Although Megan Lewis knew that her efforts would be futile, she asked the caller if he would hold for a moment while she checked to see if her mother was available. Carefully laying the phone's receiver on the countertop, Megan left the kitchen, tiptoeing as she approached the door of the den that her father had used as an office. Pausing before she knocked, Megan listened at the door for her mother. When she heard nothing, Megan gently tapped on the door. 'Mother, it's the White House again.
The president's secretary says that the president would like to talk to you.
He wants to offer you his condolences.'
Megan's efforts were greeted with silence. 'Mother, please say something.
This is the third time he's called. It won't hurt to at least listen to what he has to say.' Her pleading, however, elicited no response. After waiting a few more seconds, Megan sighed. 'I'll tell them that you're not available, to call back tomorrow. Will that be okay, Mom?'
When even that failed to elicit a response, Megan turned and slowly walked back to the kitchen. Her mother, she knew, could be just as impossible as her father when she wanted to be.
Inside the den, Amanda Lewis sat in the chair she always sat in across from Ed's desk. She knew that her daughter, despite three years of college and grades that assured her acceptance to any medical school in the country, wouldn't understand. How could she. She was young and just beginning to learn about the real world. Megan had yet to love as she had. Megan had yet to discover that pompous titles and age did little to make some men any wiser or more compassionate. Even Ed, for all his strength, was just a human trying to make sense out of a world that, on occasion, found it necessary to turn and devour its own children in a fit of mindless passion.
When the flashing red light on Ed's phone went out, telling Amanda that her daughter had hung up, Amanda continued to stare at the phone.
Had it been like that, she thought, for Ed? One minute, there was the flickering of life, a steady glow of life, and the next, nothing? And was that all that Ed's life had been, a brief and insignificant flickering of light?
Looking about at the stacks of papers and files and books, Amanda wondered if all his efforts, all his dreams, all his hopes that lay hidden in the stacks of files and papers would, like the flashing light, disappear in an instant.
No, she thought. No, Ed deserved better than that. There was a real purpose behind what Ed had devoted his life to. What he had been doing was no illusion, no dream. His efforts to bring peace and sanity may have cost him his life, but that didn't mean that they, like him, should die.
Although she didn't quite know what she could do, Amanda decided that the dreams and goals, no matter how unrealistic they appeared at times, would not die. As he had said so many times before, a person must do more than protest an injustice, he must do something to make it right.
Amanda's refusal to allow the president to ease his conscience by consoling her was a protest, but one that would have no meaning if she didn't follow it up with action.
Moving around Ed's desk, Amanda sat in his seat, absentmiridedly opening the first file, that her hand fell upon. Reading the handwritten notes, Amanda began to look for a way to keep her husband's dreams alive and keep other wives and mothers from going through what she was experiencing. Perhaps she could make someone pay attention to what Ed had been trying to say. Perhaps she could make a difference. She didn't know if she could, but she could try, if for no other reason than to give the loss of her husband some meaning, some value.
With two men set at the roadblock, Fernando Naranjo returned to the side of the road where the other two men in his small detachment worked at starting a fire for the coffee that they hoped would keep them alert throughout the coming night. Not that anyone expected all five men to stay awake all night. After all, they were farmers and ranchers. While the duty they performed for the defense of Mexico was important, the necessity of making a living and providing for their families was critical.
Like thousands of other militiamen and members of the Rural Defense Force, Naranjo and his four men were only part-time soldiers, doing what they could when they could. That night, their task and instructions were simple: set up a roadblock just behind Mexican lines and prevent anyone, other than Mexican Army soldiers, from passing through.
Though Naranjo would have preferred to be doing something a little more active, he knew he didn't belong out there, behind American lines, with his son and oldest grandson. He was too old, too slow. Though he could have insisted on going, doing so would have been foolish vanity.
Besides, someone needed to remain behind to take care of the ranch and the women. His two youngest grandsons could not have done it on their own. So he stayed, doing what he could with the Rural Defense Force when his aging body and work at the ranch allowed him.
With great care, and using his 1898 Mauser rifle to steady himself, Naranjo began to lower himself down onto a blanket across from the two men preparing the coffee when he heard the sound of a vehicle coming up the road. Pausing, Naranjo leaned on the rifle and looked down the road in the direction of the sound, then over to the roadblock. His two men on the road, also aware of the sound, were turned facing down the road, their rifles at the ready. Deciding that perhaps he should wait before relaxing, Naranjo told the two men with him to wait on the coffee. Though he didn't expect any trouble, he wanted them to stay where they were and be ready to help the men at the roadblock if necessary.
With a push, Naranjo stood upright and headed down to the roadblock just as the lone vehicle came around a bend in the road and into sight.
Asleep, Lefleur didn't see the roadblock until his driver slowed, then stopped just short of it. Stirring himself, Lefleur, noting that they were not at the base camp, asked why they had stopped. The Canadian mercenary, riding in the backseat, laughed. 'It is nothing. Just some old men manning a roadblock.'
Sitting up, Lefleur studied the barrier to his front and the two men, rifles at the ready, standing behind it. When he saw that they were armed with 1898 Mauser bolt-action rifles, he joined the Canadian as they both tried to make a joke of the whole affair. 'Which do you suppose,' he quipped, 'are older? The rifles or the men?'
When the old man who appeared to be in charge began to approach the vehicle, followed by the two men who had come out from behind the barrier, the Canadian chuckled. 'The men. Definitely the men. How much will you bet they are out of breath before they reach here?'
As he approached, Naranjo. saw that the gringos were laughing. This angered him, for he took his duty seriously. Becoming incensed, he decided to make the strangers pay for their laughter. Pointing his rifle at Lefleur, he demanded that everyone in the vehicle show proper identification.
The sudden belligerence of the old man and the muzzle of the rifle waving two feet in front of his face wiped the smile off of Lefleur's face. The old fool, he thought, was dangerous. Raising his right hand, palm out, Lefleur gestured to the old man, while he dug in his pocket with his left hand for his false French ID and passport. Deciding that there was no need to antagonize the old simpleton, Lefleur turned over his papers.
The ID, of course, meant nothing to Naranjo, who could not read French. Determined to show that he had authority, and to teach the arrogant foreigners a lesson, Naranjo informed Lefleur that he would need to come back to the village and have the army officer in charge of his militia company check out his papers.
Suddenly, the situation was no longer a laughing matter. Lefleur and the Canadian went silent as they prepared to go for their weapons. Naranjo and his companions, however, noticed the change in attitude of the strangers.
They were ready when Lefleur's driver reached under the seat for his weapon. Without warning, the man who had been covering the driver fired. Whether he did so because he was nervous or because he saw the driver's weapon will never be known. But he did. When hit, the driver jerked upright, causing his hand to pull his submachine gun out and into the open where Naranjo, who was still covering Lefleur, saw it. As Naranjo shoved his rifle into Lefleur's stomach, the third militiaman, who had been at the rear of the vehicle, put the muzzle of his rifle next to the Canadian's ear.
For their efforts, Naranjo and the militiamen who had helped apprehend Lefleur were given the submachine guns that they found on their captives.
Not only would the modern weapon be useful when Naranjo led his men on future occasions, but it would provide proof of his feat to his son and grandchildren. The submachine gun, Naranjo knew, would become a family heirloom that was worthy to pass on to his son, just as the 1898
