Tiger's Claw: A Novel

SACRAMENTO OLD CITY CEMETERY, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

THAT SAME TIME

The honor guard finished folding the flag that had draped the ceremonial casket, and the captain of the honor guard clutched the flag between his two palms. They were in front of the McLanahan family columbarium at the historic cemetery in downtown Sacramento, the cemetery that held the remains of nearly two hundred years of McLanahans.

But instead of the captain handing the flag to a family member, he handed it to President Kenneth Phoenix, who was accompanied by Vice President Ann Page. The president took it and clutched it to his chest, and Ann touched it and held it. Together they turned and walked over to the front row of family members seated closest to the empty casket. He stood in front of Bradley, bent at the waist, held out the folded American flag, and said in a soft voice, “Bradley, Nancy, Margaret, on behalf of a grateful nation . . .”

And then he stopped. Choking back a sob, Phoenix pressed the folded flag again against his chest . . . then suddenly dropped to his knees on the artificial grass carpeting surrounding the casket. The Secret Service agents accompanying the president surged forward, afraid he might be sick or just overcome with grief, but Ann Page warned them away with a silent, angry scowl.

“Bradley, I ask you one more time,” President Phoenix quietly implored, his head bowed. “Allow me to take your father’s remains to Washington. He deserves to join our country’s greatest heroes in death. He deserves to be honored by every loyal American soldier, sailor, airman, and marine in Arlington National Cemetery. It wouldn’t be forever. Let him be honored by our country until your passing, in a special national memorial columbarium, and then he can be brought back here for final rest with you and your mother. It is the least we can do for America’s greatest aviation hero.”

Bradley sobbed for several long moments, comforted by his aunts, then shook his head. “No, Mr. President,” he said. “Dad wouldn’t have wanted it that way. I don’t know much about my dad, but I do know this: he didn’t think of himself as a hero. He was a crewdog, plain and simple. I don’t know what that is, but that’s what he was. That’s all I know about him. He saw the objective, planned the mission, and executed the plan. He didn’t expect praise, commendations, or medals—all he wanted was results, and then to be allowed to go home.”

“Jesus, Bradley,” Ann Page said. “Your father was one of the most inspirational figures of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. You can’t just . . . just bury him. Think of our country. We need heroes, Brad. Your father is the perfect example of what every American should aspire to become.”

“Maybe, Miss Vice President,” Bradley said, “but my dad wouldn’t buy that for an instant, and you know that.” Ann lowered her head in silent assent. “Dad did stuff because it needed to be done, because the fight was on and he had to get in there and engage. When the fight was over, he broke off and headed for home. That’s all I know about Patrick Shane McLanahan, but I think that’s all I need to know. I think that’s all the world needs to know about him too.”

Bradley stood before the president of the United States and held out a hand, and President Phoenix took it, got to his feet, and stood beside him. Together they walked to the open columbarium chamber. Bradley inserted the urn into the crypt. Phoenix took the columbarium cover from an astonished cemetery worker, and together Bradley and the president of the United States secured the cover to the columbarium in place.

“God rest the soul of Lieutenant General Patrick Shane McLanahan,” the president of the United States said in a loud voice. “God rest all our souls.”