by H. L. Wegley
Should he tell her it was almost perfect and they should practice some more? But what if she took it as criticism?
“So, Steve, how was it?”
He fumbled for words and said the first one that popped into his head. “Addicting.”
“Then maybe we should—”
“That would be a good idea. I’ve heard withdrawal can be painful.”
Somewhere near the end of their second kiss, the sun slipped behind the Cascades in a rush of nuanced color changes. Twilight began. Now it was the sky’s turn to change color. Without clouds, the color changes would be slow, subtle, but still beautiful.
Julia circled his neck with her arms and pressed her cheek into his chest. “Wow. A kiss at sunset. I feel like I should break out into a song … or something. But I can’t sing.”
“You sure sang in the mouth of that cave today. I heard you.”
“A fluke, or maybe the acoustics. I can’t sing, Steve. I’ve never sung a solo in my life.”
“You did today. Your voice was beautiful. It touched the hearts of 200 men surrounding that cave with their weapons ready. Your song saved our lives.”
“Sounds like it touched 201 men.”
“God Bless America. A song that probably should have become our national anthem. Maybe today yours was the voice of every citizen who loves the USA, Jules … the voice of freedom.”
EPILOGUE
290 clicks north of Guatemala City
Julia Bancroft sat beside Steve as the four-wheel drive vehicle they had rented at the airport creaked and groaned over the humps and bumps in the small dirt road near Chisec. A mile ahead the grassy land dotted with bushes and scrubby trees, became a jungle forest, extending to the tops of mountains to the west. A mile beyond the edge of the forest lay their destination.
“Steve, how do you feel about President Tucker’s decision to give us all medals, the Presidential Medal of Freedom for the civilians, and Benjamin, and the Congressional Medal of Honor for all of Craig's men?”
“Jules, here’s how I look at it … it’s for the American people. They need something tangible to point to, heroes to celebrate. The Lord only knows how much they need that after being beaten down by the Hannan administration for more than seven years. And it’s good for our relationship with Israel to recognize the key role they played.”
“I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“Like what? Like a man?”
“I’m not a man, Mr. Bancroft. Besides, I can think about it however I choose.” Julia leaned her head on Steve’s shoulder. “Benjamin got married last week.”
“Yeah, I heard. So did we. And I just realized something.”
Steve paused until she looked up into his eyes. “You aren’t a man.”
Julia pounded his shoulder in mock fury, then rested her head there again. “The nightmare is fading away. It hardly seems real now. Hannan is buried. They showed it on TV but nobody watched.”
As they passed through a field of lush green grass, the road smoothed. The grass had nearly filled in the two tire tracks. Evidently, the road hadn't been used in a while. That's probably as it should be. This road should never have been built, at least not for the purposes it had served. “Steve, what do you suppose will happen to Eli Vance?”
“Well, he’s in the hospital, dying from emphysema. He’ll never be prosecuted. His cigarettes have already done that.”
“I’m surprised that Ben Tucker didn’t even run for the presidency.”
“I’m not,” Steve said. “He knew his role, glue a broken nation back together and then return to being Speaker of the House. And it’s certainly no surprise that Senator Carr, from Texas, won the election as the first ever Constitutional Conservative Party candidate. It wasn’t even a landslide. It was total domination. Not a single state went to another candidate. And on day one, he cancelled so many executive orders that he said he had a cramp in his hand. Now, he’s going after the out-of-control judiciary and restoring the culture in our military that made it the most powerful force on the planet.” Steve stopped talking. He was waiting.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Jules, why are we talking politics on our honeymoon? Are you nervous about this?”
“Nervous?” Her stomach was full of butterflies, or was it Stealth Hawks, and if it didn’t settle down, they would have to stop while she lost her lunch. “A little.”
Steve pulled a hand from the wheel, taking advantage of the smooth straight section of road to snag Julia's hand. “So you’re ready for this, sweetheart?”
She rubbed her queasy stomach, then pulled a legal sized envelope from the door pocket and waved it at Steve. “Legally, yes. Emotionally ... I won't know until we get there. I still don't understand why no one communicated with us after we notified them about our arrival date. It worries me.”
He glanced her way and gave her one of his endearing smiles that never failed to win over anyone to whom Steve was willing to show it. “Don't worry about anything but in all things give—”
“I know, Steve. I memorized that verse, too. But it's not that simple.”
He squeezed her hand. “Oh, it's simple enough, just hard to do sometimes … especially when the stakes are so high.”
“Stakes high? Are you trying to—”
“No. I'm not trying to frighten you. You’re doing a good job of that yourself.” He braked and the vehicle groaned to stop near a cinderblock building at the edge of the forest. “End of the road.”
Julia scanned the area around them—the clearing, the trail, the deserted building surrounded by a high fence topped with barbed wire and no trespassing signs.
“This was where I saw her last.” Julia pointed toward the door to the building.
Steve motioned toward the trail to the right of the building. “Is that the trail?”
“Mmmhmm.” Julia heard his question, barely, because her mind had drifted back several months, replaying those heart-wrenching moments when she and Brock had simply turned and walked away.
“How far up the trail?” Steve's voice yanked Julia back to the present.
“The village is a mile upstream.”
So much had happened since the mission team had left Guatemala. She battled Ebola. Hannan had nearly killed all of them … multiple times. She married a big, strong, handsome Army Ranger who would be discharged soon. A highly decorated Army Ranger. Maybe even the Congressional Medal of Honor.
Yes, so much had changed that it all seemed surreal. The envelope now stuffed in her shorts pocket said it was real, but until they reached the village …
Steve opened her door and she slid down to the ground and into his arms. Iron hard muscles contracted around her. “Julia Weiss, how did I ever find—”
She muted his lips with her fingers. “Julia Bancroft. Mrs. Steve Bancroft. And as to how … you know the story well enough, Mister Bancroft. I was a fool and then—”
He silenced her lips with a kiss. Then held her by her shoulders and scanned her face with the intense look of a Ranger trained to capture the details and analyze a situation with one glance. “Not a fool. Never a fool. Just a girl who saw many things no girl should ever have to see.” Steve paused and smiled. “Our girl won’t have to. That's a promise.”
Steve knew how to plant hope in a person, especially in Julia. Warriors who could not do that couldn’t lead. And Steve was definitely a leader. Fit to lead warriors and fit to lead a family.
Twenty minutes later, Steve and Julia rounded a turn in the trail and a cluster of rusty roofed huts, some made of wood and others of cinderblocks, came into view.
Julia's pulse revved as she scanned the huts.
A few Mayan women clustered near one hut, talking while a group of children, backs to Julia, appeared to be drawing in the dirt with sticks.
When Julia and Steve approached, one of the women gasped and gestured toward them.
A young girl dropped her stick and whirled to face them. “Ms. Julia!” Her shrill cry echoed u
p and down the narrow valley.
Looking healthy, full of life, energy and love, Itzy ran toward Julia, arms outstretched.
It was the response Julia had hoped for. But what would happen when she introduced Steve?
“Itzy …” Julia reached toward the girl, who leaped into her arms. She held Itzy’s tiny body against her chest, slipped an arm under her, serving as the chair, and held her.
“I missed you, Ms. Julia. This much.” Itzy spread her arms wide, hitting Julia's nose in the process.
“I missed you, too, Itzy.”
Itzy’s arms circled her neck and squeezed.
With her free hand, Julia pulled the envelope from her pocket and waved it in front of the small girl’s face. “Do you know what this is?”
Itzy’s almond-shaped brown eyes narrowed as she stared at the envelope. Then her lips stretched the width of her light brown face. “Papers. Papers mean I not call you Ms. Julia. I call you mama.”
Tears welled in Julia's eyes. But again concern tempered her growing joy. She swiveled Itzy in her arms until the slender girl faced Steve. “This is my husband, Steve.”
Julia drew a breath and held it while she watched Itzy’s face.
Itzy’s body tensed and she studied Steve's face, finally locking gazes with him.
Steve’s smile widened into its warmest expression.
Slowly, Itzy’s arms reached toward Steve. “Papa.”
Steve pulled her into his arms, along with Julia, where he held them in a strong yet tender embrace.
As if someone pulled the plug in a sink full of water, Julia's reservoir of horror that she’d held for so long swirled then drained, completely. And, as Steve said, their girl would never have to store such memories.
With a good person in the White House, and Brock Daniels’s voice of freedom continuing to remind all Americans what it takes to maintain liberty and a morally upright nation, Itzy would have a good life with Steve and Julia in America or wherever they ran their orphanage.
America was a good nation once again. And after a thorough housecleaning, it would have a good military, led by men like Captain Craig, to ensure their protection against all enemies.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
Voice of Freedom is set in six different locations in three countries, Israel, Canada, and the USA. I’ve not been to Israel, yet, but the tiny nation holds a special place in my heart. Several of the other setting locations also have special places in my heart.
The lookout tower on Bolan Peak, where Steve and Julia hid overnight, used to be on adjacent Sanger Peak. That’s where I remember seeing it many times as a child. As a teenager, I raced motorcycles down that mountain road and—let’s not go there right now. Suffice it to say we all survived—the people, not all of the motorcycles. And there was a point at which we didn’t know if we were being cast in a remake of the movie Deliverance or an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies. If you wish to pursue this subject further, email me. I may or may not answer your questions.
After the Forest Service moved the Sanger Peak Lookout to Bolan Peak, they began renting it to hardy souls who wanted a top-of-the-world experience in the Oregon-California coastal mountains. Several photos have been posted online by those who rented the lookout. The sunsets, sunrises, and night skies are spectacular. Google “Bolan Peak Lookout” if you want to see them, or look at my Voice of Freedom Pinterest board at pinterest.com/harryw51.
As teenagers, my buddies and I rode our motorcycles to Bolan Lake and hiked into its sister, Tannen Lake, on a three-day fishing trip. We heard from a ranger that Tannen Lake had been accidentally stocked with fish twice from the air that spring and so we caught our limit of trout each day.
This fishing adventure occurred during the heyday of Bigfoot sightings, and we were in the very center of the heart of Bigfoot country. The first evening, around the campfire, we each shared Bigfoot stories we’d heard from loggers and hunters while we listened to the haunting howling of coyotes from the ridge above the lake.
We scared ourselves spitless, with horror stories about the foul-smelling giant’s escapades. But wanting to appear macho, none of us would admit our fears … until a porcupine ran across all five of our sleeping bags at 5:00 a.m. No one was spared the chills of that experience, but only one of us ended up with any quills.
The Skylight Cave used in the story is a lava tube near Sisters, Oregon, situated on the lava-covered, eastern slopes of the Cascade Mountains in Central Oregon. I've never explored this particular cave, but I’ve seen spectacular photos of the eerie columns of light produced by sunshine funneling into the darkness through a skylight. You can see these on my Pinterest page, too.
Further south, some of the lava tubes are called ice caves because—you guessed it—at the bottom of the cave you can skate on ice while the temperature tops a hundred degrees at the mouth of the cave.
The skydiving club that flew Steve Bancroft from Madras to the Skylight Cave really does exist. But everything related to them in the book is purely fictitious. I really enjoyed creating their pilot, Bob Daggett.
My characters were only able to spend one night near beautiful Whistler, BC. My wife and I are not skiers so we visit Whistler in the summer to hike the trails, ride the gondolas to the snowcapped peaks. The gondola rides include the longest stretch of unsupported cable in the world, the Peak-to-Peak Gondola. One of my earlier novels, Triple Threat, used the Peak-to-Peak Gondola for some action scenes. This gondola seems perfect for a thriller, book or movie, but it seems that I was the first to use it.
While in Whistler, we consume gallons of coffee and I write while my wife, Babe, reads, sitting by a stream in the warm summer sun around Whistler Village.
Strolling through the village you will see tourists from all over the globe. We often spend Canada Day in Whistler to see the parade through the village, watch the fireworks, and attend the outdoor concerts.
The political setting of Voice of Freedom is not as pleasant as the physical setting. The story deals with the rending of America by a would-be tyrant. In 2012, Charles Murray wrote, Coming Apart: The State of White America, 1960–2010. He focused on white Americans only to emphasize that they were not excluded from the coming apart of this nation. He thought all groups, minorities, as well as the majority, were impacted. In Murray’s estimation, the rending of America is happening at the level of our core of common beliefs—religion, marriage and family, labor, ethics, and morality. His prescription for a solution is a “Civic Great Awakening,” a returning to our foundations on family, vocation, community and faith—something like the Great Awakening of the 19th Century.
In part, I agree with Murray. But with two predominant, diametrically opposed worldviews present in our culture and in our politics, I am pessimistic about the nation I love coming back together. Nevertheless, I can write a story illustrating the restorative power of a taste of tyranny, a story that shows what political steps might be required to restore a fractured, failed state to a Democratic Republic.
We should heed our founders’ warning that our Constitution only works for a good and moral people. So when one faction’s morality becomes another's immorality, as we find in America today, the nation is fractured almost beyond repair. The USA as we have known it cannot exist under those conditions. If Americans cannot come together on core values, we will come apart on those same lines.
There are several other philosophical and theological asides to the story that readers may find interesting. One of these is Julia Weiss's pacifism, her reaction to a horrific childhood exposure to warfare, specifically to a jihadist group like Boko Haram. She learns that pacifism is unlivable in a fallen world and that self-defense, as well as defense of the helpless, using lethal force, is sometimes required.
The only thread intentionally left dangling at the end of Voice of Freedom is the story of the married couple, Jeff and Allie Jacobs. Their back story is contained in Against All Enemies book 3, The Prequel, Chasing Freedom, another action-packed romantic thriller
set four years prior to books one and two. Look for it to release in July 2016. Turn the page and you can read Chasing Freedom, chapter 1.
H L Wegley
Coming Soon
Against All Enemies 3, The Prequel: Chasing Freedom, Chapter 1
By H. L. Wegley
Chapter 1
The moment the forest went silent, Jeff Jacobs sensed it. It came as an unsettling feeling more than anything audible. The sensation crept up his spine to the back of his neck.
Jeff shivered then shook off the feeling as he slowed to a stop near a stand of tall Ponderosa pines on the dusty, Southern-Oregon mountain road. He adjusted his headband to catch the drops of perspiration from a hot, July evening run before they became stinging instruments of torture to his eyes. And he listened.
Barely audible, a noise came, one that didn't belong to the forest.
It sounded again. Was it a wheezing cough?
He waited, trying to identify the sound.
The hoarse wheezing grew in volume, now accompanied by a syncopated rhythm of running feet. Thankfully, it wasn't either of his two worst fears, timber rattlers or cougars.
A slender figure emerged from the overgrown logging road ahead and ran down the main road toward him. The person sounded like someone desperately trying to finish a marathon. Someone who wouldn't.
A young woman. She half ran, and half stumbled, toward him with her long, dark hair waving behind. Her face held wide eyes that contrasted with the dust and perspiration coating her cheeks and forehead.
She stumbled and reached for him, her large brown eyes filled with terror. “Help me! Please!”
Her terror stabbed his heart in its most vulnerable spot. In that moment, Jeff committed to helping her. For the first time in months, he had a purpose.
Off balance now, her eyes closed and she pitched forward.
