(Four)

20 April 2065

Saratoga

0200

The Wildcards were in loading bay "O." Staff Sergeant Marsh and Captain Chan were dressed in their "utility" camo uniforms; the others were in flightsuits. There was a subtle difference in all of their uniforms, which were no longer strictly regulation. Under the Star Beam Fifty-eighth patch there was the patch for the Twenty-third MEU. And Marsh and Chan sported a Wildcards patch below their left breast pocket.

Chan said "Good to go," solemnly.

"Good to go," the team responded.

"Well, you better grab your steak and eggs while you can," Chan said.

"Captain, " Marsh said, handing the Captain an insulated carrier. "You too, Sir. For the ride over." Inside the carrier was a complete steak and eggs breakfast - hot - that Chan could wolf down while crossing over to The Hue City.

"You know what they' say, Sergeant?" Chan asked with a smile.

"Sir?"

"That a smart officer doesn't ask too many questions. That a smart officer will stay out of his Sergeant's way."

"Then this sergeant thinks that they are very bright for officers, Sir. "

"I thought that you would. Sergeants probably taught officers that pearl of wisdom."

"I would imagine that you are correct, Sir." Marsh gave him a smile.

"Thank you, Staff Sergeant Marsh."

"My pleasure, Captain Chan."

The Cards certainly appreciated the NCOs on the flight crew, who believed as a matter of Holy Writ that the Hammerheads were theirs, and that they just lent them to the pilots. But over the past two days the Wildcards - who had never worked with their own NCO before - had been more than favorably impressed with Marsh. They had come to realize the wisdom of Chan's words. Marsh could work wonders. Having a good sergeant around was a blessing from The Corps.

Marshall Chan shook hands all around and turned to enter the gig, which would take him to the Hue.

"I spoke with Lieutenant Damphousse, Sir. They expect you in thirty mikes."

"I wouldn't have expected anything less, Staff Sergeant." Marshall Chan was not referring to the press of the time: He was referring to the fact that Marsh had - again - covered the details.

The Hue City

0200

McQueen picked up a tray and began to move through the line in the officer's mess. He spotted Vanessa Damphousse seated alone in a corner. Soon the room would be filled, but for a few more minutes there was still space for people to be alone with their thoughts. Her breakfast was only half-eaten. As he approached, he realized that she was praying softly. He knew the prayer.

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever, Amen."

McQueen waited in silence until she finished before seating himself. They had shared dinner every evening that she had been on the Hue City. Even though it was a working meal, as her breakfasts with communications and her lunches with the engineers had been, there had also been small bits and pieces of informal and personal conversation as well. As much - no, actually more - as she had experienced with McQueen before this - which wasn't much, and which made it all the more significant. Vanessa had felt able to "exhale" in his presence. But this morning she was nervous. It had unsettled her when the Colonel had walked in on her private meditation. She cast around for something neutral to say.

"Good morning, Sir," she said as he sat. "Marshall Captain Chan is due aboard shortly," she reported.

Far from being shocked at Vanessa's momentary breach of protocol - referring to a senior officer by his first name - McQueen was secretly pleased that his team was coming together. Besides, Damphousse knew when to toe the line. This informality would be behind closed doors: There would not be a problem.

This morning their conversation did not resemble the briefing - or debriefing - that it usually did. McQueen ate in silence, and Damphousse pushed her food around her tray, occasionally taking a bite of the now-cold steak. It reflected her mood.

Vanessa knew the mission objectives, and she knew that the fight for control of the sector was liable to be vicious. It never changed. It never got any better.

"Hell, I might die today. There are many things that I want to ask God when I get to heaven, but - what the hell - there are a few things I want to know now." Something had been bothering her.

"Sir, if I may We were wondering" She paused and corrected herself. "I was wondering about your leg, Colonel."

"It's fine." His reply was immediate, heated, and highly charged. "Hell, now where did that come from?" he wondered. "Don't kid yourself. You know exactly where that came from," he told himself.

Vanessa was momentarily chastened by his initial response, and did not recognize the fact that he was coming to a decision.

McQueen had told Kelly Winslow about his former wife, Amy. Hell, he had even told her that he was unable to have children. He had told her because death had seemed so near and because she had asked. Now, Vanessa was asking him about something that was pretty much public knowledge. Personal, yes, but a lot of people knew that he had an artificial leg.

"It's fine," he repeated more softly. He really didn't want to tell anyone the ins and outs of using his new leg. The fact that sometimes the whole thing still felt like it was asleep.' The fact that occasionally he still felt phantom pain. The fact that at the end of the day, or if he had pushed too hard, he would get the equivalent of foot drop' and had a tendency to stumble. What he chose to tell Damphousse instead was:

"I get some twinges, but I'm running five miles a day and taking the ladders two steps at a time."

"It's AI technology, isn't it?" she asked, shyly.

"My doctor tells me that it's better than AI technology. Twenty years more advanced."

The fact that Phousse respected the Colonel too much to ask How do you deal with that? Having AI crap attached to your body?' did not mean that she didn't think it. And McQueen could read her thoughts.

"I deal with it," he said softly. He did not tell her how hard it had been to deal with. How many weeks he had fought and rejected the idea. He only told her that the battle was over. McQueen added one more thought: "Someone I know - a friend - asked me: How many people can step on their enemy with every step that they take?'"

Vanessa considered the question for a few seconds. She finally decided that she rather liked the irony of it. She looked into McQueen's face and saw that he appreciated it too.

"That puts a certain spin on things, doesn't it," Vanessa responded.

McQueen just nodded.

"OK, Damphousse," he thought. "It's tit for tat. I showed you mine. Now it's time for you to show me yours"

"So tell me about 2063 Yankee. Tell me about you," he said. McQueen was characteristically concerned about the well being of those in his command. But uncharacteristically he had taken the step of asking. He really did want to hear what Vanessa had to say.

"There isn't much to tell," she said, giving him her standard answer. "I was unconscious for days."

McQueen did not respond, letting the silence stretch out uncomfortably. He was forcing her to speak.

"As for me, Sir? I've de" Vanessa paused. She was going to say that she had dealt with it, but that wasn't true. She checked herself, and gave him the truth. "I'm still dealing with it, Colonel."

He waited again.

"I don't know if I can explain it, but I feel different." She could not bring herself to say the words. She felt as if it was futile. Nothing made a real difference. "The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved."

"Fatalistic?" he asked. " Like you're next?"

"Not exactly," she said softly, and then, "No" with greater strength.

" So this isn't the same as Vansen thinking there was a bullet with her name on it," he thought.

"I don't feel alive unless there is a real adrenaline rush going. Unless I'm on the edge Nothing changes. The survivors were released and nothing changed. We're all still out here. I feel it will never end." "There is no balm in Gilead," Vanessa thought. She paused again, and then almost blurted, "I feel like something has cracked inside and that I can't mend it."

"That was your innocence breaking away," he thought.

"That prayer?" he asked.

"Psalm 23?"

"Yes. Well, I know it." McQueen had certainly heard it enough during his career to now have it complete in his memory through repetition - by osmosis.

"Vanessa, it says: Lo, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.' Walk through, Vanessa. Walk through. It seems to me that - according to this prayer - it's your job to keep moving. The psalm doesn't say: Lo, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, and there I shall pitch my tent.' You don't take a picnic lunch.

You aren't supposed to set up camp. It seems to me that - if you believe - then this psalm is telling you that God has His job to do, but so do you. And yours is not to pitch a tent, but to keep moving. The only way out is through, Vanessa. Keep moving."

Vanessa obviously was considering what he had said. Finally she spoke. "And did your friend tell you that too?"

"What friend?" he asked.

"Your step-on-your-enemies' friend," she said.

McQueen considered. Vanessa was right. "As a matter of fact," he said. It almost surprised him.

"It can be irritating sometimes, can't it, Sir?"

"What?"

"Having smart friends like that," she said.

"Yes, Vanessa. Yes, it can be very irritating," he said.

End Chapter Four

AlRai M. Wheels