Savage

EPILOGUE

“Ready… Aim… Fire.”

Seven rifles thundered together for the third and final time, then the voice of the gunnery sergeant leading the rifle team sounded another loud order. “Present arms!”

The seven marines executed a sharp left-face and brought their rifles forward in a crisp salute. The gunnery sergeant did the same with his saber, and immediately the mournful sound of a bugle filled the void of silence.

King stood motionless. It was still hard to believe.

Bishop. Gone.

It would have been easier to accept if there had been a body, something to make Bishop’s death an incontrovertible fact.

The search team leader had explained the challenges of trying to locate the body. The depth where Bishop had been lost would have overcome any natural buoyancy, and the thick sediment on the bottom would have closed over a body, erasing all trace of him. They had only been able to locate the bomb in those conditions because of the close proximity of the q-phone and its metal casing.

“We could drag the bottom for years, and never find him,” the search expert had confessed. They didn’t have years, and dragging the bottom of a lake that sat atop a bubble of deadly gas was not a workable solution.

Knight had held onto his hope the longest. He was convinced that Bishop was still alive, that the removal of his former regenerative abilities hadn’t worked, and that Bishop must have survived. But if that was true, where was he? Regenerating from trauma on that scale might well have put him past the tipping point, completing the unrecoverable transformation into a mindless rage beast. It was a kinder fate to hope the man had simply died.

King let his eyes wander over the small crowd attending the service. There were many faces he did not recognize. Bishop had evidently touched many more lives than King would ever have imagined.

Although Chess Team was no longer part of the military, Bishop was a veteran of both the USMC and the Army, and Deep Blue had made arrangements to ensure that he be accorded full honors, as such. His family deserved that much, but had requested that he be laid to rest, if only symbolically, in a cemetery just outside the eastern Illinois city where he had grown up.

As the last notes of Taps hung in the air, two Army Rangers in dress blues took hold of the flag draped over the empty casket and lifted it, holding it taut, and began folding it into a tight, precise triangle. When they were finished, the flag was passed between them and they saluted it at each exchange. The Marine gunnery sergeant approached and saluted as well, then slipped three shell casings, one for each volley the rifle team had fired, into the folds. He then took it from the Rangers, did an about face, and handed it off once again, this time to King.

King turned, and with the same grave formality as the military honor guard, walked to the front row of the gathering where he knelt before a middle-aged woman in a black dress.

“On behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s service to Country.”

Ruth Somers squeezed her husband’s hand and then took the flag with a nod. There were tears in her eyes, but King saw something else, too.

Derek and Ruth Somers had brought a young Iranian child into their home and into their lives, yet all their love could not purge the inexplicable anger that had burned within him. That anger had taken him to very dark places, and while he had found an outlet for it in military service, he had never been able to overcome it completely, something which they, as his parents, no doubt felt was a failing on their part. Now, at last, he had found the peace that had eluded him in life, and they, too, would be able to start healing.

It pained King that they would never be able to know just how many people had been saved by Bishop’s sacrifice, but the events that had transpired in the Congo, along with all other details of his service as part of Chess Team, could never be revealed.

The situation in Central Africa was, slowly but surely, improving. Without intending to, Senator Lance Marrs had ensured a quick return to regional stability by doing what President Chambers could not. He had rallied the President’s political rivals to recognize the presidency of General Velle, not realizing that Velle had formed a partnership with Gerard Okoa for a transitional government. Peacekeeping troops from the US military, as well as the United Nations and the African Union, had mobilized to restore order. Civilian contractors were lining up to help build the infrastructure that would create a world class natural gas extraction facility on the shores of Lake Kivu. Consolidated Energy, citing a desire to explore alternative sources of energy for the twenty-first century, had opted out of the bidding.

The scientific world was abuzz with news of a previously unknown subterranean ecosystem, where thousands of plant and animal species long thought extinct continued to thrive. Although, something of a turf war was brewing between conservationists and archeologists. The former wanted the unique biome to remain untouched, and the latter wanted access to the magnificent physical remains of an African society that was believed by many to be the oldest civilization on Earth, predating the emergence of the Sumerian culture by at least a millennium.

Joseph Mulamba would be remembered for his heroic vision that had made these discoveries possible. Bishop’s pivotal role, sadly, would never be known.

King spied another woman in the audience, black hair that matched her funeral attire, tears spilling down her face — a face that was eerily familiar. Faiza Abbasi, Bishop’s biological mother. King imagined that she, too, felt responsible for Bishop’s anger, but unlike his adoptive parents, she would not be able to find comfort in a lifetime of memories. She had been forced to abandon her son to save him from her husband’s enemies during the Iranian Revolution. She had been reunited with Bishop only a few years earlier. No doubt, she had looked forward to making up for the lost years, but now the opportunity to get to know her son better had forever passed.

King tore his gaze from Faiza, and looked instead at the woman standing next to him, his fiancée, Sara Fogg, They had been engaged for only a little over a year — though King had been waiting a considerably longer time to consecrate their union — but with their busy lives, there just never seemed to be time to plan a wedding. Fiona, his teenaged foster daughter, stood next to Sara, making no effort to hold back her tears. Perhaps it was the dark formal dress she wore, but she looked older than he remembered.

Further down the row, he saw the rest of the team. Rook and Queen, holding hands in a way that seemed uncharacteristically intimate. It had taken a long time for both of them to realize they belonged together, time in which either one of them might have been subtracted from the equation, just like Bishop now had been.

Knight, who stood with Anna Beck at his side, had come very close to being subtracted as well. His recovery had not gone smoothly. The secondary infection from his wounds, aggravated by the subsequent ordeal and a slew of exotic pathogens, had required a stomach churning regimen of antibiotic therapy that had left him looking gaunt and frail. The patch that hid the place where his left eye had been did not cover the angry scar tissue that ran down his cheek. Yet, through it all, he had resisted the dark gravity of depression, thanks in no small part to Anna Beck’s unflagging support.

Pawn’s recovery had gone much more swiftly. Her wounds had not been serious, and after just a few days in the hospital, she had demanded to join in the search for Bishop. The doctors had protested, but King had bowed to her wishes. He and she were both made of sterner stuff than anyone knew. Nevertheless, her close call was just one more reminder of how quickly things could change.

Life happens, no matter how hard you try to stop it, King thought. And maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.

He realized now that his procrastination had just been another way of trying to protect his loved ones, to keep that dream, which had sustained him during his long journey through time, perfectly preserved like an insect in amber.

It was time to let go of that frozen moment. Time to start living. Tonight, he promised himself, we’ll set the date.

The service concluded and the attendees filed past the casket to pay their last respects. Mr. and Mrs. Somers went last, after which King escorted them to a waiting limousine that would take them to the wake. As the car drove off, another limo arrived. Out stepped the former President, Tom Duncan — Deep Blue, joined by Domenick Boucher and Lew Aleman, none of whom could afford to be seen attending the funeral of a soldier with whom they had no public reason for being associated. To do so would raise questions and defeat the point of having a black organization. The three walked with King back to the few remaining at the cemetery: the Chess Team members and the staff of Endgame. Everyone who knew the truth about who Bishop had been and all that he had done.

Duncan — Deep Blue — unexpectedly assumed the position of attention and called out in a low but commanding voice. “King.”

King likewise came to attention and took a step forward. “Yes, sir?”

“Assemble for roll call.”

King felt a surge of emotion as he grasped what Deep Blue was doing. He pivoted and faced the gathering. “Chess Team, fall in.”

Queen, Rook and Knight moved forward, their expressions revealing that they understood as well, and formed a line beside him, intentionally leaving a gap between Queen and Knight.

King wasn’t sure what to do next. They had never established a protocol for this eventuality. It occurred to him that Deep Blue was now doing exactly that.

“King?”

King took a deep breath. “Here, sir.”

“Queen?”

Queen followed King’s lead. “Here, sir.”

“Knight?”

“Here, sir.”

“Rook?”

“Here, sir.”

“Bishop?”

Silence.

Deep Blue allowed a moment to pass. “Bishop? Somers?”

Another pause. “Bishop, Erik Somers?”

King had to struggle to find his voice. “Bishop, Erik Somers, is not here, sir.”

In the pause that followed, the only sound was of someone softly crying. Then Deep Blue did something that King did not expect.

“Pawn?” There was a stir of confusion. “Pawn, Machtchenko?”

Asya overcame her surprise and quickly stepped forward. “Here, sir.”

Deep Blue studied her with a look that evinced both solemnity and pride. “A piece has left the board, but Pawn, having demonstrated exceptional valor, has advanced. Will you take Bishop’s place, Asya Machtchenko?”

Asya stared back at him, stunned.

In a less formal tone, Deep Blue added, “According to the rules of chess, a pawn may be promoted to any of the first rank positions, even if that piece is still in play, but I think one Queen is more than enough.”

Asya nodded, dumbly, though whether she was agreeing with Deep Blue or signaling her acceptance was anyone’s guess. Deep Blue took it as the latter. He reached out and pressed a carved wooden chess piece into her hands.

“Welcome to the team, Bishop.”