The room grew quiet and still, the mantel clock the only sound they could hear. Sam stared at his hands, then feet, then the floor. “I don’t know, Dad,” he answered. “I just don’t know anymore.”
“Then trust me, Sam,” Brighton pled. “If you don’t know yourself, then trust me for a while. I know this is true. There is no doubt in my mind. I have been through the fire. I had to be converted too.”
Sam hesitated, and for an instant his father saw a child there: a thirteen-year-old boy, small, beaten by life, and unsure. He saw all the misery and anguish of the past years. But he couldn’t change that. It was up to Sam now.
“I’m sorry,” Sam muttered, his heart breaking inside. His lower lip quivered as he strained to control his emotions. “But I can’t do it, Dad. Perhaps I’m a bad seed. Maybe I don’t have it in me. Look at my old man and old lady, and I think we’d agree there’s not a lot to be optimistic about. I want to be like you, but I’m just like my old man.”
Neil felt his chest crunch. He remained speechless, his throat tight, his mouth dry as sand. The clock kept on ticking, though it seemed a long way away. He stared at Sam. Sam stared at him. “What are you going to do then?” he asked.
Sam locked his jaw. He had made his decision the night before. “My old man taught me to fight,” he answered. “That’s something I’m pretty good at. I guess that’s what I’ll do.”
* * *
Six weeks later Sam left for army basic training. Twelve weeks after that, he graduated number one in his class. He was indeed a fighter, very good at his job. Upon graduation he was accepted to Rangers’ training and once again finished at the top of his class. He was then assigned to the 101st Airborne and eventually sent to Afghanistan to fight the remnants of the Taliban and Al Qaeda.
Two years after joining the army, Sam received a hand-delivered invitation from his unit commander. He opened it anxiously. He had been waiting for months.
The invitation was short and direct. The Deltas were looking for a very few men. Did he want to apply?
Sam stared at the invitation, his eyes unbelieving. A shot of adrenaline ran through him, and he almost jumped in the air.
The Deltas were the crème de la crème, the absolute best—the most disciplined and highly trained soldiers anywhere in the world. The Deltas were so secret the army refused to even acknowledge they existed. Their specialty was Special Operations, or Special Ops—covert missions that were so controversial and dangerous that many of the team members had long hair and wore civilian clothes as they roamed around with CIA agents to the hellish spots of the world.
Fifty men would be admitted to Delta training. Three, maybe five would make it through.
Sam was one of the proud ones. His graduation from Delta proved to be one of the happiest days of his life.
Neil attended the low-key graduation, smiling proudly from his VIP seat. Sara wasn’t allowed to attend, but it didn’t matter, she would only have cried anyway.
And so it was that Sam had spent the better part of the last year crawling through the ghettos of Baghdad and creeping through the spider web of caves that lined the eastern Afghanistan border. His unit had only one mission: to hunt down and kill the enemies of the United States.
* * *
The C-21 jumped, and General Brighton was startled back to the present. He looked at his watch. Almost two hours had passed. He had been completely lost in thought, thinking about his oldest son.
The small aircraft cut through a thin layer of clouds, and the shining ocean below him suddenly came into view. The general stared out the window, watching the sun cast a long shadow over the calm sea, a sparkling trail of light that stretched east for a hundred miles or more. He sat forward in his seat and pulled a bottle of water from his armrest, then sat back again.
As he stared at the ocean, his mind drifted again. In quiet moments such as these, when there were no crises around him and he had a few minutes to think, his thoughts always drifted to Sam and what had happened to him.
Sam had been in the army for almost three years. For the first two of those years he had kept in regular contact with his family; he came home when he could and called frequently. But soon after joining the Deltas, something happened, and everything seemed to change. His trips home became much less frequent, and he didn’t call as much anymore. And when he was home, it was strained. He was no longer comfortable.
Sam was not the same person. How many times had Neil and Sara lay in bed and wondered. They were losing their son, and they didn’t know why. They had pleaded; they threatened; they tried everything they could think of, but nothing seemed to get through to him. He was cutting them off, drifting away to live a life by himself.
It didn’t make sense. Not after all they had gone through together. There was simply no reason for him to drift away like he was. Something had changed him. What was going on?
Then, just six months ago, Brighton had read an eyes-only review from Sam’s unit in Afghanistan, a top-secret inquiry into something that had gone terribly wrong. Brighton started asking some questions. Now he thought he understood.
War could be a vicious and terrible monster that often left a trail of victims in its bloody path. Some were guilty, some were innocent, and some were somewhere in between. Sam had been caught up in a terrible battle, maybe even made a mistake, and some of his soldiers had died when he had been in charge. But it was not his fault. After months of investigating, his father knew that was true.
Sam felt differently. And though Brighton had tried to talk to him about the incident he had refused to discuss it. “Let it go, Dad,” he had hissed when Brighton had asked. “I can’t talk about it. You know that. Just let it go!”
“Sam, it’s not your fault!” Brighton had answered. “I’ve read the report . . .”
“You weren’t there, Dad. You have no idea what happened. You have no idea at all what was or wasn’t my fault.”
It broke Sara’s heart to see such a drastic change come over her son. And though Neil had never told her about the top-secret report, she had a pretty good idea. She had been around soldiers long enough to figure it out.
* * *
Brighton sipped at his water, then pulled out his Palm and checked his schedule once more. Evening arrival in Germany. Forty minutes to eat and refuel. Take off again. Three days in Saudi Arabia meeting with their senior air force staff and the crown prince. Another quick stop in Germany. Another quick sandwich while they refueled.
There was just no time to see Samuel. It wouldn’t happen this trip.
He was deeply disappointed, for he knew that Sara was right. His son needed him. They needed to talk. And the irony didn’t escape him. After months of being separated by almost ten thousand miles, here they were, in Germany at the same time, within a few miles of each other, and no time to get together. It was a bitter pill.
He sighed in frustration. For the hundredth time in a month he wished that he had more time.
Chapter Twenty
The C-21 touched down in Germany in the semi-darkness and taxied to the front of base operations, the blue and white airport lights glowing softly around it. A fresh flight crew was waiting, but the jet had to be refueled and serviced, so the general got off to stretch his long legs. At six feet, three inches, Brighton was on the upper limit of how tall a pilot could be—any taller, and the cockpit console would cut off his legs at the knees if he ever had to eject—and he was anxious to walk around and get some exercise while they were on the ground. His aides disappeared into the base operations building, and he walked around the jet while the maintenance troops did their work.
Ten minutes later, the crew chief jogged toward him. “Sir,” he said, “we’ve got a little problem with your jet.”
“What’s up?” Brighton asked.
“I completed the through-flight inspection. Found a leak in the fuel pump on the number two engine. It’s not bad, but beyond tolerances and we’re going to have to change it, I’m afraid.”
“How long will it take?” Brighton asked as he glanced at his watch, realizing he had no idea what the local time was. It was dark, must be night, but that’s about all he knew. At 43,000 feet and two hundred miles away to the west, the sun had gone down about thirty minutes before, but that didn’t help him know what time it was there.
“I’m afraid it’s going to take us a while, General Brighton,” the maintenance sergeant apologized. “I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have another fuel pump in supply. We’ve been going through them like underwear—seems we change one every day. We got a bad batch of pumps in the last supply load, I guess, and we’re going to have to cannibalize one off of our other jets.”
“Okay. That’s fine. Just tell me how long.”
“Couple of hours, sir.”
The general shook his head. “Two full hours!”
“Sorry, sir. But it beats the alternative.”
“And what is the alternative?”
“Catching fire and exploding at forty thousand feet.”
Brighton smiled. That it did. “All right,” he said.
“I’ve already advised the pilots, sir. They say it’s your call. Do you want us to fix it now so you can get underway or spend the night here and get a good start in the morning?”
“I’ve got appointments tomorrow in Saudi Arabia,” Brighton answered as he did some quick math in his head. Two hours difference in time . . . five-hour flight . . . 07:30 brief with the military liaison from the CIA team . . . no way they could stay. They had to leave as soon as the fix was complete. “I need to leave ASAP, sergeant. Fix the jet quick as you can and get me out of here, okay?”
“Roger, sir. We will. I’ll advise the pilots.”
“Tell them to put a delay on your flight plan but keep it in the system so we are ready to go.”
The sergeant saluted, then turned around and started moving toward base operations.
“Hey,” Brighton called, “what’s the local time, chief?”
The sergeant glanced at his watch. “Eight-fifteen, sir.”
Brighton thought a moment. “Can you get me a car?” he asked.
“Can do, sir. I’ll call the motor pool and have them send something over immediately.”
The general raised a hand, indicating for him to stand by, then pulled out a cell phone. The sergeant stood a short distance away as Brighton placed a call to his communications staff in D.C. It took them less than a minute to track down his son and patch his call through.
“Sam!” Brighton said happily when his son answered the phone.
“Dad!” Samuel answered in surprise. “What’s going on?”
“Have you eaten yet?” Brighton asked him.
“Ahh . . . no, not yet. What have you got in mind? You going to FedEx me some food?”
“How about I buy you dinner instead?”
“Dinner! No kidding! Where are you, Dad?”
“Here at the base ops at Ramstein. Got a problem with my jet. Will be delayed a couple of hours. Could we meet somewhere?”
“You’re here in Germany?”
“Yes I am.”
“Great! You name the place and I’ll meet you!”
“Ever heard of Miss Lela’s?”
“Are you kidding? Who hasn’t heard of Miss Lela’s?”
“How long will it take you to get there?”
“Give me a half hour.”
“Okay, I can be there in ten minutes. I’ll order us something and be looking for you.”
“Great, Dad. I’m real excited to see you.”
Brighton said good-bye and clicked off his phone, then turned toward the sergeant. “Okay,” he said. “Get me that car. Tell them to hurry; I don’t have much time. And when you go into ops, find my guys and tell them I’m going downtown for an hour or so.”
The sergeant hesitated. “Do you want me to get them so they can escort you, sir?”
Brighton grunted. The higher the rank he achieved, the more he had to be baby-sat. “That’s okay, sergeant,” he answered. “I’m going to meet my son.”
“Do you know your way around, sir? I’d be happy to get you a driver.”
“No need, sergeant. I was assigned here for three years back in my flying days. I reckon I can still get around.”
“Things have changed, General Brighton.”
“I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
“Really, sir, things are different than they used to be. It might not be a good idea for a two-star to be out and about on his own. Let me get your security man . . .”
Brighton shook his head. “I know he hates bratwurst. And I want to spend some time with my son.”
The sergeant couldn’t help but smile. “Bratwurst, eh? Are you talking Miss Lela’s?”
“Oh yeah,” Brighton smiled. “Famous all over the world. You know a good brat when you taste it—I can see that on your face.”
“Miss Lela’s has the best stinking bratwurst in all of Germany. It’s almost worth flying over from the States just to eat there. And her potato bread and kraut . . . !”
Brighton gave a thumbs up. “Roger that. Now can you get me that car?”
The sergeant spoke into his radio. It took only a second to get an answer for the general. “It’s on the way, sir. But, sir, I’ve got to ask you, have you been to Miss Lela’s in a while?”
“I don’t know . . . it’s a couple of years I guess.”
“Then you might ought to be careful, General Brighton. Miss Lela’s has changed. She has a pretty rough crowd. And most of them don’t like us Yankees. So keep your head low; that’s all I’m trying to say, sir.”
“Got it,” Brighton answered. “Now get me my car and get my airplane fixed. If you do a good job, I’ll bring some potato bread and sausage back for you.”
* * *
Brighton stood outside the famous Lela’s bar and café, a small brick-and-mortar joint at the back of an alley off of Schandelberg Strausse. All through the Cold War, when there were more ex-pat Americans in Germany than anywhere else in the world, when the U.S. army was massed and ready to drive back the Russian hordes by defending the Foulda Gap with the sacrifice of their lives, before the Americans had started withdrawing their troops, a process that accelerated rapidly at the end of the first Gulf War, Miss Lela’s had been one of the greatest cafés in all of central Germany. On any given night it was crammed to the walls, smoky and warm from the open pit grills, and bustling with U.S. soldiers and young German beauties looking for American husbands. Seven nights a week swinging jazz or Orleans blues could be heard wailing up from the basement bar, played by an old American blues band that had somehow ended up in Germany and now played for tips and free beer. General Brighton remembered going to Lela’s frequently when he was a young fighter pilot attached to the F-15 wing at Ramstein. The food was wonderful and came heaped on huge plates, and for seven bucks American, one could eat until he was ready to puke, struggle to the bathroom, and then come back for more.
But though General Brighton loved Miss Lela’s for the food, there was another, more important reason he was so fond of the place—this was where he had first been introduced to the Church.
* * *
It was 1987 and the young Neil Brighton was on a serious roll. He had just pinned captain’s bars on his shoulders and had been assigned to one of the rockingest fighter squadrons in all of Europe. The tension between East and West was at its climax, and President Reagan had just completed his trip to Berlin, where he had stood at the Brandenburg Gate and taunted the Russian leaders to “tear down this wall.” Brighton and his fellow flyers enjoyed sky-high morale, and for the first time in his life he had a little time, a little money, and a great world to explore, a world his buddies back in West Texas would never know. Even better (a whole lot better), after two years of waiting for his remote assignment in Korea to end, he and Sara had just gotten married. They spent the Christmas holidays touring Europe, staying in cheap bed-and-breakfast joints, and riding the EuroRail to every out-o
f-the-way village they could get to in two weeks. Anyone who watched the young couple could see that they were madly in love—a serious, hurting kind of love, a lay-awake-and-talk-until-morning kind of love, an everyone-in-the-office-is-jealous-of-us kind of love.
Life was good. No, life was grand.
Then one day in January, Brighton and his flight commander had stopped by Miss Lela’s for a long lunch, a stream of bad weather having cancelled their sorties for the day. They were just getting settled at their table when another member of their squadron walked into the café, followed by two young American kids.
The other pilot was a young lieutenant, and Brighton would later learn he was a member of the LDS Church. The lieutenant had found the missionaries riding their bikes through the rain and brought them to Miss Lela’s to dry them off and get them something to eat. Brighton watched them a few minutes, then walked over to talk to his squadron mate, not having any idea who the two young Americans were. Abilene, Texas, didn’t have many LDS missionaries wandering the streets, and the ranches and cotton farms on the prairie saw them even less, so the white shirts and ties weren’t something he had seen before.
“What’s up?” he asked as he approached his friend, curiously checking out the American kids.
“I’m Elder Bennion,” the first missionary said as he stood up and extended his hand. “This is Elder Rasmussen. We’re missionaries for the . . .”
Brighton cut him off. Missionaries, huh. That was all he needed to hear. Having not spent so much as an hour in church for going on almost ten years, he didn’t want to be preached to and had no need for religion. Was there a god up there in the vast universe somewhere? He really didn’t know. Had absolutely no clue. But he figured that no one else had the answers either, so he wasn’t alone. And if he were serious about religion, he would start with a preacher, someone with a white collar and divinity Ph.D., certainly not these dripping wet kids from the States.
Brighton nodded quickly and offered a weak “Good to meet you,” then turned away from the missionaries to talk to his flying mate. But the young elder didn’t sit down. “You from the South?” he asked cheerfully to Brighton’s back.
The Great and Terrible Page 36
