drill uniform sported the silver oak leaves epaulettes of his recent promotion. "We must be the ugliest looking ROTC unit in history."

Braden ignored Lloyd's carping. After all, Friday's drill had been the last for the school year, and for Braden and Lloyd, their last drill as Cadet Major and Cadet Captain for Harrison Traditional School. This morning both boys had received the tradition reward. The Headmaster had promoted the Cadet Major and Cadet Captain to Cadet Colonel and Cadet Lieutenant Colonel respectively. The entire school attended the ceremony. The colonelcy promotions were an honorarium given to departing seniors for a high school ROTC career well done. They held the rank, complete with the appropriate insignia, for one day. This allowed their junior class replacements to assume the rank of Major and Captain during the same ceremony. Tomorrow, the newly minted juniors would assume their duties while the seniors would be considered 'retired'.

Still laughing, Clara said goodbye and headed back toward the cafeteria. Braden and Lauren parted with a quick hand squeeze. They had plans for a leisurely lunch at Deux Pont, in Jefferson, some thirty miles away. Rhoda fussed at Lloyd to let her go. She had two hours of student teaching to finish with Mrs. Vandermeter's kindergarten before her High School bondage was over. Lloyd and Braden planned to hang out in the arboretum, courtesy of the class of '18, on the south side of the school. The duck pond, situated among the trees, was a favorite place for all students. When the local mallards were in session, no one could resist paying them a visit, usually bringing extra bread. Everything considered, it had all the hallmarks of being a classical last senior day.

Lloyd - Melancholia

Telling a departing Rhoda he'd see her at noon, Lloyd turned to Braden. "Whadda ya say we turn in these uniforms."

"Let's say goodbye to the ducks first." Braden said, "You know Lloyd once we take this uniform off we'll never put it on again."

Lloyd threw him a mock salute. "Yes sir, Colonel sir." Braden rolled his eyes as Lloyd went on. "I swear Bray, I do believe you genuinely enjoyed all these years of playing soldier." They headed to the pond for a final goodbye to the ducks. Braden was silent for a moment.

"Well in all honesty Lo, I did," Braden said as they made their way toward the arboretum. "And I thought...," he paused then went on. "I thought, despite all your complaining, so did you."

Lloyd sobered up immediately. "Bray, you've been a good commander. You've been a better friend. More than I deserved sometimes. But you know we're almost night and day different. Maybe that's why this worked, you and me. You were born to do this; to command, I mean. You're a natural son. People will always follow you because you have that certain something."

Lloyd paused his face contorting in concentration. "Oh hell! What's that French phrase I'm trying to think of?"

Braden laughed. "Je ne sais quoi."

"Yeah, that one," Lloyd exclaimed. "French, what a language. I got hopelessly lost after bon jour."

"Yeah, not exactly your strong suit," Braden agreed.

"But that's my point Bray. You have the whole package. I would have bombed French big time without your help. There's not one of the Rifles that hasn't been made a better cadet, not to mention a better student, and therefore, by extension a better person, because of the time and patience you invested in them. They would have followed you in a coup d'ecole if you would have suggested and led it."

Braden couldn't control his laughter. Lloyd was funny sometimes, especially when he was trying to be noble or overly complimentary. But Braden knew that he spoke from his heart. Despite the gruff exterior he liked to project, Braden knew his best friend's nature harbored the heart of a decent, honest person. And this honest nature had always been an enduring quality that Braden admired.

But sometimes, like right now, he had a tendency to gush over into a melodramatic sentimentality that was down right embarrassing. Luckily, Braden knew the secret to bringing him back to earth.

"And you, Lloyd the Fair. Would you be by my side in this grandiose coup that everyone would supposedly follow me into?"

"Me?" Lloyd said in mock horror, putting his hands up in surrender. "Oh no, Colonel sir. I give up at the first whiff of trouble." Then turning his palms toward one another and tilting his head he flashed a quirky grin. "Lover not a fighter here. That's why us Fosters will stare long and hard at the statues of the O'Days on horseback and wonder how we got stuck with the job of cleaning all that pigeon crap off of 'em."

At this they both laughed and enter the outskirts of the arboretum.

It was nine twenty-three.

Twenty minutes later, HTS secretary Freda Glass slammed the phone receiver down harder than she meant to. Something had snafued the phones, and the exchange down in Schonefield didn't appear in much of a hurry about getting it fixed. She called Lauren over from the copier and asked her to hold down the front desk while she went outside and tried to contact the phone company on her vide phone. Not that she believed she had much of a chance, as reception this far out of town was still a dicey proposition at best.

Lauren stopped. Jim had been dividing his attention between both kids, desperately trying to absorb the sheer normalcy of what they were trying to convey. Lauren was sitting at the same place where Freda Glass had asked her to watch over things. The desk pocketed by shrapnel splinters probably created when Harvey Miles's surprise party favors properly introduced themselves to the intruding horde.

Jim initially thought that Lauren had succumbed to the strain of retelling. She gave him a weak smile and pointed to the clock facing her on the opposite wall. Unlike the desk the clock was brand new, but not working. It was frozen at 9:47:13.

"I asked for that clock to be put there," Lauren said. "Nine forty-seven and thirteen seconds. Funny how one remembers things, isn't it?" Jim nodded.

"That's the exact moment I looked at it before Mrs. Glass came running back in here saying that something was terribly wrong in town. I was sitting here. Rhoda was down in 208 teaching the Kindergarteners their colors. The boys were at the pond talking about the future. The front doors were open. I remember, I remember the birds chirping in the distance. Then all of a sudden they stopped. Then you heard it. It was like gunfire but it wasn't that. Backfire, that what it was. The engine was whining like a dying elephant up high and down. Then backfire. Pop Pop Pop. Mrs. Glass was saying something to Mr. Morgan in his office. I couldn't catch it because that noise was getting louder and louder."

Lauren was locked in a faraway stare. Jim opened his mouth to say something, anything. The truth be dammed! There was no way in hell that this was healthy. Lauren wasn't just a young woman telling a story anymore. She appeared more like a rape victim reliving the attack. But the movement of her hand stopped Jim cold before he could utter a word. She raised it palm out in the universal sign to stop. She was there, and she knew Jim's concern would pull her back. But this one- way trip she had to make in one go or never at all. The thread was too delicate to be subjected to the constant strain of fits and starts. Constant pauses would break that gossamer fabric of realism only she and Lloyd could provide, forcing them to tell the story by rote. Meanwhile the healing property of truthful recall could be forever lost.

Intermission

Fate is a roller coaster.

A clamorous slug carrying the righteous and wicked

Toward the summit of choice conclusions

Each

Dali-esque scream and adrenaline dream

Toward pseudo flirtations with the scythe

Of

Defection frozen in worm's arc

Invariably knowing too late that

Each deal seals the plunging side while anticipation still climbs with the other

-Fated to Die

By Lauren Hartman-Ortiz

English 337

Lloyd – The Ducks: A Flying Farewell

The pond still retained the dying signature of winter's visit in the form of an icy crust remnant around the shadow contours the sun, this early in the year, had yet to touch. At its edge the silent sentinel concrete bench held the hopes and dreams that Braden and Lloyd now freely shared as well as their collective weight. Their talk centered around the future, and of course the girls. It was then that Braden shared his nearest and dearest secret with his best friend. A shocker, no doubt, Braden thought. Still, if you can't share with your best friend.

A pair of mallards eyed them suspiciously at first, then sensing no danger cruised over in hope of a hand out. The male, then a second later, its mate, turned their heads west and a moment later altered their course away from the boys. In an instant they were water walking and honking a plaintive warning as they took off to the east, leaving their potential meal tickets to wonder what had spooked them.

"Squirrel hunting this early in the year?" Braden wondered aloud, picking up the distant report.

"Bet that's the -," Lloyd started, figuring it was the Raizor boys, a local family that were friendly enough on the surface, but ornery enough to take a deer out of season with no qualms what so ever. He had stopped on hearing the second bang, now considerably louder and closer. He was already halfway off the bench when Braden flew past him. Now the pained whining of an engine was clear. Whatever was making that racket was coming straight toward the school.

George Morgan

No one would ever know the exact conversation between Mrs. Glass and Headmaster Morgan. However Lauren's story made it clear that two, three minutes tops was about all the discussion time they would have had before Officer Harper's dying cruiser rolled to a stop in front of the building.

It was a stroke of luck, (many had regarded it as a design flaw) in constructing the school that George Morgan deliberately neglected installing any west facing windows. Indeed, all classes ran north/south on the east side. Only admin, the library and the cafeteria occupied the windowless western half. When asked, the Headmaster explained that the students had windows in their classrooms that looked out on the beautiful countryside. No classes were on the west side because of the potential distraction, particularly for the local younger children who, toward the end of the school day, became more preoccupied with looking for their ride home than with paying attention to last minute schoolwork. "It's a matter of maximum utilization of class time." George had once said in an interview. While this statement enhanced his reputation as a far-seeing educator in some circles, closer to home he was dismissed as a tight waded, overly patriotic stuff shirt. But George Morgan was far more than penny-pinching academic paper shuffler.

Medium height and build, George Mayking Morgan was the product of a family that claimed Confederate General John Hunt Morgan as a direct line ancestor. According to family lore, the Morgan clan moved from their native Kentucky after Appomattox simply because the patriarch Obadiah Morgan wouldn't accept the inevitable changes that defeat brought. An idealized ante- bellum longing coupled with a martial spirit was inculcated into each successive generation of the family. That, plus an almost ingrained distrust of the oversight of civil authorities

It was this spirit that drove George to a career in the military where he specialized in the near-forgotten art of static defense. His fellow officers, thoroughly imbued with the philosophy of mobile warfare, shared many a private joke at his expense. Each in turn, like the ill-fated lieutenant colonel in Georgia, learned to rue the war game exercise that place George Morgan on the other side. Not that he was ever given overall command of offensive forces; his talents for blunting attacks and devastating opposing forces time-tables quickly placed him in demand by commanders who drew short straw defensive operations. Respect and the moniker 'Morass Morgan' quickly followed. His success translated into the Army reevaluating its defensive doctrine and with promotion to full colonel, chairing the revitalized department on static defense at the Carlisle War College.

Retirement brought him and Bea home to oversee the family's business ventures consolidated under the name Morgan Enterprises. But his five years at Carlyle had awakened a desire to reach young minds and instill old values. However, he quickly discovered the same like-minded obstinacy to his traditional viewpoints that he had decades earlier weathered from his fellow officers. The school board he had joined was in his mind just another intransigent General Staff. This one lead by the town mayor and local banking mogul Herman King, who, after having lost an opportunity to land the account of Morgan Enterprises by the timely intervention of George returning from the military, had waged an undeclared war against any venture Morgan sought to propose regardless of its practicality. In this King had been quite successful.

King was a small town politician whose head-to- head verbal dogfights with George Morgan during school board meetings was the stuff of local legend. It was King's intransigence that had lead to Morgan's resignation and the subsequent founding of Harrison. The Mayor could also lay claim for the state and federal investigations that descended on the institution. Here King's reach exceeded his grasp.

For years the Morgan family name had controlled the timber interest in the Betten hills. Indeed, a great deal of the town's life- blood got its start from the infusion of this natural resource with Morgan capital. Generations of Morgan ax men had left the hills at quitting time and spent their pay in Schonefield. As a result, the lean town slowly began to put on the semblance of muscle. A Morgan endorsement became a much sought after prize as both local and state candidates made the trek to the family home Bella Vista. Although rich and powerful, the family always eschewed overt or covert control over the political candidates who sought their support. They weight issues and the candidate's stances on each then made their decision. Regardless of the outcome the family nearly always threw their support behind the winner.

George's younger brother Michael had run the family business in his absence. With big brother back, Michael was more than glad to step down. True to the family tradition he had endorsed and stayed aloof of political machinations. The timber industry was just beginning to head into another one of its cyclic downswings and with George back Michael was ready to pack-up his family and move on. On the other hand, George was not content to idly sit in the comfortable confines of Bella Vista and ride out a bear lumber market. He had plans that called for active involvement in local affairs. What many in Schonefield called the "Benevolent Benefactor of Betten Hills" and the greatest fear of local politicians was about to come to fruition – A Morgan was coming to town and planning to "sit a spell." And very few believed the word that brother George circulated of just wanting to be one of the boys. While the town could survive without Morgan money, they had progressed that far at least, no one could deny the massive debt owed to the family. If George called in markers, some so old that the agreeing parties were a long time a-moldering, what could the town do but acquiesce.

George quickly realized that his intention of utilizing the velvet glove sans iron fist was simply not believed. Most were of the opinion that it was unavoidable that the Morgan gene pool would eventually produce a tyrant. They had had an incredible stroke of luck to this point; but all knew (or so his enemies claimed) that even the best gene pool wasn't immune from the allure of power. George and Bea established residency within the city limits leaving Bella Vista to Michael and his family. While some townspeople could certainly be counted on as "Morgan men," Herman King, whose family had benefited from Morgan largess in down times, preyed on the concern that ran like an electrical current below the surface, propelling it along with speculation and innuendo. As the scion of the town's oldest and only banking family, he and generations of his family handled Morgan money, but always in the secondary capacity of cashing ax men checks, establishing ax men accounts and financing ax men hopes, wishes and dreams.

They could never land the account they had dreamed about for decades, could never talk a Morgan patriarch into intrusting any portion of the family fortune to a King institution. On the contrary, twice during the Depression Herman's great grandfather had gone, hat in hand, to Bella Vista in order to save his fledgling bank. Both loans had been repaid, with interest, and the Schonefield Savings and Loan survived; but the open courting of a Morgan account died. Herman had carefully broached the subject while cultivating a friendship with Michael who had expressed interest to the point of agreeing to read the company's prospectus and attend a bare bones stock- holders meeting that touted record annual profits. The up-shot of which impressed Michael enough that he informed Herman that he thought it was high time a portion of the family's money should move from Denver closer to home.

Then George and Bea came home and Michael abdicated controlling interest to his older brother. Herman King's family dream went to hell in a hand basket.

What had started out as brotherly discussions quickly degenerated to the brink of civil war. To Michael everything was bassackwards. Initially George took control graciously enough even insisting that Michael and his family remain in the big house. Bea and George would mark the new era between the Morgans and the town by moving there. But on the subject of relocating the family wealth George was unmovable. He equated the King's business acumen on par with blind squirrels finding nuts. Armed with information their father had sent him during his years in the service, he showed Michael that what appeared to be a shrewd pattern of investments was in fact a rat's maze of dummy corporations where both clean and dirty money met and produced profits of questionable origins. Morgan Enterprise's investments plugged into fonts of power and influence generations of Kings could only fantasize about. In the end, Michael had conceded the validity of George's argument, but the strain of what could have happened had George not returned when he did was too much.

"A mild cardio infraction," was the diagnosis when Michael nearly took a header into his meatloaf and mashed potatoes dinner. "In all likelihood brought on by too much stress," the doctors at Schonefield Medical Clinic (built in large part by generous donations of Morgan money) proclaimed. Before the month was out Michael, wife Betty and infant daughter Rebecca were Derry, Wisconsin bound. Michael agreeing to take control of family business ventures there in the form of defense contracts for pre- fabricated building materials. An attractive bonus was that Derry was Betty's hometown. The brothers parted amicably enough, but wounded pride sometimes never fully heals. Such was the case here. George got over his anger and forgave Michael. Michael forgave his brother (as evidenced by sending his only child to Harrison) but he could never quite forgive himself. George's eleventh-hour intervention along with the subsequent events about to happen would haunt him for the rest of his life.

On the other hand Herman King would never forgive anyone with the last name Morgan. He viewed George's return and Michael's voluntary withdraw as head of Morgan Enterprises with wonder. One never willingly gave up power; to Herman it was an alien concept. He viewed the end result as reneging on a deal already in place. Even though nothing had been signed, Herman had shook hand with Michael. They had a verbal agreement; and to Herman King a man's word was his bond, the actual signing of documents a mere formality, something to keep the high priced attorneys fat and happy. But when those over-paid bastards informed him that he was in a gray area at best, King went ballistic, firing his entire legal staff.

Appeals directly to Michael at first seemed to bear fruit. But as weeks rolled by Michael became more distant, ending with him refusing to return any of Herman's calls. Only Michael's heart attack and relocation finally convinced him that the battle was truly lost. That left him George, now his sworn enemy.

The battles with the Schonefield school system were memorable. When it became oblivious that the Board was determined to march lock step into any catch-as-catch-can socialized agenda he resigned. Some locals called his creation of Harrison Traditional, made possible by generations of Morgan profitable business dealings, a military academy. The Reserve Officer Training Corps classes were considered by some too martial for young children. When Morgan bought two-dozen antiquated M-1's from the Fort Sheridan arsenal, the grumbling became uproar. An investigation by local, state and finally Federal authorities praising the security measures that George had instituted regarding the storage of the arms and ammunition quieted all but the most vocal of his detractors. With victory on that front, each spring and summer the Tippecanoe Rifles, as the cadets came to be called, honed their shooting skills on a Morgan owned range. George procured the out-dated ammunition at his own expense.

In addition to the normal curriculum, classes in military history, strategy and tactics, as well as four years of required civics inculcated a higher level of patriotism in HTS students. Few locals bothered to send their children to such an institution where demerits and infractions could add up to expulsion. For that reason, better than 80% of HTS's student body were from out of state. These lived in dormitory facilities off campus. Fourteen graduating classes had produced sixty-one graduates, 100% of which attended college, 98 % on full scholarship.

With George Morgan at the helm, The Harrison Traditional School ranked among the top ten private schools in the United States.

All of which was to come to an end the moment Larry Parker's smoking cruiser died at the front entrance.

Lauren - Lockdown

"Attention in the building. Sorry for the interruption, but just a quick announcement. Tomorrow's lunch will feature a special treat: pork chops. Pork chops!"

"What in the world," Lauren thought. Headmaster Morgan had never announced a lunch schedule before and what was up with pork chops? Suddenly lunch fare became a moot point as both Mrs. Glass and Mr. Morgan rushed to the front desk.

"Lauren! Are Braden and Lloyd still here?" Mr. Morgan asked barely pausing to here the answer.

"Y-Yes! I think so. The pond... I think," she replied.

Mr. Morgan gave her a curt nod and headed for the front door. "Lauren!" Mrs. Glass abruptly smacked her hand on the reception desk top causing Lauren to start. She had been watching the Headmaster rushing toward the entrance. Now she saw Mrs. Glass face for the first time since she had almost ran from the outside trying to get a signal on her vide phone.

"What's going on Mrs. Glass?" she asked, the slight edge of panic now entering her voice.

"Sorry, dear," Mrs. Glass apologized. "We have a situation Lauren. A bad situation, I'm afraid. I need you to stay calm and go to Mr. Haynes's Geometry class and get Rebecca Morgan and James Hack and bring them here in a hurry."

Lauren was around the desk before Mrs. Glass was finished. As she was about to pass Mrs. Glass placed a hand on her shoulder. Her face betrayed a composure barely held in check.

"Listen Lauren, keep your head in front of the others. The kids I mean. Don't show concern," she raised her hand, "I know you have questions, believe me you'll know soon enough. As least what we know. It looks bad, God! Bad, it's bad! Danny," She began babbling her grandson's name over and over. A second grader in the school, then her small frame seemed on the verge of sinking to the floor like a blow-up doll that had sprung a leak.

Her segue from calm to borderline hysterics took Lauren completely aback. Her rising voice cracked as Lauren reacted the only way she could think to do. She grabbed her shoulders and shook her firmly.

"Mrs. Glass, Mrs. Glass, Veronica!" Lauren said keeping her voice low as possible.

"I don't know Mr. Moss," Lauren said, breaking her reverie and addressing Jim directly.

"Maybe it was I shaking the bee geez out of her, or calling her by her Christian name, but she did calm down. All I knew before she went loopy, was that I had to get 'Becca Morgan and Jimmy Hack."

"You want to take a break?" Jim asked.

Lauren thought a moment and shook her head.

"May I have some water please?" she asked.

It seemed like the words were no sooner out of her mouth then plastic water bottles, icy cold and wet with condensation, magically appeared courtesy of the sound crew. They were professional in their demeanor, but Jim had noticed that when Lauren was reciting her story they were as transfixed by her tale as he was.

Lauren thanked each in turn, slightly embarrassed at their obsequious manner. The head producer, for the life of her Lauren couldn't remember his name, was scowling at his crew. "Christ sakes," he said in a failed attempt to keep his voice low, having it come out as more of a growl. "She wants a drink of water, not a pool to swim in! I hope you all remember you're here to work the story, not listen to it! If we miss so much as one syllable LA's unemployment line will grow a few new feet of tail!

The crew gave no hint of having heard him but reset their head- phones and resumed monitor watching.

The water was cold and cut through the heat that Lauren could feel building inside her. She drank half a bottle before she felt ready to continue. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to pick up the thread, feeling the heat of that moment starting to rebuild. She looked at Jim, "Mrs. Glass calmed down," she said haltingly, and Jim nodded. She brought her fingertips to her forehead and lightly massaged.

Mrs. Glass did calm down long enough for Lauren slip past her. Before she was out the admin door Mrs. Glass softly called her.

"Lauren. Danny's only seven years old. Promise me." The rest was said with silent pleading eyes. "Promise me, you'll watch over him. He's just a little boy."

Having no idea what was going on, Lauren was confused and more than a little scared. But six years of seeing a normally stoic Mrs. Glass, suddenly transform into a human wreck in a matter of seconds sent a shock through her like a live wire.

"Sure, Mrs. Glass. No problem," Lauren stared at her wide- eyed feeling her pulse racing.

"What is going on?" she thought as she walked at a quick pace down the hall. She glanced at the double- wide glass entrance doors and wished she hadn't.

Coming through the doors was Headmaster Morgan supporting Officer Larry Harper under his right arm. Lauren recognized the officer from the annual safety briefing the Schonefield P.D. concerning the dangerous area fauna and abandoned mines that seemed to be a natural lure for the young. He was wearing his white motorcycle helmet and, here Lauren searched for the word- flack vest. Yes, flack vest was what Braden had called it when they had seen one in a movie once. And on his left arm, "Oh! My God! Was that blood?"

Lauren knocked on Mr. Haynes door and immediately went to open it. Locked! "What the devil is going on," Her thoughts, already a jumbled stew of fear and wonder now factored in a locked classroom door. Teachers had for years locked their doors for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was to snag those students that were always making it in just after the bell rang. But for two years this had been discontinued, thanks to the intervention of the local Fire Marshal who declared the practice a safety hazard. Mr. Morgan suspected the Fire Marshal's order as just another administrative spitball on the part of his detractors; a sniping, fleabite of harassment for their failure to shut the school down, or at least curb the more martial aspects of the ROTC program.

The owlish looking Mr. Haynes looked out and upon seeing Lauren opened the door

"I'm sorry for the interruption Mr. Haynes but the Headmaster would like to see Mr. Hack and Miss Morgan immediately."

Mr. Haynes called the students forward. Turning back to Lauren he quickly asked sotto voce, "What's going on Ms. Ortiz?"

Already too stunned by events to properly register the oddity of a teacher asking why certain students were being summoned, especially when office workers routinely did that very thing perhaps two dozen times on a particularly busy day, Lauren answered quietly,"There's something Mr. Haynes; but honestly, I don't know."

Scanning her face for a moment longer, he accepted that Lauren was as much in the dark as he was. He made room for the two students to pass and then quickly closed and relocked the door.

Juniors Rebecca Morgan and James Hack were the freshly minted Major and Captain of Harrison's ROTC. Still in uniform from the morning's ceremony, they reminded Lauren of this time last year when Braden and Lloyd were promoted.

Both had strutted around like peacocks, well... in Laurens's mind at least. Lloyd had approached Rhoda, who wasn't his girlfriend at the time and had made some comment about how women were crazy about a man in uniform and proceeded to ask her out. Lauren had expected Rhoda to turn the bellicose Lloyd down flat, considering the way he was acting. Instead she had agreed, and from then on they were hardly ever apart.

"Any idea what this is about, Ms. Ortiz," Jimmy Hack asked?

"Ms. Ortiz," Lauren thought. Then she remembered that part of the ROTC training was manners, especially toward one's elders, and especially toward women. Still, it felt awkward.

"Well Captain Hack," She began, amused at how the young man tried to keep from beaming at being addressed by his rank. "I honestly don't know. But something disturbing is going on. Now let me ask you something. Does Mr. Haynes lock his door often?"

"No Ma'am." Becca Morgan spoke up then continued. " Strange! I didn't realize that he had locked it until you knocked. It must have been what he was doing right after the Headmaster announced that strange lunch schedule. Pork chops! We've never had pork chops as long as I've been here."

"Come to think of it neither have I," Lauren mused. Then a thought hit her. She walked to the next classroom door and tried to open it. Locked.

"Hmm," she said with a nod. "I've got a feeling that if you went to every classroom you'd find them locked. My guess is that pork chop is some kind of code that institutes a general lock down."

As they walked past the front door something caught Lauren's eye causing her to stop in mid stride. "Oh my," was all she could say.

"Wow!" James Hack seconded.

"Dear God," Becca Morgan chimed in.

There outside the entrance sat the smoldering bullet riddled cruiser of Patrolman Lawrence Harper.

The dead cruiser's hypnotic spell was broken with the Headmaster's voice over the intercom.

"Attention in the building. Attention in the building. All teachers and administrative staff report to the cafeteria at once. All students are to remain in the classroom they are currently in. I repeat..."

Lloyd – Following Orders

At first it was hard to know exactly what was coming up the driveway. Steam and smoking oil had combined to obscure the cruiser with an effective smoke screen giving it the appearance of a dying earth bound comet. Braden and Lloyd kept both distance and pace as they rounded the southern end of the main building. It was when the cruiser turned north on its final parallel approach, that they could make out the Schonefield P.D. insignia, or more accurately, what was left of it. To Lloyd it looked like generations of good ol' boys had turned their rifles from shooting roadside signs to shooting police cars. The perforated trunk hatch waved at them like a macabre fly swatter. Pieces of the cruiser continued to drop off as it rolled to a final stop just cater-cornered of the entrance doors.

Braden and Lloyd reached the smoking hulk just as Mrs. Glass and Headmaster Morgan dashed out the building. Already Patrolman Harper had the door swinging open when one of the hinges broke causing its arc to alter and wedge the door edge fast in the concrete.

Braden pulled lead and yelled at Lloyd to check for fluid leaks while he checked the driver. It was hard to tear his eyes from the amount of bullet holes that the car had absorbed. Quickly he checked under the car. The gas tank miraculously seemed intact but up front, under the motor, was a different story. There viscous fluid had already formed a spreading puddle on the ground.

"Gas tank seems okay, same for the oil pan as far as I can see. But the motor's leaking like a sieve. How's the driver?"

"I'm hit, but it's nothing serious," Officer Harper answered. Lawrence Harper was someone both Braden and Lloyd knew and liked. "You better get up," he continued. "That engine's red hot and I'm afraid something flammable gonna catch anytime."

"Larry you're okay thank God," this was Mr. Morgan. "I received your transmission, at least until your vide gave up the ghost. Come in quickly. Let's see what we can do about patching you up."

"Braden grab my pistol and shotgun," Harper said. "But be careful. Lloyd can you grab the first aid kit? I think it's on the passenger side floor."

Lloyd went to open the passenger side door but the handle was gone, shot away. So was most of the passenger side window for that matter. A carefully aimed kick caved the glass inward. Trying to ignore the scene inside the cruiser, Lloyd scanned the floorboard and located the kit. Leaning through the opening and supporting his weight with his left hand on the passenger seat, Lloyd reached and grabbed the first aid kit. As he started to lean out something warm and metallic seemed to pop into his left hand. Instinctively, he clutched it in his fingers as he turned to head back inside.

"You okay Lloyd?" Mrs. Glass said, standing at the entrance doors. In Lloyd's mind she seemed to disappear like a wraith the moment he nodded his affirmation.

Inside it was just a deserted hallway and admin office. Just a normal looking school day for all intents and purposes. Lloyd headed for the Headmaster's office when Braden came out and cut him off. Braden looked paler than usual as he intercepted Lloyd in front of Mrs. Glass desk.

"Bray?" was all Lloyd could say as Braden handed him the all too familiar set of keys.

"Lo, All I know is that there is something heavy duty going down, and Headmaster wants the Rifles out and armed for it. No dummy stuff either; we're to go hot." he said.

"Go down to the arms room prep all, I mean all, private as well as the M1's, including clips and ammo. Headmaster wants his 45 ready; same thing clips and ammo. Lauren's been sent to get 'Becca and Jimmy, I'll sent them on to help you. Between the three of you I expect the Tippecanoe Rifles to be locked, cocked and standing tall in no less than twenty minutes from now. Got it?" His last words were something Lloyd had never heard before from Braden – the harsh bark of an order that countenanced no dissention.

"S-Sure, Bray, eh, I mean Colonel, I'm on it," Lloyd said. His voice betrayed his confusion, his face hurt at the sudden change in address from his best friend.

It was then Braden did something Lloyd would never forget in a day that would be filled with unforgettable events. He put his hands on Lloyd's shoulders.

"Lo, I don't know what's going on but Harper's sure been through it. It looks like he'll make it fine. He just caught a spent ricochet in the shoulder." He paused as if the sure enormity of what he was about to say was too much. "He said that the Schonefield P.D. is gone maybe the whole town. Saw the station fall on his vide. Whoever's doing this is using tractor- trailers as transports. That's when Morgan gave me my orders. I suspect that the Headmaster figures there's a better than good chance that whatever it is..."

He took a deep breath,"...will end up eventually heading this way. I'm sure his reason for activating the Rifles is just a precaution, but he wants us up and ready in any case. You're a good friend Lloyd, the best. And I know you don't want to hear this, you've been a fine officer. I couldn't have ask for a better number one. But if I have to be commander in this crisis, I need your backing. Live ammo in weapons on campus is violating more Federal regulations than you can shake a stick at. Morgan could lose the school if this all turns out to be one big misunderstanding. At the very least, those yahoos that want the ROTC program to go away will probably get their wish."

He took his hands off Lloyd's shoulders. "So if you want to take a swing at somebody, I guess I'm as good as anyone to swing at."

"Huh?" Lloyd stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

Braden motioned to his clenched left fist.

"You've been making that every since you came in the building," he said. "I figured you wanted to take a poke at somebody."

"No," Lloyd said, and told how something had popped into his hand while leaning on the car seat. "I figured it was a piece of metal and was going to throw it in the trash first chance."

He unclenched his fist and both boys gasped.

In his palm, in near pristine condition was a 5.56 round. Ammunition issued to military armies most of whom decidedly unfriendly to the United States.

Lauren and Braden had been asked by Mr. Morgan to join the teacher's meeting while Lloyd and the juniors worked weapons prep. Mrs. Glass appeared considerably calmer since both the Headmaster and Lauren had assured her of the safety of her grandson. She remained in Morgan's office seated in front of a bank of four monitors. Each screen changing every four seconds unless given the command to stop from a control panel, the monitors were tied in to a passive security system on the Harrison firing range over three miles away. Morgan had remotely trained the cameras for maximum range giving Mrs. Glass specific instructions on what to look for. In particular, any sudden flush of wildlife was to be reported to him immediately. Naturally the same applied to any armed men suddenly appearing within camera range. The last thing he did was to set the vide machines running. Any detected movement bigger than a raccoon would lock the tracking system in place and sound a silent alarm in the office.

The teachers assembled in the cafeteria quickly and quietly. Mr. Morgan had hired his staff with meticulous care. All were veterans of combat situations, either directly or in direct support capability. Veterans from conflicts far a field as Grenada and the Middle East to the Taiwan Crisis of '15 now served as teachers at HTS. All had the requisite training in their fields, many with advanced degrees. Morgan believed in rewarding veterans far beyond the lip service most politicians paid them. As a result, he had in front of him not only educators, but also people generally inured to panic in high stress situations. That, and the ability of self-sacrifice to a greater goal was what he counted on most as he positioned himself in front and began to speak.

Lauren – Revelation

"Folks, I don't know how much time we have so I'll be brief. I gave the 'pork chop' code, signifying the need for a lockdown because we have a situation that has potentially deadly consequences for both the staff and students here at Harrison.

At approximately 9:48 this morning Mrs. Glass, noticing that the land- line communication was down went outside to use her vide phone. When she received a signal she was stunned to see video messages sent from various sources, mainly parents in Schonefield, showing what appears to be an invasion force of well-armed men, soldiers, taking over the town. Their nationality is unknown as what little audio was heard was in English. The last message on her vide coming at approximately 9:09."

Although no one present had any reason to doubt the veracity of the headmaster's statement, George still needed to share its sheer enormity. He had plugged Mrs. Glass's phone into the overhead, and at his signal the overhead lights were turned off.

The first image was of her grandson Danny running around a yard playing with a puppy. "Sorry, I have Mrs. Glass monitoring our firing range security camera." He paused and brought out a walkie-talkie requesting Mrs. Glass to come down to cafeteria. She arrived lingering for just a moment before advancing the file to the next vide. The contrast was immediate.

"Ronnie, it's Deb. Honey, I just got within range of town and Trish Dolfinger just called and said that there are men gonin' around the town with rifles like it was the huntin' season. I didn't think anything about it until she started screaming that they were shootin at people right there on her street. I'm just past the Point and Ronnie there's smoke rising from different areas of town. Here let me stop and you can see for yourself."

The gathering was treated to a jumpy picture of her glove box were she sat the phone down to make the turn onto the observation lookout. The teachers heard her kill the motor. Then the image jumped again as she opened the door finally settling on a long distance image of Schonefield.

"Shit fire and save the matches! I hope your getting this Ronnie." Mrs. Glass smiled weakly despite the growing magnitude of the danger. Deb's southern heritage somehow always managed to assert itself at just the right moment with some homespun idioms, the results of which inevitably left Ronnie Glass laughing to tears. Ronnie only hoped there would be a later to share drinks and laugh together once again.

Deb's vidphone wasn't equipped with long-range zoom but it didn't matter. The panoramic view of distant Schonefield, normally clear on a beautiful cloudless spring day such as today, was a murky island reminiscent of industrial steel cities working at full bore long before the advent of the EPA. Several separate plumes of billowing smoke -serious fires – were beginning to flatten out above the town as they encountered the cooler air.

Veronica Glass and Deb Tensor had been friends for years. Like Danny Glass, Deb's grandson Jacob was also an elementary student at HST. Deb's voice interrupted the macabre tableau.

"Ronnie, when you get this, take care of Jake. There's no way under God's green earth I'm going back down there. We've both known Trish for a parcel of years now. She's a pain sometimes; but I've never known her to be either a liar or prone to much exaggeration. Something's bad happening down there and until the picture is clearer I'm heading to Manning and spread the word that we need some big guns of our own, the Guard, the Army, something. Jeez, I wonder if some wacko militia group finally popped its cork and decide to start their Second American Revolution with Schonefield. Either that or relations with Canada took a decided bad turn since I watched the news last. Either way, take care of my grandbaby. I'll call ya later."

A low murmur coursed through the room. The headmaster went quiet, knowing that people need time to absorb the initial shock. But it had to be a little time. Lauren placed her hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Braden recovered from his own shock and placed his arm around her shoulders.

"My parents. Yours," she stammered.

"I know. But we can't panic. We don't know the whole situation," he whispered. "Listen."

"People we don't have a lot of time if my rough calculations are anywhere near correct. Approximately twenty-five minutes ago Officer Lawrence Harper here, of the Schonefield P.D. barely escaped with his life when he encountered a tractor- trailer these...invaders are using as transports. They were blocking Prairie Point, exactly where Debbie Tensor was a little over an hour ago. As you know that's barely five miles from here. We don't have time or I would suggest you look out front at his cruiser. It's a miracle that it held up long enough to bring him here, thank God. Officer Harper is only slightly wounded thanks to divine intervention and some sharp forethought on his part."

Lauren could see the ace bandage and the hasty dressing underneath the torn sleeve of his service uniform. The crowd mutter started back up.

The Headmaster continued. "Please give me one more minute."

He then went on to relate the last vide-cast documenting the fall of the police station.

"Friends, we don't have a lot of time to debate so I'm going to tell you my decision regarding our immediate course of action. Let me just say that no one here is bound by my decision. Each of us must decide for his or her self what their best course of action is."

He drew a deep breath. To Lauren it seemed he was the only one breathing in the entire room. Even the cafeteria staff had paused in their hurried stuffing of small brown bags that Lauren had only now noticed.

He glanced quickly at his watch and went on.

"Approximately ten minutes ago I ordered Braden O'Day to begin a weapons preparation of our entire arms room. All M1's and private weapons will be ready in about," He turned to face Braden. "What do you figure Colonel another ten minutes?"

Braden nodded, "About that sir," he answered.

"In ten minutes," Morgan went on. "We'll have weapons ready. At that time I want to assemble the students behind the school, and under the protection of the Rifles, and the supervision of the upper class children lead them in a southeasterly direction toward Breakers road. With our communications here I've gotten a message through to the state police and I'm sure they passed it on to the Guard. I quickly informed them of the situation, as we presently know it and my decision regarding the children. Armed with that knowledge that should be one of the first points of ingress for our ground troops. Naturally, I expect air support long before that. However, not knowing the scale of the attack, nor how they are treating civilians, I feel it would be criminal to expose our charges to such risks without attempting to assure their safety. Well, there you have it. Like I said we haven't much time so if anyone has anything to say, now's the time."

One hand rose. "Yes, Ms. Watts."

Katherine Watts stood amid a crowd of stunned faces.

"Headmaster, you said the children were to be sent off, if I understood you correctly, under the supervision of the upper class?"

Mr. Morgan nodded adding, "And the Rifles."

"Then what are we teachers expected to do?"

"I would ask the teachers to stay," he paused for the briefest of moments, "and fight."

Lauren would always remember the next few moments as controlled pandemonium. There was no shouting, but the civility of raising one's hand to ask a question went out the window.

"Are we expected to fight in the open?"

"How long must we stay and fight?"

"How much ammunition do we have?"

"Why don't we wait until the Army arrives?"

"How many are we up against?"

Patrolman Harper had jumped to his feet and stared at the Headmaster as if he had taken leave of his sanity. The questions stopped as he made his way to the front of the gathering.

"With all due respect Mr. Morgan," he turned to the assembly, "and teachers. But sending the children out there without protection is suicidal; no worse than that, it's murder."

Mr. Morgan looked at him calmly. "And what would you propose Officer Harper?"

"Worst case scenario, if what you say is true, we're held hostage until the Army arrives."

Mr. Morgan nodded. "And then?"

Harper paused. Clearly he had not thought that far ahead in his argument.

"Then they, whoever they are, will realize the hopelessness of their position and surrender, and everyone goes free," He said, lacking conviction.

It was like he had flipped a switch. Even as he said the words the hostility to his proposal became palpable. Concerned frowns became scowls of anger punctuated by low-grade obscenities. Harper stood firm, realizing that the combined military experience in the room probably ran well over a hundred years. Still, they had to be made to understand that they would be going up against an organized military force out there, not some home grown crazy separatist movement gone wild.

"Listen to me people. Please," he attempted to rebound. "Whoever this is has numbers and the firepower of an army. M1's? You've got to be kidding me! They have assault weapons and they know how to use them. They sledge hammered my cruiser more than a quarter mile away, across a valley with trees offering some protection and me hauling freight at better than fifty. If I had to guess the time they had a decent open shot on me it couldn't have been more than five seconds max! It is a miracle I'm here at all and not dead at the bottom of Prairie Point. Now I'll agree that you have enough firepower and experience here to keep the all but the National Guard at bay for quite some time; but that's my very point. We're dealing with an organized force of undetermined strength, that's packing all the requisite firepower to be called an army. Whatever fight you propose to give these boys won't last long, and that's an undeniable fact."

Harper sat back down. If nothing else he took satisfaction having quieted some of the mummers and clarified his reason for proposing capitulation.

The Headmaster appealed for quiet with raised hands. Then he faced the Patrolman.

"Officer Harper, I ask you to think for one moment about the following," he turned and addresses the entire room, "I ask you all to consider the following." He began ticking off on his fingers.

"One. We have an enemy of unknown strength that are using tractor-trailers for transport.

"Two. Besides automatic weapons and RPG's they probably have nothing in the way of heavy weapons; but those RPG's force me to concede that the individual soldier probably also has a limited amount of grenades on him.

"Three. If they had any air assets we surely would have seen them by now. I conclude this simply because attacking Schonefield is a waste of effort since this area has no conceivable military value whatsoever. No airfields, bases, depots, nothing. That leads me to conclude that this is a distraction raid Mr. Harper, pure and simple. Distraction from what I have no idea. But I do know this. If they had any air transport at all they would have blitzed a military target worth the effort."

Harper could see that there was general agreement among the staff with nodding and low murmurs leaning toward the Headmaster's conclusions. What he did not know was that the collective military experience in the room exceeded well over two hundred years. Still, he had been in a sort of up close and personal knife fight with these guys, one- sided granted, bit still that, and his assessment, should carry some weight. As far as his lawful authority went, that stopped several miles short of here. He briefly considered running a bluff in that direction, but dismissed that out of hand. Morgan was possibly a lot of things, but Harper knew that being a fool was not one of them. Finally he realized any argument he could put forth would seem specious when the fate of those unfortunates already under enemy control was indeterminable. But damn! It was hard to reconcile the alternative Morgan was proposing. The throbbing in his left arm, surreal memories of his cruiser absorbing what seemed to be a continuous maelstrom of angry hornets, both left him cold with dread imagining children caught in similar circumstances with no protection at all.

"Four," the Headmaster continued. "Once our own air power starts reducing first their transports to scrap metal, then interdicting organized units, those soldiers are quickly going to panic. My guess is they realized from the beginning, that even if their attack was in conjunction with some greater master plan, their butts were expendable. Panicked soldiers lose unit cohesion quickly, and that leads to desperate men armed to the teeth with nothing to lose. If this attack originated in Canada, and I believe it probably did, they will quickly realize that a return to the Great White North merely runs them into Canadian forces positioning themselves on the frontier, probably as we speak. That being the case, it becomes a turkey shoot with them in the title role. So they'll draw the same quick conclusions. Namely, that they need something to bargain with if they have a snowball's chance in hell of saving their skin. This leads us to five Officer Harper.

"Five." Here Morgan's voiced low, menacing. "I will not give them a single hostage from this institution to use as a bargaining chip as long as there is a chance of getting the children to safety. No matter a unit's size, there's only so many troops that they can detach to guard hostages. The more they place on guard duty the less of an offensive bite they can take. That makes negotiations both inevitable and problematic. Schonefield, as I've already stated, has no strategic worth save one: its citizenry is American. They know the value we place on our own; and knowing that, they have to gather as many of those precious assets as possible. For a while, they'll take good care of their prisoners. They'll demand the world because they have the upper hand and that's their trump card. Then things will start to go south and quick. Food and utilities will be the first thing to force a showdown. People will be executed just to prove a point. Schonefield's hotheaded young bucks, and Officer Harper, you know we have a town full of them..." Harper nodded, at the station they were often referred to with dread as the 'weekend renegades.' "... full of piss and vinegar," Morgan continued, " will get macho stupid pretty quick. That will bring on reprisals. Not to mention the enemy. As the stalemate drags on discipline erodes fast. Tired, scared, men who feel they have nothing to lose find an outlet generally two ways: alcohol and women. Schonefield has plenty of both. Let me remind you of the behavior of Japanese troops during our recapture of Manila.

That reminds me, Mrs. Glass would you mind returning to the office and monitoring the local radio stations. If whoever is commanding those troops is not a total waste he has reconnoitered the town ahead of time and knows where both our illustrious Mayor resides and where the local communications are located. Smart move would be to persuade Mayor King on the air informing his constituency of the new world order at least as far as Schonefield is concerned."

Mrs. Glass hesitated, nodded and left.

Well that's basically it folks. Schonefield got ambushed and I'll certainly pray for them. They didn't see this coming so I'll cast no aspersions on what the city fathers are forced to do. But we have advanced warning; and I say again, no child under my care will be captured and used as a pawn in their own country.

That I believe is worth fighting, and if necessary dying, for." He paused.

"What about you, Officer?" He stared at Harper for a moment. Turning, he addressed the assembly.

"What about all of you?"

After that the main questions revolved around what kind of defense and how to properly prepare it. All teachers were aware of the architectural tricks Morgan had built-in to the building. Frequent exercises, considered a useless waste of time by the entire faculty at one time or another, now appeared to be a stroke of genius on the headmaster's part. Everyone, save the cafeteria staff, had trained on the hidden defensive measures Morgan had chosen to hide in plain sight. The training had been conducted in light-hearted fun, strictly a familiarization exercise. Now as faces became set in acceptance of the task at hand the training's humorous aspects were forgotten. The phrase "the element of surprise" was repeated over and over in the dissonance of discussion. Despite severe misgivings, even Patrolman Harper became actively engaged. Morgan patiently allowed them the time, circulating and answering questions on a one on one basis.

Five minutes later the two- way intercom between the cafeteria and the office interrupted the discussion and made up their minds. It was Mrs. Glass.

"Headmaster, Security cameras have locked on to deer breaking from the woods through the rifle range. They've run from the west. Hold."

The tension electrified the room. Not a word was said. All eyes were glued to the ceiling speaker. With a composed finality the speaker crackled to life once more.

"There they are. Multiple intruders, helmets, light ruck and woodland camo, all armed, looks like AK's and RPG's. No local militia, they're dressed too uniform. West, heading east. Straight toward us."

Harper looked at the Headmaster. Resigned determination clouding his face. Without looking at anyone in particular Morgan said, "They're three miles away. With luck, we have an hour.

George Morgan issued a flurry of orders.

Teachers! I want your classes assembled behind the building in five minutes. I wish I could give you more time, but obliviously you can't say anything to panic the children. No goodbyes, no locker or bathroom visits. If they have their jackets with them fine! If not they go as they are." He paused, looking at the cafeteria staff that had resumed stuffing brown bags with food. "Teachers, get the kids to empty their back packs if they have them handy. They can carry several lunches apiece in them."

"Lauren! You and the upper class students are in charge of the children. I won't pretend to speak for the admin or lunch staff," he turned to the teachers. "Or any of you for that matter. But if you're going to make a break for it, you better move now."

One voice, (Lauren couldn't remember whose) spoke for them all.

"Let's do this." That broke the tension. The decision was made.

"Thank you. Thank you all," Morgan said. "Braden, assemble the Rifles on the north and south side out of sight of the kids. Get all their arms and ammo issued. Keep Lloyd with you for commo. Put 'Becca in charge of the other gro..." He caught himself. "Sorry son...I mean colonel. Your command, your call."

Lauren looked at Braden. His expression of rapt attention toward the Headmaster was almost reverential; and it frightened her more than she would care to admit.

"Not at all sir. I've appreciated your advice and guidance over the years. Major Morgan would be my choice to lead the second group."

"Thanks son. That means a lot to me."

Turning to the teachers, but still speaking to Braden, George said, "Make sure that nothing is left behind. Teachers will be down to claim the remaining M1's, and their personal weapons, as soon as you and your charges are away. I don't want the children scared people. Wait until they're outside before coming out armed. Let's move! Lauren, Braden, a moment please."

Before anyone could move Mrs. Glass's voice came over the intercom. "Headmaster KWKP is playing a looped message from Mayor King. Shall I pipe it through?

"Yes. Please make doubly sure it's only received in here."

"...your Mayor Herman King. The city of Schonefield and all out- lying areas are currently under martial law. All residents are hereby immediately ordered to remain indoors, whether at home or at work. All vehicular traffic as of 11:00 am, that's thirty-five minutes from now will cease. All children currently in school will remain there until further notice. I have been assured that no one will be harmed unless those troops currently in control are attacked. I urge all citizens within the sound of my voice to comply with all orders issued by the controlling authorities. Keep you radios tuned to this station for further instructions. This is your Mayor Herman King. The city of Schonefield..."

"Never heard his Highness sound so stressed before," one of the teachers remarked, sparking a spatter of nervous laughter.

The teachers moved out. Before the cafeteria was empty the Headmaster was addressing Lauren.

"Heck of a last day for you seniors. I'm sorry. Listen. Once you're over the hill, stay the way of least resistance. There's a gully that will get you down about midway to Breakers Road. Take it, but be careful. Move too fast and you risk sprained ankles or worse. After the gully plays out the going gets rougher. Keep heading down. Once you hit the road, take a quick head count. Any child says any classmate is missing assure them that the Rifles will look for them. Make a game of it if that helps. Probably the best way to keep them occupied. Once you're on the road keep heading down to Highway 31 until you run into our forces. That will be the route they'll be taking. Lauren, take charge of the upper class and make sure they know you're in charge. Make them help you. Move quick, but careful. Rhoda Delcum will be a great help with the little ones. They know and trust her. Take her off to the side first chance and fill her in. But always keep moving."

Then he did something so uncharacteristic that Lauren was stunned. He gave her a hug and whispered. "God bless and keep you."

"And God bless you Headmaster," Lauren said, hugging him back, her voice choking. "Braden. The Rifles are to help with crowd control. No strays. If a child comes up missing you cannot, cannot, spend time looking for them. I know how that sounds. But even with the Rifles helping there will be five children for ever one of the upper class to watch them. Any child that breaks away from the group is to be considered a loss do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Braden said.

"Lauren, you need to get started. Colonel O'Day, see to your command sir."

