October's Ghost

EPILOGUE PASSAGES

It was a sight the citizens of Havana could scarcely remember. Not since Batista had a leader of their nation appeared on the balcony overlooking the plaza without a military uniform on. For their new leader, too, it was an unfamiliar experience. Yet it was a statement, possibly the strongest, that the interim president of the nation of Cuba could make. People, he was saying by shedding his uniform, would rule the country. Not the military. Not ideologues. People.

“It was a fine speech,” Antonio Paredes said as President Hector Ojeda returned from the balcony.

“I do not give speeches, Papa Tony,” Ojeda objected. “I simply speak.”

It was a lesson Antonio wished he could transfer to every politician across the straits. But then this man was not a politician. He was a patriot. There was a vast difference, Antonio had learned.

“Fine words, then, Señor Presidente.”

Ojeda did the strangest thing in reaction to the CIA officer’s revised observation: He smiled. “Becoming accustomed to the title will take some time. Rank is an easier concept to grasp.”

“I doubt you will have any problems adjusting.”

Ojeda accepted the comment hopefully. “And you, Papa Tony, I owe you…the country owes you many thanks for what you have done.”

“Many people made this day possible,” Antonio added humbly.

“Many lives given,” Ojeda continued. “Cubans. Americans.”

Every great victory had its cost. Often that was measured in human terms. This momentous achievement was no different.

“What will you do first, Señor Presidente?” Antonio asked, moving the conversation to the future.

“It is not a difficult thing to decide,” Ojeda said. “I have learned from the chaos and the glory as new countries were born from their old selves. I will simply let the people have a voice. They will have the opportunity to send me on my way.”

Antonio chuckled. “You’ve learned well from our example, I would say. But, remember, any American could sit for hours and complain about what is wrong with the country.”

“And at night they go to sleep knowing that the next day they can rise to continue their complaining,” Ojeda said, turning the American penchant for nay saying into a beacon of stability.

“I’ve never quite seen it that way.”

“I did not expect you would,” President Hector Ojeda said with a very knowing grin. “You were looking from the inside.”

Antonio Parades knew what the presidente meant. Perspective truly was everything.

He was breaking his own rule. Sort of.

“You’ll like it,” Art promised.

Frankie eyed him with doubt, the chili-covered monstrosity cradled in both hands. “I want you to know you’re the only person I would do this for, and only then because you have a gun.”

“You agreed, Aguirre,” Art reminded his partner, motioning for her to take a bite.

“The game was rigged.” She sneered as the thing approached her lips.

“Fair and square, partner. Four of a kind beats a full house.”

“Four twos,” Frankie pointed out. She had to lose the hand to that! And now she was Art Jefferson’s Pink’s surrogate for the next six months, until his next allowed venture into cholesterol land. If he had a craving, she had to vicariously fill it. “There’s something about this in that Geneva thing.”

“Eat.”

Frankie closed her eyes and opened wide, taking the first gooey bite. She chewed the bacon-chili cheese dog tentatively at first, then her eyes opened as she began to experience the taste that was unique to Pink’s. “Hey,” she said through the first bite, “this is pretty good.”

Art beamed knowingly. “You just wouldn’t listen, would you? See what you’ve been missing?”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Frankie took another bite, savoring this one more than the first. It was getting better! “This was the best bet I ever lost.”

“Yeah, I… Hey! You’re not supposed to be enjoying this. I mean… I’m supposed to be… Not you…” Art leaned against the counter, a frustrated, hungry man. “Oh, forget it.”

Frankie winked at her partner and bit again into the deliciously messy conglomeration.

“Seltzer, Mr. Jefferson?” the clerk inquired.

Art looked over to the kid. “No. Another bacon-chili cheese dog for the lady. And hurry. Can’t you see I’m hungry?”

Major Sean Graber sat staring at the maroon carpet, the words of the chaplain echoing throughout the John F. Kennedy Special Warfare Center Chapel. His eyes came up only when he knew that the padre was reaching the point in the memorial service that required him to do so.

It was a show of respect for comrades fallen. For his men.

“Captain Christopher Herald Buxton. Sergeant Charles Steven Makowski. Sergeant Gerald Morris Jones. Sergeant Alfred George Vincent.” The chaplain paused, closing the book that held the names of Delta’s departed troopers. “The Great Jumpmaster watches over our comrades now. Let us not grieve over their loss, but, rather, let us use them as an example as we cross the next barrier, meet our next foe, defend freedom, and destroy tyranny. Let us not grieve, but let us not forget. Amen.”

“Hoo-ah,” the assembled troopers responded.

Sean stood with Colonel Cadler and walked to the back of the chapel, meeting each family member as they departed. It was a private service, intended only for the families and the men of Delta. Despite what the chaplain had said, it was a time to grieve. But it was also, as he professed, a time to remember. In a way, that was more painful than the grieving.

The last family member drifted toward the cars lining Fort Bragg’s Ardennes Road. Sean walked away from the chapel, stopping near a stand of pines that flanked the hallowed building. Cadler joined him there a minute later.

“Major.”

Sean looked around, smiling at the colonel, thinking before saying what he wanted to say. “We lost too many on this one, sir.”

Cadler looked at the damp, needle-covered ground, his lips pouting. “One is too many, Major. Ten is too many. But missions don’t come with a set loss ratio. Y’all know that as good as I.”

It was a correct statement, but that still didn’t change what Sean was feeling. Four of his own men were gone. Three from the 160th. And Anderson. Being a Delta trooper was his life. It was all he had wanted to do from the minute the unit was formed. But now he found himself fearing what came with Delta’s hazardous mission profile. Death was no longer just a possibility. It was all too real. He could accept it for himself, but for men working for him? For soldiers who followed his lead? He no longer knew if this was for him, and that doubt itself, he believed, made him ineffective as a Delta trooper.

“You haven’t mentioned my request, sir.”

“I was hopin’ you’d change your mind ‘fore I had to act on it,” Cadler explained. “But it seems to me that y’all are pretty sure about this.”

Sean nodded. “Very sure, sir.”

Cadler nodded with regret and acceptance. “We’re gonna miss your ugly ass around here.”

“I’ll drag it back once in a while so you can kick it into shape,” Sean joked.

“Can’t touch no civilians, Major.”

Civilian. That had a scary ring to it. Sean had known little other than the Army life. What lay outside the comforting walls of Bragg was alien to him. Uncharted territory. New adventures.

“You did good, Major,” Cadler said, offering his hand.

Sean took it, fighting the urge to salute. Habits would be hard to break. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“Now go find that little lady of yours and make some babies.”

“Is that an order, sir?” Sean asked with a smile.

“The last from me to you, Major.”

“Will do, sir,” Sean said, giving his commander a crisp salute before turning and walking away down Ardennes.

“God speed, Sean.”

The plot was set among a circular clearing ringed by Douglas firs, except for the section that afforded an unobstructed view of the pristine lake below. As if in deference to the man being laid to rest, the water churned with fish broaching the surface and splashing back into the deep blue lake. It could not have been planned more eloquently.

Only twenty people were gathered at the gravesite, located in the Minnesota backwaters not far from the dock where Joe Anderson had cast his last line. Most were family, but there were two outsiders, one of whom had asked to say something at the service.

“There is not much that need be said about such a man,” the President observed, concluding his words without the aid of cards or prompters. “It is sufficient, and utterly appropriate, to say that he did what had to be done when the call was made. And that he answered that call not for the sake of glory, or for any less honorable reasons. He answered it because he heard it, and because to turn a blind eye or a deaf ear was not his way.”

The President went to Joe Anderson’s widow, spending a long moment with her. Then it was time to go, to leave the family to remember without the intrusion of outsiders. Bud followed the President along the wooded path, two Secret Service agents ahead and two behind. They emerged from the trees to the waiting limousine, but the chief executive did not immediately get in. Instead, he stood still and smelled the sweet, damp air.

“He picked a good resting place, Bud.”

“Yes, he did, Mr. President.” Bud tasted the freshness himself, pulling in the scents of the forest. “If only the rest of the world was this peaceful.”

“If only.” The President still could dream, even if such musings were inevitably overcome by reality. “You know, Bud, even with the losses we suffered from this, it could have been so much worse. I hate to even imagine what could have happened.”

“The important thing is that it didn’t, sir,” Bud reminded him. “In the end you have to count your losses and pray that you’ve learned something from the ordeal that will help you avoid similar situations in the future.”

“The future.” The President studied the trees for a moment before looking back to his NSA. “What frightens me is that this all came at us from the past. I remember a professor of mine back at UCLA saying ‘History is not the study of what has happened before; it is the study of that which we know has happened before.’ ” He thought to himself briefly. “What else is out there that we don’t know of, Bud?”

The NSA considered the question in the quiet of the forest, looking skyward as the answer came to him. “You’re asking the wrong adviser, Mr. President.”