Sunrise: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Ten

by Chris Stewart

  She tried to smile, but didn’t answer.

  The president waited for a moment. “What is it?” he pressed.

  Sara shook her head and looked away.

  Brucius waited patiently.

  “I want you to know that I’m proud of my country,” she finally said.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Camp Hostile, Southwestern United States

  The entire facility had been designed to hold enemy combatants from various locations around the world, the final stop for terrorists who wanted to destroy the United States. Capable of holding 400 terrorists in individual holding cells, the camp was empty now. King al-Rahman was the only prisoner there.

  One prisoner. A couple hundred guards. Cement and steel all around him. Security cameras inside his cell. Quadruple strands of electrified wire outside the wall. A classified location.

  No way he was getting out of there.

  His cell was sterile, with no protrusions of any kind from which he could fashion a hook or weapon. A simple sink with a recessed faucet was fastened to the back wall. There were no windows. He had no desk. A simple bowl on the floor was his toilet, and it flushed automatically. There were no sheets on his bed and strands of wire had been sewn into the padded mattress to keep him from ripping any of the material into shreds. His prison clothes were made of paper, leaving not a single piece of cloth inside the cell with which he could fashion a rope to hang himself.

  How long Al-Rahman had been inside the prison, he didn’t know. All he knew was he was going to die here. If they were merciful, they would kill him. If they were not, they’d let him live, leaving him to rot until he died from old age.

  The king thought of his friend, the old man, and shivered in a despair so deep he thought his chest would rip apart. The old man had been ancient, more than a hundred, he was sure. One of the benefits of their oaths and combinations was the gift of living long.

  A good idea when they were younger.

  But it seemed like a torture now.

  Al-Rahman looked around his cell, then shook his head and began to cry like a child. He’d be completely insane before he grew so old.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two miles west of Chatfield, Twenty-One miles southwest of Memphis, Tennessee

  (Six Months Later)

  Caelyn’s mother kept a watchful eye on her daughter. They’d made it through the winter. They made it through the spring. Time had passed. Everything had gotten better.

  Everything except Caelyn.

  Although six months had passed, there was no more life inside her than on the first day that she’d come back home. Her face was blank, her eyes vacant, her words soft and unemotional. Sometimes Caelyn would smile at Ellie, but even these brief moments of happiness were forced and fleeting. It was as if she had died along with her husband, as if her life was over, as if she was just waiting now, going through the motions, waiting for her time to depart.

  It was a tragedy, the way she’d given up. No, it was worse than that. What Greta was witnessing was much worse than a simple death. This was a tortured dying, an unending final chapter to a story that had no end. It was so unlike Caelyn, to just give up like this. She was young. So much of life still before her. She still had Ellie, a beautiful and loving child. She had a responsibility to be strong for her and it made Greta angry to see her giving up like this. “Caelyn, please,” she had pleaded time and time again. “I know it’s hard honey, but you can’t give up this way. You will heal. It will get better. I know what you’re feeling, but it will pass.”

  *******

  Late in the afternoon, Greta opened Caelyn’s bedroom door. “Someone’s here to see you,” she announced.

  Caelyn looked up to see Sara Brighton standing there. Sara moved toward her and pulled her into her arms and the two of them held each other as if they would die if they let go. “How is Sam?” Caelyn finally asked after they had moved apart.

  “He’s good, Caelyn. In fact, I’d say he’s completely better. He’s on duty now and very happy to be back at work. Those two months in the hospital were, I think, the very longest of his life.”

  Caelyn smiled at the good news. “Do you still see Azadeh?”

  “Almost every day.”

  “I like her so much. She’s one of the nicest people I have ever known.”

  “We feel the same way, Caelyn. But the fact is, I feel the same way about you. Both of you have lost so much.”

  Caelyn cleared her throat and looked at the open window. “We all have, haven’t we, Sara?”

  Sara watched her carefully. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  Caelyn took a step toward the window. Ellie was walking hand in hand with Sam across the yard. Sara moved and stood beside her, both of them looking down on their children, the two things they loved more than anything else in the world.

  “She looks happy,” Sara said of Ellie. “Such a pretty little girl. I can see so much of you in her face, but her spirit is so much like her father’s.”

  Caelyn nodded as she tugged at the lacy curtains.

  Sara put her arm around her. “It’s been six months,” she said.

  Caelyn shook her head violently.

  “I think it’s time for you do this, Caelyn. You need to do it for Ellie. You need to do it for yourself.”

  “They said I had as long as a year before they had to officially change his status.”

  “I know that, honey, but the situation is much more clearer than many missing soldiers. He isn’t missing, Caelyn. We have two eyewitnesses. We know what happened to him.” She hesitated, then continued, her voice a bit softer now. “Caelyn, I’m not sure it’s fair to Ellie.”

  Caelyn shook her head again, her eyes filling with sudden tears. “What am I going to do?” she pleaded. “What am I going to bury?! The only thing they recovered was his finger! Am I supposed to bury that?!”

  Sara stepped reached out and held her close again. “What other choice do you have? What other choice do you have?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Arlington National Cemetery, Washington, D.C.

  It had rained all night, thunderclouds rolling in from the Blue Ridge Mountains, the dark clouds boiling with power as they met the moisture from the sea. Lightning and heavy rain pounded the night, then suddenly stopped as daylight drew near. The first line of storms moved off to the Chesapeake Bay and lingered over the sea, caught between the rising sun and the musky coastline behind. The rain wasn’t over. What was already the wettest spring in a century had much more to give.

  The day dawned cold and dreary. Another band of dark clouds gathered in the morning light, moving in from the west, blowing over the hill that lifted on the horizon. Heavy mist hung in the air until the morning breeze finally carried it away.

  The grass around the freshly dug grave was wet and long, with tiny drops of moisture glistening from the tips of each blade. The pile of dirt next to the grave was dark and rich, loamy with many years of rotting vegetation and now rain-soaked. A green patch of plastic Astroturf had been placed over the pile of dirt and pinned down on the corners to keep it from flapping in the wind. A humble arrangement of plastic roses and baby’s breath sat atop the fake grass.

  The six-man color guard waited by the grave. Their uniforms were so crisp, they almost cracked as they moved, their boots so highly polished they reflected the gray light from the sky. Tiny blades of wet grass clung to the sides of their boots and the cuffs of their pants. The sergeant in charge stood in front of his men, giving them one final inspection, straightening a shoulder board and tightening a shirt here and there.

  The soft clop of hooves sounded from the narrow strip of asphalt that wound through the national cemetery. Glancing to his right, the sergeant saw the single mare, old and slow, but still proud, her dark mane perfectly curried and braided to the right. She emerged from around a tight bend in the road, drawing a small carriage behind her. Black and shiny, with huge wooden wheels and a leather harness, the carriage carried a single bronz
e casket on its side-less bed. Seeing the casket, the sergeant took a deep breath and straightened himself. “Ten-HUT!” he whispered from deep in his chest, the order nearly silent yet crisp and powerful. His soldiers drew themselves straight, their shoulders square, their chins tight, their hands forming fists at their sides, their elbows slightly bent into powerful bows.

  As the funeral procession approached, the team leader placed his right foot exactly behind his left, his right toe pointing down, barely touching his left heel, then turned with precision so perfect it looked mechanical. The wagon drew close and the sergeant felt his heart quicken. This one was special and he wanted it right.

  As the wagon passed under a huge oak tree, he caught a better glimpse of the casket, a dark bronze box draped in an American flag. Aside the flag, a ring of flowers, freshly cut and beautifully arranged.

  Twenty-four roses. Twelve red and twelve white.

  White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.

  See the flowers, the soldier had to swallow against the catch in his throat. That others might live, he repeated to himself.

  Next to the roses, glistening in the cold, humid air, a copper medallion and white ribbon had been carefully draped over the stars on the flag. For the first time in his life, the soldier saw the Congressional Medal of Honor, the most sacred tribute a nation could bestow upon a soldier.

  His squad stood stone-cold still as the funeral procession approached, and though the sergeant avoided eye contact with the mourners that followed the carriage, he couldn’t help but see her out of the corner of his eye.

  Young and blonde, the little girl glanced around anxiously, a bewildered look on her face. Her mother walked beside her, a perfect reflection of the child; long blonde hair, dark features and wounded eyes. Tall and slender, the mother wore a simple white dress. No black clothes. No dark veil or mournful hat. The woman was young, perhaps only a year or two older than he was, but there was something about her, something strong and wonderful.

  Even in their sadness, the mother and daughter were beautiful. They walked hand-in-hand, the mother matching the small steps of the girl, both of them misty-eyed but determined. The child approached the grave like it was a monster.

  Thunder broke behind the soldier and rolled through the trees, deep, sad and somber, the sound echoing across the wet ground as another clap rolled and slowly faded. A cold breeze blew at his neck, raising the hair on his arms. “Please, Lord,” he prayed, “hold up Your hand. Give this family twenty minutes before You let Your rains fall.” Another clap of thunder rolled across the green, rolling hills. Another flash of lightning. But the rains didn’t fall.

  The soldier looked again at the roses on the casket.

  White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.

  *******

  The army chaplain directed Caelyn and Ellie to wicker chairs. Ellie held onto her mother’s hand as they sat down, then leaned into her shoulder. Her white dress fell to her ankles and she reached down to press the wrinkles from her lap. A tiny crown of white flowers had been braided through her hair and she tugged at them gently to keep them in place.

  Caelyn didn’t look at Ellie as the horse-drawn wagon came to a stop. The funeral procession moved forward and formed a half circle on one side of the grave. Ammon and Luke took up a position on the other side of the grave, Sara between them. Bono’s parents stood beside her, his father fighting to hold himself together, his mother more at peace. Someone behind Caelyn reached down and touched her face and Caelyn leaned into the unseen hand.

  Outside the small ring of family members, three young officers stood in dress uniforms, ribbons and badges upon their chests; comrades of the fallen, fellow Cherokees.

  Sam moved stiffly with his brothers, his injuries flaming up by the sudden change in weather. Looking down, he smiled at the young prince. The boy glanced across the grave at Ellie then looked down at the dirt, his face clouded with sudden shame.

  His uncle had done this to them. His uncle had caused this pain.

  Sam looked down and read his thoughts from the pained look in his eyes. Kneeling, he whispered to the young prince, then stood up again.

  The chaplain nodded to the color-guard leader and the sergeant commanded under his breath. “Element, post!” The six men moved forward in perfect step toward the carriage, taking up a position with three of them on each side of the casket. Without any verbal commands, they reached out and took the casket by the metal handles and lifted together. Nearly empty, the casket was light in their hands.

  The color-guard turned crisply, carried the flag-draped casket forward and placed it over the nylon straps that had been stretched across the grave. After they had stepped back, the chaplain walked to the casket and paused, then turned to Caelyn and Ellie. Leaning over, he offered a few words of instruction, then straightened up again.

  “One of Lieutenant Calton’s brothers in arms, has been asked to dedicate the grave,” he said.

  Sam stepped forward. The prayer was simple and pleading, and tears flowed as he spoke. At the conclusion of his prayer, Sam turned to the casket, took a short step toward it and placed his hand on the flag. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t move. Bowing to one knee, he touched the flag again. “You were always my hero,” he whispered through his tears. “I will love you forever. And I will never forget.” He knelt there a moment, then forced himself to stand. The chaplain moved to his side and Sam stepped back to his place.

  The chaplain straightened his uniform quickly, then began to speak. Less formal than most, he spoke of simple things. Duty, honor, bravery and truth. The obligations that came with freedom and the price that had been paid to keep a people free. Then he nodded to Caelyn and lowered his voice. “I cannot help you,” he said. “In a moment such as this, there is little comfort I can give. Indeed, were I to say too much, my words might only diminish your loss. Only time and the Lord can ease you of this pain. But though I don’t have the answers, this much I believe.

  “All men will die. All men will be called upon to pass through the veil. But only a few, only a few special men, only those who have been worthy to answer a calling from God, are given the honor to die for a cause.

  “And in this life, in these times, all of us will be called on to make a sacrifice. When, or in what manner that sacrifice may be required, only God knows. All we can do is wait and prepare and pray that when our time comes, we will be ready to complete the task that He gives, so that when it is over, when we have done all we could, we might look to the Lord and say the same words He said: I have glorified Thee on the earth; I have finished the work which Thou gavest me to do. If we can reach that point, if we can say these words to the Lord, then our sacrifice will be over and he will bring us home.”

  The chaplain paused as he clasped his hands and looked again at Caelyn. “I am so proud of your husband,” he said in a low voice. “I am so grateful there are still men like him in this world. He fought for the freedom of others. That is the way that we do it here in America. That is the way we fight wars. We don’t go looking for battles. We don’t conquer other nations, we don’t occupy other lands. Indeed the only foreign soil our nation has ever claimed has been tiny spots such as this where we seek a quiet pasture to bury our dead.

  “And so, Mrs. Calton, I speak for a thankful nation when I tell you that we are not only grateful to your husband, we are also grateful to you. We are grateful for your sacrifice and the price you have paid. Your sacrifice is sufficient. Lieutenant Calton is home, and I pray the Lord will bless you until you are together again.”

  The chaplain stopped, took a step back and nodded to the color guard. Two of the soldiers stepped to the casket and lifted the American flag. Another sergeant marched to the side of a huge tree, a dark oak up the hillside that would watch over the grave. The sergeant lifted a silver bugle and began to play.

  “Day is done, gone the sun,

  From the hills, from the lake,

  From the sky. . . .”

  The
sound of Taps was low and mournful, and it trailed through the trees and across the wet grass, melting over the graves of the American dead. As the bugler played, the two soldiers reverently folded the American flag into a perfect triangle. The junior noncommissioned officer clutched it with crossed arms across his chest. The team leader took two steps back and stood at rigid attention, then quickly drew his fist from his thigh and up across his chest, extending his fingers as his hand crossed his heart, then upward until his finger touched the tip of his brow. He held the salute, the last salute, for a very long time, then slowly, respectfully, almost unwillingly, lowered his hand. Stepping forward, he took the flag, turned crisply and handed it to Caelyn. “On behalf of a grateful nation,” he said.

  Caelyn took it and placed it on her lap. The soldier then passed her the Congressional Medal of Honor, and she clutched it in her hand. The two soldiers turned together and moved to the side. The bugle faded away and the silence returned.

  And with that it was over. The service was done. At least it should have been over. But none seemed willing to move, for it was almost as if there was something yet left unsaid. Every eye turned to Caelyn and Ellie. Caelyn glanced down at her daughter. Ellie looked up. Caelyn smiled encouragingly and the little girl stood up. She moved to the casket, which gleamed even in the dim light, then turned hesitantly to her mother, who nodded again. The crowded waited in silence. It seemed even the Earth held its breath.

  Ellie stood for a moment, and the clouds seemed to part. The wind fell calm and the thunderclouds paused in silence overhead. Ellie took a deep breath then placed her hand on the casket and lifted her head. “Daddy, I want to tell you something,” she said in a quivering voice. “You are my hero. I want to be just like you. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough, I don’t know if I can. But I will take care of mommy, just like you asked me to. I will make her cakes for her birthdays, just like I promised I would. I will be her best friend. I will not leave her alone. And I will try to be strong. But I’m a little bit scared.” Her voice trailed off and she looked quickly away. “I love you, Dad. I miss you,” she said again to the skies. “I need you here, daddy, and I don’t understand. I wish that I could. I want to believe what you said . . . .”