He felt Makala’s hand slip into his and they were silent. He could feel a shudder run through Makala; she was crying. Laura’s voice echoed:
John could hear Parker shouting orders outside, the students now going through the manual of arms. It was almost to much for him to bear. It wasn’t supposed to happen here, but it had happened here.
Laura finished the second stanza and drifted into the third:
“I can’t bear this,” Makala whispered.
They slipped out of the chapel, Laura, the others, not even knowing he had been there.
Makala leaned against him for a moment, sobbing, and his arms were around her and then she stepped back, breaking away from his embrace, looking up at him. Sorry.
“No, it was rather nice actually,” he said.
The song finished in the chapel and he started out of the building, then noticed that the door to President Hunt’s office was ajar. He tapped on it and walked in. The administrative assistant, Kim McMurty, was not behind her desk. That was a disappointment. She always reminded him a bit of the actress Nicole Kidman, perhaps better looking actually, and he had to admit he was smitten with Kim in a friendly sort of way, friendly, of course, because her husband, the director of computer services, was a darn good friend… and besides, Mary was still a haunting presence. What had just happened with Makala? He wasn’t sure how to react to her now.
“President Hunt?”
“In here.”
John walked into the back office and was startled.
Hunt seemed to have aged a dozen years in as many days, eyes sunken, hair disheveled, and then John wondered how he looked as well, still wobbly, unshaved, filthy, exhausted.
“John, you look like hell.”
“Well, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like hell, too.”
Dan pointed to a chair and John sat down. He had always liked this office. John looked back and saw Makala out in Kim’s office. Makala nodded and left, motioning that she’d wait outside.
The first time he had come to this office to be interviewed for the job that Bob Scales had engineered for him, what caught his eye was three paintings on the far wall. The first was what was to be expected of a president of a Christ-centered college, a nicely framed section from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the hand of God reaching out to touch Adam.
The other two, though. The second was sort of a transition between religion and the military, a painting of Washington, kneeling in the snow at Valley Forge, praying. The third was Howard Pyle’s
The paintings were still there, as always, but as John turned to look back out the window at the students drilling, Pyle’s work took on new meaning.
Dan was silent and then, to John’s surprise, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a couple of coffee cups.
“If the board of trustees ever knew about this, they’d hang me,” Dan said, and John wondered it he was being serious or just joking. It was, after all, a dry campus.
John took the offered cup and waited for Dan to pour an ounce. He held it up.
“For the Republic, may God preserve her,” Dan said. The two drained the cups down in a single gulp, Dan exhaling noisily as he put his down.
“What’s up, John?” Dan asked.
“Well, sir, I guess you knew I was out of the loop for a week or so.”
“You had us scared there, John. At chapel every day for the last week Reverend Abel and the kids offered prayers for you.”
“Well, it most certainly worked,” John said, looking down at his hand. “What about classes. Are they still meeting?”
Dan shook his head.
“Remember, most of our faculty live miles from here; no, classes are canceled.”
“But you still hold daily chapel.”
“Now more than ever,” Dan said quietly.
That was reassuring, darn reassuring, a link to the past somehow. And yes, as well, in any time of crisis churches would fill up again. The Sunday after 9/11 John remembered the small chapel he and Mary used to go to over in Swannanoa was packed to overflowing.
“I felt I should check in, see what was happening on campus. After all, this place is my job.” He hesitated. “No, actually my life in so many ways. I was wondering if there was anything I should be doing here now.”
“Appreciate that,” Hunt replied softly, “but I think you have other responsibilities now.” John said nothing.
“I heard about your role on what people are now calling the Council. I think it’s darn good you’re part of that. They need someone like you. Focus your efforts on that; don’t worry about us.”
“These are my kids, too, Dan. I worry about them.”
Outside came the echo of Washington’s voice, chewing someone out. He sounded like a Marine DI again, the right edge of sarcasm but, in respect to the traditions of the campus, at least no overtly sexual, scatological, or downright obscene phrases thrown in.
“To survive, to keep these kids alive, we’re selling our services,” Dan said quietly. “But there’s a lot more behind this as well.”
John stood up and walked to the window, empty cup in hand, and watched as Washington, finished with the inspection, now started to run the kids through some close-order drill.
“What is that out there?” John asked.
“First Platoon of Company A of the Black Mountain Militia,” Dan said.
“What?”
“Just that. Charlie Fuller and I agreed on it a couple of days ago. A hundred and fifty kids so far. The other two platoons are out on a conditioning run up to Graybeard and back. We’d have more, but that’s all the weapons we could find so far. Company B will start forming up once we get more weapons.”
“Isn’t this a little overboard?” John asked. “Hell, I know Washington’s a good man, a great man actually, but come on, Dan. What is he doing out there, getting turned on with old memories, that it’s Parris Island or Khe Sanh again?”
“In truth, John, yes. I guess you heard about the riot at the gap.”
“Yes.”
“It was then that Charlie realized something, and Washington had most likely put the bug in his ear already: we need an army.” John sighed.
“Three weeks ago those kids were dozing in classes, trying to sneak up to Lookout Mountain with their boyfriend or girlfriend, or maybe, just maybe, studying for exams. Now we’re making them into an army?”
