Las Vegas, Nevada February ?
David Barber sat in the bus depot reading yesterday's newspaper. He wondered what to expect to see after thirty plus years. In 1970 Major Charles had been a young man with a full head of hair and a lean, athletic build. For the thousandth time the newspaper man repositioned himself on the thin slatted bench beneath a spring sun.
"Hello, Barber." The voice came from behind the newspaper hound.
"Been here nearly an hour waiting on you." Barber took a sidelong glance at the man seated beside him. Major Charles wore kakis and a button down beneath an aged, but still handsome face. Aviator sunglasses hung from his shirt pocket.
"I had to make sure no one was here to greet me." A wary glance around the street reassured him.
"Did you ever find your sons?" Barber turned to the comics lazily.
"Still looking." It had been a rough road to get as close as he was. Major Charles seemed to always be a day or two behind Jarod. He did get to see all the good his eldest son was doing along the way. In that he could take pride.
"What happened to the package we slipped out of the base?" Barber asked, watching the other man for a response.
"Miss Helms and I took it safely to Philadelphia, an old friend there took care of it for us." The major smiled slyly, remembering his friend's expression.
"Good, those three I told you about from Delaware are in the stockade on the base as we speak." Major Charles listened to Barber's weary voice. The reporter had a lot of water under the bridge. Thirty years and change had taken their toll. "I think the lid is about to come off this can of worms, Major." Barber sighed heavily, one beefy hand thumbing through the obituary column.
"Yes, I believe it is, I'll be out there by this time tomorrow, take care of yourself." Neither man said anything, they just went in separate directions.