The pamphlet was a font of information.
And what do you know? Delroy examined his reflection in the dark glass of the window. The crisp white uniform stood out sharply in the glass and looked like it held a bluish tint. His face, though, was another matter. How had he gotten so old, so worn and used up? He’d never seen that kind of age in his father’s face. He had outlived his father, and he had outlived his son.
But it’s not just the age, is it, Delroy? You never saw your father this old, but you also never saw him this false. Or this scared.
Fear ached within him, resonating through all six feet, six inches of his frame. He had never been so afraid. What had that nightmare aboard the Skytrain done? Had the nonexistent lieutenant been a figment of his own doubts, a result of the stress he was under, or a mental disorder that was only now manifesting itself?
Confronting Colonel Donaldson aboard Wasp wasn’t the act of a sane man. No wonder the Marine colonel had been afraid. He wasn’t afraid of God’s wrath or the Antichrist; Donaldson had been afraid of a madman.
“Go home, Chaplain.” The rough voice echoed in Delroy’s head. “Go home and live in misery the way you have for the last five years.”
The words beat into Delroy, ringing against the immense emptiness he felt inside himself. He wanted out of there. Truly, he did. Falkirk was wrong: he wasn’t the man for the job. He was just a deluded fool searching for some kind of meaning over the death of his son.
“Chaplain Harte.”
At first, Delroy thought he was hearing the man’s words again. Then he spotted the young Marine’s reflection moving toward him in the window. He turned toward the Marine.
“Chaplain Harte,” the Marine said. “General Marsden will see you now, sir.”
“Thank you, Lance Corporal.”
Delroy stepped into the general’s spacious office and was escorted back to a conference room in the rear.
General Marsden wasn’t the only general in the room. Two other men wore stars on their shoulders. All three of them sat at one end of the long conference table.
Coming to erect attention, Delroy fired off a salute at General Marsden. “General Marsden, sir. Navy Chaplain Delroy Harte of USS Wasp.”
Marsden was in his late fifties. He had iron-gray hair and quick gray wolf’s eyes. He was tall and solid, a big man with a jaw like a 1950s Buick bumper. He returned the salute. “At ease, Chaplain Harte.”
“Thank you, sir.” Delroy immediately took his hat off, tucked it under his arm, and spread his feet to assume parade rest.
“I’d like to present Generals Todd Cranston and Hubert Mayweather. They are also members of the joint chiefs.”
“A pleasure, sirs,” Delroy said.
Todd Cranston looked like he was in his late thirties. Cranston had made a name for himself during the latest rash of Middle Eastern conflicts and had turned out to be a media darling. He was also a war hawk with a particular axe to grind regarding Russia. He was blond and rugged-looking. There was talk of a political career once he decided to step away from the military.
“Chaplain Harte,” Cranston said.
Hubert Mayweather was older than Marsden, just starting to go to seed. But he remained attentive and had an undercurrent of menace that clung to him. His hair was light brown but gray at the temples. He nodded.
“General Cranston and General Mayweather will be assisting me with this matter this evening,” Marsden said, “lending an ear and advice as I need it.”
“Aye, sir,” Delroy replied.
“You may sit, Chaplain.”
“Thank you, sir.” Delroy placed his hat on the table and sat a little uncomfortably at the other end of the conference table. The lines had been drawn on the battlefield. The chairs weren’t designed for a man six and a half feet tall. He put his hands on the table, the left folded over the right. He tried not to show the tension he felt.
The two young Marines stood at the wall behind him.
Marsden flicked a glance at the Marines. “You’ll excuse the extra manpower in the room, Chaplain. Things are, at best, chaotic at this time.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Captain Falkirk called in a big favor to get you an audience with me at this time, Chaplain.”
“Aye, sir. Captain Falkirk wanted me to extend his appreciation, sir. Thank you for seeing me.”
Marsden opened a manila folder in front of him. “This is a document Captain Falkirk e-mailed to me.” He flipped through pages. “It’s a summation of the events aboard Wasp and on the ground near the Turkish-Syrian border. After reading the captain’s report, I can see that you would appreciate our situation here.”
“Aye, sir.”
“You lost men aboard Wasp?” Cranston asked.
“Aye, sir. And we lost Marines out in the field near the Turkish-Syrian border, sir.”
“Soldiers that just vanished?” Cranston asked.
“Aye, sir. And crewmen.”
Cranston pointed at the file Marsden had. “And there’s nothing in that file that relates anything you might have seen or heard at the time of the disappearances?”
Delroy had read the file during the flight. It was a straight-ahead no-nonsense account of the crashed aircraft and the crewmen missing aboard Wasp. “No, sir.”
“But you’re here in regards to those unexplained disappearances?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
Marsden looked at Delroy. “According to what I understood from Captain Falkirk’s rather cryptic message, you think you have an explanation for those disappearances.”
Delroy hesitated. hadn’t Falkirk admitted he had the same theory? Maybe the captain wouldn’t have wanted to transmit such a message. Or maybe he didn’t want to stick his neck out. Guilt rattled through Delroy over that one. Even if Falkirk hadn’t mentioned that he believed what Delroy had come to say, the captain had stuck his neck out all the same by making certain his chaplain got there to say it.
“Aye, sir. But it’s not just an explanation, sir. I believe I have the answer, sir.”
Cranston’s eyes narrowed. “Chaplain, I have to admit that I
