Benedictus

In the tender compassion of our God

the dawn from on high shall break upon us,

To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death,

and to guide our feet into the way of peace.

From the Benedictus Song of Zechariah - The Gospel of Luke

Part Ten

"Is everybody absolutely clear about this?" John Murdoch, the Incident Commander, looked around the impromptu briefing in the Portahut. His face was grim and determined, with absolutely no room for compromise. "For the record, I just want to reiterate, this is a reconnaissance, an exploratory operation. Any sign of insurmountable danger, and you will abort and turn back."

A brief silence, and Charlie held his breath. He could almost hear the clock ticking. It had been a little over an hour since they'd lost all contact with Don. It wasn't long, in the wider scheme of things – not if you considered the bigger picture - but for some reason, his world had contracted to pinpoint size, until the only picture left was Don.

Seventy nine minutes and fifty-three seconds.

To Charlie, it seemed like a lifetime.

The worse thing being, that maybe it was. To all those still trapped under the rubble.

"Clear, Sir," it was Colby Granger who answered. He spoke up for the rest of his team. "We'll use the Snake Eye to penetrate the building, and stay in contact the entire time."

"Snake Eye?"

Alan asked the question. He was pale and his voice sounded shaky. Not since the last days of mom's illness, had Charlie seen him looking so old.

"A portable, hand-held camera, at the end of a flexible scope. It's designed to allow visual access to impenetrable and hard to reach areas. Means we can carryout a full void space search without having to cut through every obstacle." Granger held up the unit to demonstrate. "It saves time, and wasted manpower - reduces the danger of creating structural weakness by unnecessarily cutting through debris."

"We'll also be using a TPL – a trapped person locator," one of the Fire Department volunteers stepped forward. "A state of the art, piece of equipment. It can pick up on the sound of someone breathing through a standard-built, brick or concrete wall. Although we have a location from the GPS tracker, this baby is the icing on the cake."

For once, Charlie wasn't interested. He didn't care about the technical stuff. He looked across at the six man, volunteer team, and just wished they'd hurry up and get inside. And did the guy really say 'baby?' He could hardly believe how crass it sounded. Under the current circumstances, it was a pretty bad slip of the tongue. For a moment, there was a communal silence, as they remembered how desperate the stakes were. A human life was a human life, but the word baby was really emotive. He watched, as the penny eventually dropped, and the man flushed scarlet with embarrassment. He raised his hands in speechless apology when he realised what he'd just said.

Charlie drifted, and let his mind wander, as the piece of equipment was demonstrated. He was consumed with worry, and a deep sense of guilt, which gnawed at his gut like an ulcer. In the minutes before they'd lost contact with Don, he'd refused to talk to him over the cell phone. Not avoidance or deliberate callousness, oh God, anything but. It was more a sense of crippling anxiety, and he'd been so busy right at that moment . . .

He'd been so afraid of the fallout.

So frightened of losing his focus.

To talk to Don . . . to know he was suffering . . . it was futile, he did not have the time. He needed to keep control of his faculties, and every ounce of concentration he could muster. His priority was saving the building itself – in preventing yet another subsidence. In his head, the two were linked and indivisible – saving the building and saving Don.

He was terrified, if he spoke to his brother, then all the carefully controlled façade would fall apart.

It seemed eminently sensible on the face of things.

And then the other end of the line had gone dead.

According to dad, Don had been rambling. He'd barely been holding it together. He'd managed to stay on the line long enough to tell them the void space was flooding. After that, dad had been frantic . . . he'd shouted and called out Don's name; but although the line remained open, all they'd heard was the deathly quiet.

There was nothing more than a faint buzz of static. Even the baby stopped yelling. Her cries were weaker now, frail and mewling, not unlike those of a lost kitten.

It was this sound which scared Charlie most of all – that struck fear into his heart like a dagger. There was no way Don would ignore her distress - not if he was all right.

He might as well face it, Don wasn't all right. He was pinned down and desperately injured. If the rest of the building didn't fall on his head, there was a very real chance he would drown.

The Tower Block derrick had been moved into position, and they were waiting for some high-tensile, steel cabling. They would use a system of weights and counter balances, to hold the remaining floors in situ. In a way, it was very convenient, he supposed that was one way of describing it. The crane had been brought in under escort from a building site just off Bunker Hill. If there hadn't been one quite so close to hand, then the project would have been far more vulnerable. Their chances of success would have shortened with each and every hour that passed by.

Charlie watched the vast monster swing into place with barely concealed impatience. He didn't doubt for a moment, whether or not his algorithm would work. He knew the numbers were right, so the plan would succeed. He'd factored in every equation. Every integer and random variable; he couldn't afford to leave anything to chance. All they'd needed was the right equipment. It was a fine day, and there was very little wind speed. Even the weather gods were behaving themselves, and for once, appeared to be on their side.

It was time which remained the enemy. It marched against them, relentless and inexorable. The infra-structure had been weakened by the latest subsidence, and would not withstand another collapse. The construction teams needed to get started right now. To begin while there was still enough daylight.

He sighed at the inevitability, he was obsessed with the 'Five Day Window.' If they could stay within the 'Golden Day of Survival,' there was still a chance of saving Don's life. They were transporting in some giant floodlights to enable them to work on through the darkness, but they were snarled up in the horrendous traffic, at least an hour's journey away.

He glanced impatiently down at his wristwatch again. The ticking, second-hand seemed to mock him. It wasn't just chronicling the passage of time, but the passing away of Don's life. Once they knew the mains pipes were leaking, the situation just ramped up to critical. If Colby failed in his mission to locate them, the void would flood, and they would both end up dead.

"Hey, Charlie?"

It was Colby, standing in front of him. His rescue team was ready for departure. Charlie realised he'd been so preoccupied, he'd missed the end of the briefing. He swallowed hard, and stuck out his hand. As gestures went, it seemed such a small one.

What in heaven's name, could he say to this man, who had volunteered to lay his life on the line?

"Thanks for doing this," his voice sounded raspy, like he had a bad dose of laryngitis. Either that, or a nicotine habit; at least one or two packs of twenty a day. "Dad and I – we really appreciate it."

Granger grinned, and put a hand on his shoulder. "All that time spent grubbing around in dark tunnels? Knew it might come in handy one day."

Charlie nodded, and shuddered, slightly. As concepts went, he could barely imagine it. He'd read something once, he remembered, about the tunnel rats in Vietnam. He and Larry had discussed it at CalSci, during the latter's sojourn down in the steam tunnels. They'd been sat outside drinking coffee - the random memory made him wince now. It was all well and good in the bright, open air, with green leaves rustling softly above them. The conversation had moved onto the system of caves in the hinterland of Afghanistan.

It turned out Colby had spent time in the tunnels of Zabul, and was trained in collapse and rescue situations. When he'd heard about the change in Don's state of affairs, he'd harassed Megan to lead a rescue mission inside. John Murdoch had agreed to a six man team; ostensibly, a reconnaissance duty. It hadn't taken long to choose five volunteers out of the crowd of those they'd had to turn aside.

Other than Colby, there were two paramedics, both of them ex-army qualified. The team was made up by three Fire Department guys, who were in charge of the specialised equipment. They'd gained hands-on experience out in Kashmir, in the wake of the 2005 earthquake. They were all reassuringly burly, and looked as though they knew what they were doing. The 'point' team would be followed into the ground floor of the building, by a 'cutting crew,' also comprised of volunteers. The team would 'cut through and shore-up,' as they went along, using pneumatic pipes and freshly cut timber. There was a temporary lumber yard already in place and working, with carpenters and truck loads of wood. The whole of the busy, cordoned-off area, was developing a life all of its own.

"We'll get to him as fast as we can," Colby tightened his grip on Charlie's shoulder. "Thanks to the GPS tracker, we pretty much have a pinpoint location."

"Don wouldn't want you to take any chances."

He almost hated himself for saying it. He had no real right to speak for Don, and the words sounded trite and hypocritical, even as they left his mouth. All he wanted – all he really craved – was to see his brother pulled out alive. And besides, Colby knew what he was doing. He was trained and well aware of the risks.

"It's okay," Colby looked at him, seriously. "We all know exactly what we're doing. Been there, done it, and got the tee-shirt, we're not precisely going in blind. As for Don, well, I kinda owe him one, and you should know we don't leave our own behind."

"Be careful," this time, Charlie nodded, and cleared his throat. He had rediscovered his vocal chords. He was heartened, and not a little surprised, by the newfound strength in his voice. "Hurry."

"Granger," Megan sounded steady, and remarkably in control, as she looked across at her team member. "I want a blow by blow account of every damned step you take in there. As much as it pains me to say it, I want to keep hearing your voice. Just remember what John Murdoch said – you get out at the first sign of trouble."

"I heard."

Colby flicked his eyes over at Charlie. Too many words went unsaid between them. They both knew the failure of this mission, would in all likelihood, signify Don's death.

"Good luck."

Her guard wobbled, and fell a little, then. In the end, it was her decision. They were breaking with established protocol, and it was a gamble that might not pay off. Charlie watched as Colby turned to walk away. He said something jokingly to David. Both men stood and laughed for a second or two, the forced high spirits masking their fears.

He realised then, they were doing this for Don. They were risking it all for his brother. He was being given a rare glimpse of the closeness between them, and for a moment, it fairly took his breath away. He'd always known Don kept his team pretty tight. It something he prided himself on. But with the Janus List affair at the end of last year, it appeared to have blown up in his face. The shock had impacted on all of them, and Don had been taciturn and grumpy. It was worse than that, Charlie saw now, with hindsight. Looking back, Don had been depressed.

Oh God, the truth began to filter through.

He understood.

He felt the fog had been lifted.

All this . . . the team . . . it was his brother's legacy, and Charlie was fiercely proud.

He felt a deep and abiding flush of shame, as he recalled his earlier sense of pique and anger. The pictures shifted, and coalesced in his head, and he saw it all with a crystal-sharp clarity. Don's actions weren't born out of pettiness or spite, but a profound and abiding sense of duty. How else could he have earned this respect and allegiance, or forged such a close knit team?

'He's in charge, you know?'

At face value, such a simple statement, but now, dad's earlier words came back to haunt him. He'd pooh-poohed them in the heat of self-righteous zeal, too mired down in his own resentment. Dear God, the reality of it hurt him. He was the lucky one – he'd always been the lucky one. At the end of the day, he could walk away.

He could turn around and say no.

Most of the time, he didn't, of course. He enjoyed the sense of purpose it gave him. He got a kick out of deciphering the puzzles, and seeing them resolve inside his head. It was all about the intellectual challenge, as much as about helping Don. It was true that some cases got to him. They made him feel anguished and vulnerable. He saw the dark underbelly of humanity with all of its corruption and vice.

He breezed in and out with his laptop – but he could always choose to go home to his life.

Not Don – not for his brother.

The FBI was Don's life.

Don looked at the bodies and saw all the blood. He got threatened, insulted and shot at. He stayed cool, and kept his own face impassive, as he rang doorbells and broke bad news to loved ones. For very little kudos and bucket loads of flak, he worked every godamned hour under the sun.

He got out of bed and left home each day, knowing full well it might be his last.

Charlie looked up at the broken building. He wasn't really much of one for metaphors. As a mathematician, he preferred the use of examples when it came to explaining a theory. Nonetheless, he couldn't help sighing; the whole day had been one long simile. He was living through a nightmare reel of images, and each one seemed to hide a double meaning.

The tower block soared up into the sky – so vast, it seemed impossible it might crumble. And yet, still, there was a very real danger, it might buckle and collapse under the strain. He'd seen this building so many times, walked its plaza's, and driven around it. He'd taken its strength and majesty so much for granted, and never once assumed it might fall.

The plumes of smoke rose vertically and added to the layer of heat haze.

It was surreal, and suddenly disturbing, to stand here and watch them drift away.

"Don't go," he whispered the words out loud.

It was so stupid – of course, the smoke couldn't hear him.

He felt irrelevant and totally powerless; he couldn't convince it to stay.

"Smoke's rising vertically – that's a good sign." Alan stepped up beside him, his words virtually a mirror image of his thoughts. He shaded a hand over his forehead, and stared up into the sky. "At least the weather's still on our side."

"Yes," Charlie continued to watch the smoke.

"I've been speaking to John Murdoch. The steel cabling just arrived. There's hardly any wind speed to speak of – the rigging teams can get started right away."

"That's good."

"Charlie," Alan placed a loving hand on his shoulder. "I know it's hard, but we have to stay hopeful. We both have to keep believing that Don will make it out alive."

They stood back, hurriedly, as an ambulance drove past, and powered up the whine of its sirens. Charlie watched it weave towards the cordons; the garish flash of the red lights hurt his head. They were still pulling people from the surface rubble, and the ground crews had retrieved another victim. Either that, or by a small miracle, someone had made it out under their own steam.

Not Don, though.

Not his brother.

Physically, he wasn't going anywhere. He was buried down there in the darkness, and pinned down by a concrete beam. Hidden away under the wreckage, in grave pain, and out of the light. Charlie blinked, and ran his hand over his face. The acrid sting of rising ash hurt his eyes.

"Did you hear me, son?" Alan prompted him, gently.

"You know, I always worried about him," Charlie nodded, and spoke in the abstract. "There were some nights . . . fairly often, in-fact . . . some nights, when I couldn't sleep. I was terrified every time the phone rang, when he first came home from Albuquerque."

"Well, considering what he does for a living, I happen to think it's only natural. It's not like he's an accountant, or working the nine to five."

"You don't understand," Charlie dragged his eyes off the column of smoke. He pulled away - he didn't want comfort. What he wanted was a chance to explain things. To let dad know how he felt. "Over the years, it's gotten a lot easier. Especially once I began consulting. Don's good at his job, and I saw that first hand. I guess I kinda got complacent."

"Maybe we all did," Alan responded, soberly. "And, you know, he's partially responsible. He never wants us to worry about him. That's why he always plays things down."

"He has no right," Charlie murmured. "He has no right. Does he really believe he isn't worth it? That in the end, he means so little to us, we can just pick-up and get on with our lives?"

"It's not that – he doesn't think like that. It really isn't the answer - " locating the right words was an effort. "Hidden under the hard shell, Don's always been a dreamer. He finds it easy, sometimes a little too easy, to imagine another person's pain. Now, you and me, we're the practical ones. We're logical and pretty pragmatic. But Don – well, he's just like his mother. It's quite uncanny, she was exactly the same."

"Mom," he barely whispered the word.

Dad was right; it was Don who was like her. The wash of similarities haunted him. He'd inherited her strength and secretive side, and her capacity for dealing with pain. Oh God, mom . . . all the old memories came flooding back. And now, the new ones cut a fresh swathe beside them. Don and mom, of course, there was the musical thing, and then they were surprisingly spiritual. There were the times when they needed to be left alone, both so private and self-contained. He thought back to his recent brush with death, and his anger at Don's subsequent reaction. He was seeing things in slightly new perspective now. Charlie felt his gut twist with shame.

"You know," Alan sounded almost wistful, "I've been thinking a lot about your mother. The baby's name, Benedicta Margarita, I can't help wondering if it's some sort of sign."

Charlie bit back a retort, and then was silent. It was practically too easy to disparage it. What gave him any right to scoff at dad, when exactly the same thought had crossed his mind?

If dad wanted to believe in portents – then who was he to deny him?

If it gave him a grain of hope to cling onto, Charlie merely shook his head and sighed.

"It's a good thing, dad, it has to be. What you were saying about Don earlier? So long as he has the baby to take care of, we both know he'll fight like hell to stay alive."

Liz Warner was talking to Megan, staring over in his and dad's direction. It looked like the agent had some news; he had a pretty good idea what it was. Sure enough, they were headed his way, and Charlie felt his heart sink a little. Were they stupid – why didn't they understand - he did not want to do this right now.

It was time for a quick getaway.

Time he sought out John Murdoch.

Despite all his best intentions, he couldn't deal with someone else's pain.

"We located the baby's mother," Megan came straight to the point. "She wants to know if she can speak with you, but we can't let her in through the cordons."

"I can't leave here," Charlie said, quickly. "There's too much I have to do."

"I can call her," Liz interrupted. "Please – it would really help."

"It's okay," Alan reached for the phone. "You go ahead, Charlie, I'll do it." He looked across at Liz for some guidance. "What's her name, what does she want me to say?"

Charlie stood, wracked with indecision. He was torn between his duty and his sorrow. If it was Don here – if it was his brother – then he wouldn't let dad shoulder the brunt of it. He raised his head, and watched the smoke wisp away, curling higher up into the atmosphere. There was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing he could do to make it stay.

The bitter truth was, Don was not here.

There was a chance he never would be again.

"No," he stepped forward, and intercepted the cell phone, taking it out of a surprised Alan's hand. He just had to get on with it quickly, before he had a chance to change his mind. "Hello, this is Charlie Eppes. I'm Special Agent Don Eppes' brother."

"His brother?" She sounded pretty scared, and just as uncertain as he was. It was a big relief she wasn't crying, he didn't know if he could handle feminine tears. There was a brief moment of silence before she spoke again, but then amazingly under the circumstances, her tone was quiet and unexpectedly calm. "I'm Marissa, Marissa Da Silva. It's my baby that's trapped inside."

"I'm sorry," he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Don will – I promise he'll look after her. I know my brother, Mrs Da Silva, he'll defend your little girl with his life."

"It sounds as though he already did, and please, just call me Marissa. I just wanted – I wanted to thank you. Agent Warner and some of the Crèche workers told me, he could have made it to safety in time."

Charlie swallowed, this was proving predictably hard. What the hell – he'd known it wouldn't be easy. He held onto the cell a little tighter, and strove to remain composed. This kind of conversation was bread and butter to Don, as it must be to all of his colleagues. He opened his eyes, and saw Megan watching him, a look of approval and gentle encouragement on her face.

"It wouldn't have crossed his mind for a second. There's no way he would have left her behind."

"Your brother – may I call him Don?"

"Please," Charlie gave her permission.

"Don thinks – Agent Warner told me – he thinks Benedicta's unhurt?"

"Trust me, Marissa, if Don said that, then I can assure you he's probably right . . . " His voice cracked then. "You see, he's a typical big brother. Over protective, and a little bossy, always thinks he knows best."

It sounded so simple when he said it now. In-fact, it couldn't be clearer. So then, why had it seemed so opaque before, and why in God's name had he refused to see it?

Amita - Amita had told him.

To her it was all so straightforward.

'You'll always be Don's little brother, however much he may respect what you do.'

"I wish for your sake, he'd made it out of there," Marissa was talking again. Charlie's words seemed to have helped her, she was generous, and trying hard to be brave. "But if my little girl has to be there, in all that - trapped in that terrible darkness - I thank God, he didn't leave her alone. That he left her with a good man like your brother."

"We're going to save them. To get them out of there." Charlie spoke with sudden resolution. "I promise we're doing all we can, to get them both out alive."

He was no longer sure whom he was trying to convince, but truth be told, he no longer cared. In a strange way, he felt linked to Marissa, and to say the words out loud gave him strength. He'd done the right thing, he was glad of it now. It had helped – really helped – him to talk to her.

It's what Don would have done.

The thought leaped out, and ambushed him then, and Charlie knew it went without saying.

For a brief second, he felt very close to his brother. Pride and grief intermingled as one.

He'd fronted up - taken responsibility.

He felt as though Don would have approved.

He looked back towards the tower block, and the fading smoke drifted away.

TBC