The Ranger's Last Stand

By Jose Martinez

Dave McPherson was a small business man in the town of Butterfly, California. He was also a retired army ranger with two tours in Afghanistan under his belt. When Dave left the army, he was sure that his days of fighting were over. He was wrong.

He had attracted the attention of a demonically motivated White House determined to take his land and, if necessary, his life. Dave determined that only death would separate him from what was rightfully his. He was fighting back with his military experience, his weapons, and his faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798892433440

Jose Martinez

Jose Martinez, Ph.D., is Professor of Sociology (ret.) at University of Mary Hardin-Baylor and the author of Inequality in American Education: The Entrenchment of a Two-Tiered System and Diversity, Funding, and Standardized Testing in American Education.

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The Ranger's Last Stand

Jose Martinez

ISBN 979-8-89243-343-3 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89243-344-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2024 by Jose Martinez

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

The Setup or Making the Most of a Crisis

Chapter 2

The Passing of Maggie or the Setup Part 2

Chapter 3

This Isn't What I Signed Up For

Chapter 4

That's What Friends Are For

Chapter 5

A Chat with Chuckie

Chapter 6

The Situation Room

Chapter 7

It's a Sign, All Right

Chapter 8

The Awakening

Chapter 9

It's All in the Preparation

Chapter 10

Close Call Times Two

Chapter 11

The Start of Hostilities

Chapter 12

Sam's Story

Chapter 13

Orders from the Top

Chapter 14

Meeting Engagement

Chapter 15

The News, the Death, the Chaos

Chapter 16

Retreat

Chapter 17

Who Ambushed Who?

Chapter 18

The Siege Part 1

Chapter 19

Siege Part 2

Chapter 20

Help from Above

Chapter 21

Siege Part 3

Chapter 22

Final Assault

Chapter 23

Death from the Sky

Chapter 24

Too Hot to Handle

Chapter 25

R&R

About the Author

Chapter 1

The Setup or Making the Most of a Crisis

When the foundations are destroyed what can the righteous do?

—Psalm 11:3

April 1, 2013

Torrey Pines Golf Course was one of the few places where the president had not yet played, and he was in especially good spirits. It was a beautiful April 1 day. He was playing an extraordinarily good game, and the tumult of the election was behind him—or at least he thought so. The six Secret Service agents that were in closest proximity were visually scanning the area. Each agent had a sector of approximately thirty-five degrees in front of them, and they constantly were looking for anything that just didn't look like it belonged or was somehow out of place. The agents were wearing their darks suits, ties, Oakley sunglasses, and .357 caliber Sig P229s.

Sam Juarez was the lead agent in the president's detail, and he was worried as he was anytime President Sranga was out in the open. At the start of the golf game, when Sam saw Sranga's peach-colored golf shirt and tan trousers, he asked the president if he didn't have another shirt that would blend a little better with the background. Maybe a darker color wouldn't silhouette him as much. Sam's tactical mindset had been working in overdrive soon after the election. It was his job to consider all the possible assassination scenarios. Hours before the start of the game, a detailed sweep of the grounds were conducted. Buildings were checked, then rechecked. Aerial surveillance continued throughout the course of the game, and other agents were stationed in their cars along Callan Road.

After the election, the president never seemed to be overly concerned about security, but there were reasons to be afraid. A lot of things happened after November 6, and none of them were good. Sranga's reelection to the presidency was a shock considering his job performance poll numbers never rose above 20 percent in the days before the election. Fox, CNN, ABC, and MSNBC were all in agreement, for a change, that Sranga's chances of getting reelected were pretty slim. It seemed that every policy the president supported was abhorrent to most of the American people—the Health Care Bill, the Stimulus Bill, his lawsuit against the state of Arizona for attempting to secure their own borders. Allen Grabber was the first head of the Justice Department to be held in contempt of Congress for withholding information pertaining to the Fast and Furious program. After another Border Patrol agent was shot in Tucson with one of the weapons in question, the public furor against Grabber and the man who appointed him had morphed into a public outcry. No, there wasn't a single pundit who honestly believed the president would win reelection.

But being the true Chicago politician that he was, the president pulled a rabbit out the hat. Three weeks prior to the election, he signed an executive order and gave twenty million illegal immigrants automatic citizenship and the right to vote. A day later and with the tacit approval of the White House and the Senate, the state of California gave convicted felons the right to vote. Washington State, Illinois, Michigan, and New York soon followed, as though on cue. The president was quoted to say, After all, these people have skin in the game, don't they?

Before the Congress, the state supreme courts, federal courts of appeal, and the Supreme Court could mount challenges to the actions of the president and his cronies, the election was held; and he managed to eke out a narrow win. Of course, it didn't hurt that the ballots of hundreds of thousands of military people serving overseas were not counted because they did not arrive back to the US in time. The full-court press didn't end there. Thugs from the SEIU and the New Black Panther Party stationed themselves at polling places in Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, Oakland, and New Orleans to intimidate White voters from voting for anyone but Sranga. But not all the inducement was violent. Sranga took a play from Franklin Delano Roosevelt and started dozens of shovel ready projects in areas where the Republican candidate had a slight lead. But the receiving of these construction projects was contingent upon them voting for the right candidate. The final move of chess pieces involved counting votes from people that were long dead.

After the dust settled, the reaction from the Tea Party, the Republican Party, independents, and the average American was outrage. Even members of the Democratic Party were stunned, but their reaction afterward was one of elation, especially since this questionable strategy from the White House bled over into gains in the House and in the Senate for the Democratic Party. Outrage turned to violent rage, and while the cooler heads attempted to mount legal challenges to the election results; there were those who had decided that the time for debate was past and the time for action, even violent action, had arrived.

Some saw the past actions of one particular individual as an example of what should happen to those that were involved in this shady election. During the election, a former army ranger had passed by a voting station in Modesto, California, and was approached by two members of the Black Panthers. Details were sketchy, but apparently the ex-soldier ripped the lower lip of one the Panthers from his face and crushed the skull of another with a baseball bat. There were other members of the Black Panthers present, but when this ex-soldier produced what looked like a Colt .45 caliber pistol, they decided that their time was better served by trying to get this man arrested rather than try any more physical contact. An investigation by the police determined that the ex-ranger's actions were in self-defense and that he had a concealed carry license for the pistol.

The general feeling was that the United States was on the brink of another civil war. There were other scattered acts of violence around the country. Tea Party leaders were shot at. Mosques were firebombed. One crazed individual entered an Assemblies of God church in Dallas and shot the pastor and three others before turning the gun on himself. Before placing the gun to his temple, he shouted, Welcome to hell. The Antichrist draweth nigh.

Sam was justifiably worried. It was too soon after the election, and feelings were still raw across the political spectrum. In his eight years of being in the Secret Service, Sam had never seen as many threats against an American president, nor had he seen them from so many diverse sources. White supremacists, militant Muslims, fringe Mormon sects, and a few unassociated lone wolves had voiced threats. Though the FBI had done a good job and tracked down a large number and neutralized them, many had managed to escape the investigative net. One of those that slipped through the net managed to plant a bomb in the government limo used by the Senate Majority Leader, which was set to blow up with a simple timer. Fortunately, it was discovered before it could be used to deadly effect.

There was no doubt that the level of general animosity created a threat of violence against members of government in general and the president in particular. However, despite threats, there was little that could keep the president off a golf course. Sranga had made up his mind that this was a good way to show the American people that it was time to return to business as usual. While Sam and the other agents had sworn to protect the president during times when they weren't on the job, a number of them questioned the wisdom and the sanity of playing golf on April Fools' Day. They had, among themselves, voiced their opinion about the president's lack of wisdom, especially after they had knocked back a few beers at Chadwick's in Georgetown. It was as though the president was thumbing his nose at the American public. But they had sworn to protect the president even if at times they had to hold their collective noses.

This was not just going to be a golf junket. The president was meeting with government officials of the Mexican government. One was Jaime Valadez, the deputy director of the Attorney General's Office, or PGR. The other was Jose Munoz Calderon, a senator from Baja, California. They had come to discuss with US officials the continued threat of weapons that were coming into Mexico from the US and what new strategies America was going to employ to stem the flow of drugs flowing from Mexico into their neighbors to the north. Calderon wanted to do more than just talk. What he truly wanted to do was to throttle the boy-king of America. He had to keep reminding himself that he was a diplomat and not a pugilist.

Before this trio of leaders started the first hole, Jamie, gray-haired and overweight, felt he had to remind his younger thinner compatriot of his role as the diplomat. While they were still changing into their golf clothes, Jaime put his hand on his partner's shoulder. Chuey, remember that we are here to change this man's thinking, not change the shape of his face.

They both laughed, but the situation back home was no laughing matter. While Jose, or Chuey, was getting ready to golf, he felt a profound sense of guilt that he was playing golf while dozens of people across the nation were dying violent deaths every day at the hands of drug cartels. He had a darker complexion than Jaime, who looked more European than Mexican.

Jaime, I never thought to ask, but do you even know how to play this game?

Jaime looked at his friend of the last ten years and said, As soon as I received the invitation, I took some quick lessons. Prior to that, the only thing that I knew about this game was that Tiger Woods played it. Y tu?

Chuey, who stood at almost six feet, responded, Before what happened to Tina, I played on occasion. But after she returned from the kidnapping, I narrowed my sports to boxing and shooting.

Jose's sports activities were more than that. Since his ten-year-old daughter was kidnapped by associates of the Arellano-Felix cartel, he soon after acquired a few of those illegally shipped weapons from the US and practiced every chance he got. The Arellano-Felix Organization (AFO) held her for thirty-six hours, then returned Tina less one left pinky finger. This could have been much worse. She might not have come back at all. Five minutes after Tina walked through the door, sobbing and her hand wrapped up, Chuey got a phone call.

The voice at the other end said, Senator, I hope you got the message. Learn to play the game, or next time, we will have a little party with your daughter and then send her back in a sandwich bag.

That day, Chuey did two things. First, he went to the private chapel at his house and cried grateful tears that Tina was alive. He was, by disposition, a religious man; but during that frightful thirty-six hours, he prayed like he had never prayed before. The day Tina came home, his tearful prayer was a simple one: Gracias, Señor, gracias. The second thing he did while still in the chapel, he swore that he would do everything within his power to break the power of the cartels, regardless of the legality of his actions.

The two men from Mexico were determined to get assurances that the US would become more proactive in assisting the Mexican government in three areas—first, to get the US to buy more oil and natural gas from Mexico. Ever since the Mexican Senate voted to give Pemex more autonomy, the state-controlled oil company became more efficient, and oil production was now up to four million barrels of oil a day. The Senate also voted to sell off parts of their natural gas production to foreign companies, in essence denationalizing parts of Pemex. This was done with the hope that production would increase, and it worked. A trillion cubic feet of natural gas could now be exploited. More sales from the US meant more jobs, more tax revenues, and more revenues meant that Mexico could modernize their military. And with a better-equipped military, they would have a greater ability to counter the cartels. Second was better intelligence sharing between Mexico and the US Intelligence Community. The third, which was going to be a hard sell for both countries, was the formation of a joint US and Mexican military force that would be used to track down and destroy the drug cartels one at a time.

The first couple of holes were conducted in a clumsy fashion. Chuey would check with Jaime to see if he was scoring properly, and since Jaime wasn't entirely sure, they wound up asking their respective caddies. On the third hole, President Sranga took his swing and hit a nice shot straight down the fairway and only fifty yards or so from the pole. It was Jaime's turn, and though he was a little portly, he was quite strong. Jaime was also very competitive in everything. Whether it was politics or law enforcement, Jaime gave it everything he had. The president already had a small lead, and if Jaime didn't make a good shot, that lead could only increase. Jaime stepped up to the ball, lined up his swing, and grunted loudly as he swung. It was just a bit too much umph; and the normally dignified second-in-command of the PGR lost his balance, fell on his can, and lost his club. The black-clad Secret Service gave quick assistance to the fallen law enforcement leader and helped him dust off his dark blue Dockers and yellow shirt that now had grass stains.

The US president handed Jaime his white baseball cap and made no attempt to hide the fact that he was laughing at the Mexican leader. Under other circumstances, the young senator probably would have found Jaime's clumsiness funny. But these were not ordinary circumstances. He and Jaime weren't there to play golf but to make an attempt to better the lives of the people they represented and served. Though he may have been justified in feeling this way, Chuey felt like this president wasn't just laughing at them but was laughing at their country. Chuey stifled the urge to remind Sranga that he ought to respect his elders and his betters a little more. Even the Secret Service was a little embarrassed at their leader's behavior. Among polite people and especially among people that were in positions of leadership, there was an unwritten rule not to laugh at someone's faux pas. This was especially true when people had just met. It was only after you get to know someone well that you could laugh at their stupid mistakes. Everyone knew that. Well, no, not everybody. This president, because of his position and hubris, thought it was okay to laugh at anyone, especially if they were from a third world country, with their hat in their hand.

Chuey's Ray-Ban sunglasses hid the anger in his eyes. He knew Jaime well and felt for him. He knew of the three attempts on his life by the Sinaloa cartel. He knew of the weak financial situation Jaime was in as a result of having to pay for the elaborate security system around his house out of his own pocket. Chuey was all too familiar with the personal suffering Jaime had suffered as a result of the drug cartel's threats against his family. Jaime, like Chuey, lived with the constant fear that one day he would receive a phone call to let him know that he was going to be with one less family member or one less friend. All Sranga could see was a middle-aged Mexican sitting on his rear. Maybe that was what Jaime was at this moment. But to Chuey, this was perhaps the best and only friend he would ever have, and he deserved a little more respect than he what he was receiving.

Jaime looked at his friend with embarrassment, then he grinned from ear to ear and said, I'm okay. No worries. I planned it that way. Your shot, Chuey.

Now it was Chuey's turn to smile. Yes, he's been practicing that move for weeks.

Now everyone was chuckling, even the stoic Secret Service. Strangely, though, one of the caddies seemed not to find this amusing. He was a short, little swarthy man named Muhammed, who seemed to be sweating profusely, even though it wasn't very warm.

Okay, let's see if I can rescue our national honor.

Chuey stepped up to the tee; carefully lined up his shot; and, with determined concentration, hit a magnificent shot that landed just short of Sranga's stroke.

As everyone started walking to where the balls landed, Jaime said to his compatriot, I didn't know you could do that.

Chuey smiled and told his friend, I didn't know it either. Let's quit now before Sranga knows it was just a lucky shot.

But the game went on, with each of the Mexican representatives taking turns discussing their three-point plan. The president played his usual slightly-better-than-average golf game, while Jaime's and Chuey's score grew larger at each hole. Sranga said very little during the course of the game. In fact, it really didn't look like he was paying much attention to a set of proposals that could have provided his country some much needed energy, jobs, and security—not to mention that his administration would look proactive in some key areas and maybe get a little boost in popularity. The gentlemen from Mexico discussed each point of the three-point plan, adding detail after tantalizing detail of how both countries, the US and Mexico, could potentially benefit without any apparent downside. Chuey had his research assistant develop a PowerPoint presentation complete with pictures, graphs, and projections of potential cash and tax revenue flows. He had brought his IMAC laptop to show President Sranga the plan and a copy of the presentation on a copy of disks. But the more they talked with the president, the more it was apparent that he was disinterested in the concept. He seemed, in a word, detached. Two more holes were played before Sranga made a response.

Gentlemen, said Sranga in his measured, almost-staccato response. I know that you have worked very hard on this pitch, but quite frankly, this is very different vision than the one that I have for America. He continued, You know that I have told the American people that, uh, we have to cut out dependence on foreign oil. What kind of president would I be if I promised the people one thing, then, uuhh, actually increased our dependence on foreign fuels? Even though a lot of this would be natural gas, well, uh, natural gas still has a problem, and that problem is emissions. These CO2 emissions, though lower than that of oil, still, uh, produces carbon dioxide, which is a greenhouse gas I've committed to eradicate from the planet.

Both Chuey's and Jaime's eyes were agape at what they were hearing, but their sense of astonishment was about to go through the roof as Sranga continued.

As far as sharing intelligence, uh, we aren't really doing too bad a job at that now. But, uh, quite frankly, there have been too many times that some of that intelligence that we have given your government has fallen into the hands of the cartels, and they have used that intelligence to their advantage, not ours.

Some of what Sranga said was true. There had also been times when the US requested some information pertaining to drug cartel members, only to have these requests ignored. Some PGR agents were unfortunately found to be receiving bribes from the very cartels they were investigating. As a result, the FBI and DEA had very little confidence in the vetting process of Mexican law enforcement personnel. Chuey and Jaime thought they had some possible answers to these issues, but Sranga just wasn't listening.

They both still hoped that the last consideration, a joint US-Mexico military force might still be a possibility, but that hope was also soon dashed as the president continued.

As far as a joint military force is concerned, now that I have been reelected, I plan to, uh, downsize the US military over the next couple years and save the taxpayer hundreds of billions that can be used to fund national health care, which, uh, as you know, is a basic human right. Besides, the war on drugs is a lost cause. Hell, Colorado has legalized recreational marijuana usage so that they can start taxing the sales. What would be the advantage of trying to eradicate a plant that is, for the most part, not addictive when local governments can take in a ton of cash from its sales?

Chuey and Jaime stood there stunned. They just heard the president of the United States condemn his own country to continued financial malaise. Even more astonishing that he was endorsing for even more drugs to be sold in the US. To these Mexican officials, who had witnessed firsthand the devastation the sale of drugs had caused in their own country, to hear the leader of the free world pave the way for more people to suffer from this plague was simply unbelievable. This mindless blather coming from this supposedly highly educated man wasn't completely unexpected, but to actually hear it firsthand from the source was still astonishing. A new tact was needed, and this was where Jaime dropped the bomb that would cause the president to possibly change his mind about the economic proposal. Jaime took a short moment before taking his next swing at the par 3.

Mr. President, forgive me for not congratulating you earlier on your reelection, but let me tell you about another proposal that I failed to mention earlier. Before I leave this wonderful golf course, I am going to be in contact with Mrs. Marisela Morales, the head of our Attorney General's Office, and recommend that we go ahead with the planned indictment of Allen Grabber for his role in the purchasing and distribution of guns that were illegally sent to Mexico. These guns were used to kill hundreds of Mexican citizens, and Grabber must be held accountable for these deaths. Jaime continued in his finest slightly accented English. Not only do we plan to indict him, but we plan to have him extradited to Mexico for trial. And based on the evidence we have, your friend, Mr. Grabber, should plan on staying in Mexico a long time, in prison.

Okay, that was Hiroshima. Now comes Nagasaki, thought Chuey.

Jaime was just getting warmed up as he tore into the president again. Señor Sranga, when we discussed our economic plan with you, we weren't asking your permission. We were simply offering you an opportunity to facilitate this undertaking, but this can be done with you or without you. The last time I checked, your country is still a free-market economy. Oh and one last thing. Jaime then did something completely unexpected. He took a page out of the Happy Gilmore School of Golfing, ran up to the tee, and hit the ball with everything he had. What came next was one of those SportsCenter highlight moments that came once in a lifetime. Jaime's ball went into the cup for a hole in one. Once everyone got over the shock of the shot, the men from Mexico got into the golf cart they were sharing, and as they began to roll away, Jaime said, Mr. President, this game is over.

The entire group, the president, the Secret Service detail, and the caddies were aghast. No one had ever spoken to a US president in this manner before, but it had certainly happened just now. Chuey then looked at his friend and then made motions with his hands to simulate an explosion and a subsequent mushroom cloud.

I guess that was Nagasaki? I thought we were going to be diplomatic.

The only person smiling at the events of the last few moments was the president's caddie, Muhammad. Sranga saw the smirk on his face and wasn't pleased. But there were still a couple of holes to play, and even if the officials from Mexico had left, it was still a gorgeous day in San Diego. So the president, the Secret Service detail, and the one caddie started to amble to the next tee. Sranga was still miffed at the verbal drubbing he took and that his caddie of the last three years had laughed at him, which made him more than a little angry.

I suppose you think it's okay to laugh at the president just because those two Mexicans got the last word?

The sweaty bald little man from Islamabad was in his midforties. Before he had immigrated to the US, he was an engineer. After he left Pakistan, he moved to Florida and got a job with NASA; but sometime after Sranga was first elected, he was laid off and wasn't able to find another job designing rockets' engines.

Oh no, Mr. President, they were very unprofessional, Muhammad replied.

Muhammad knew better than to respond in any other way than the way the president expected. He wouldn't even recommend a different club than whatever the president wanted, even if he knew that the president could have made a wiser choice. No, that could cost him this job, even if he felt it was a little demeaning for a devout Muslim with as much education as he had. No, he couldn't lose this job. It was the pathway into his destiny.

They arrived at the next-to-last tee, which was a par 4. The president looked down the fairway for a moment, checked the wind, and asked for the nine iron. Muhammad reached into the golf bag to retrieve the requested club, but he seemed to be reaching deep into the bag rather than just getting the nine iron. It wasn't a club Muhammad had reached for. It was a snub-nosed revolver, which he pointed at the president's head. Samuel Benito Juarez looked with horror at what he saw. All this time, on the president's detail, they had been looking for a possible threat from the outside. They hadn't considered a threat from within the presidential entourage. Sam and the other members of the security detail reached for their sidearms, but it was as though they were trying to move in a pool of molasses.

Sam yelled, Gun!

But by the time they drew their weapons, Muhammad shot the president twice in the forehead, screaming, Allahu Akbar.

A red mist appeared in front of the president's head, and before Sranga hit the ground, Muhammad was hit several times with Sig .357 caliber hollow-point bullets and dropped to the ground a bloody lifeless heap. At ten in the morning, the sweaty little former engineer from Pakistan had had his date with destiny.

Chapter 2

The Passing of Maggie or the Setup Part 2

That which you sow does not come to life unless it dies.

—1 Corinthians 15:36

On the day of Sranga's shooting, 430 miles north in the town of Butterfly, another death was taking place. Margret McPherson's cancer had gotten the best of her. She was slowly dying of the cancer that had taken her breasts, her strength, and her will to go on. She lay in the bed of the house that she and her husband David had lived in for almost ten years. They had both planned on living there forever after Dave retired from the army. They planned very carefully. Two years before he retired, she drove down from Ft. Lewis, Washington; bought the property next to David's father's; and built the house of their dreams. It wasn't overly large, just under two thousand square feet. It was a ranch-style house that was more typical of Southern California, with red-brown tiles on the roof and a patio in the back. What was different about this house was a cellar. Everyone in California had their house sitting on a concrete slab. Maggie really didn't understand at that time why Dave insisted on a cellar. As a matter of fact, that was the only real thing Dave really cared about, and it was more than just a desire to have a man cave. Dave gave Maggie free rein to build whatever features they felt they could afford. The only thing David cared about was the cellar. For about nine years, they lived the life they had dreamed about. But her illness changed everything.

It was six in the morning, and Maggie had been awake for almost two hours. She slept whenever the pain would allow her, and the last morphine injection was wearing off. David slept in a cot in the bedroom to allow Maggie the most rest possible as his tossing, turning, and occasional snoring could wake his wife. Once he woke her, she would have a terrible time getting back to sleep.

Dave, Dave, you awake?

Dave had been awake for about twenty minutes and lay still so that he wouldn't wake his wife of twenty-four years. Yeah, sweetie, I'm up. You need another shot?

Not yet, but the sun is coming up. You going to watch it with me?

Sure, let me get a cup of coffee, and I'll be right back.

There was already the aroma of coffee in the house since the automatic coffee maker was on timer to start brewing at 5:50 a.m. David LeLand McPherson got out of his cot and stumbled into the kitchen, still wearing the jeans and gray army T-shirt that he had on yesterday. On April Fools' Day, it was cold in the morning; so Dave threw on his sweatshirt, made a stop in the bathroom, and proceeded to the kitchen to make coffee. He prepared two cups—one black for him and one with crème and sugar for Maggie. He also cut two pieces of cheese Danish. He knew there was a pretty good chance that Maggie wouldn't drink or eat anything, but he would bring it anyway.

David's whole life had revolved around making the best out of tough situations, like when he separated his shoulder during the last few days of ranger school or Dave Junior being ill while he was on deployment. The firefights while he was in Panama and Afghanistan taught him the value of a steely nerve, but nothing over the past twenty-five years as a soldier could prepare him for what was happening to his beloved Maggie. Steady, Dave, he thought to himself. The taste of the coffee and Danish are not going to improve with tears all over them. He took a deep breath and went back into the bedroom. To his surprise, Maggie was sitting up in bed. To see her gaunt face and mostly-gray brittle hair caused a twinge of emotion in him, but he restrained any show of it.

What are you doing up? he asked.

Maggie looked at her husband, who was still close to the 185 pounds he weighed when he was on active duty. His close dark hair showed some gray. And there were a few lines around his eyes, but to her, he was just as handsome as the day they met. Relax, hon. I actually feel pretty good for a change. I promise not to do any handstands.

He was happy to see her up for a change. The past few days were physical agony for her and emotional agony for him. If not for the illegally obtained morphine into her IV, Maggie would not have slept at all.

Okay, so where is that sunrise you promised me?

He pushed back the curtains of the bedroom windows, which revealed some dim sunlight becoming visible behind the hills east of the house. Their bedroom was once a strange combination of very feminine decor, military plaques, pictures, and swords. It was a museum that told the story of their lives. On the walls and dressers, there had been pictures of the wedding, of the children when they were little. There were pictures of Dave's last promotion to master sergeant. There was one picture of Maggie soon after they had met. She had shiny auburn hair then and hazel eyes that sparkled. Their family museum contained items that showed pride in the previous generation. Dave had a specially framed picture of the colonel, Dave's father. At one point, Dave had a scale model of a P-38J Lockheed Lightning perched on his dresser. It was identical in color scheme to the one his father had flown in World War II. The model even had the same name, God's Claymore, painted on the nose.

Now it looked more like a hospital room, complete with a hospital bed; IV drip; and a monitor used to measure pulse, blood pressure, and oxygen use. All the other signs of their individualism were placed in the man cave to make room.

Dave sat in the La-Z-Boy chair next to Maggie's bed. A half hour had passed as Dave quietly sipped his coffee. Maggie didn't drink or eat anything. She was feeling good but not good enough to eat or drink anything. The disease had robbed her of her appetite, but she could still appreciate the smell of fresh coffee.

Are you going to be nice to the kids when they come, or are you going to rip them a new one when they get here? Dave smiled at her query.

I hadn't decided yet, but I was leaning toward ripping.

He felt so good to watch Maggie smile for a change. During this past year, there hadn't been much to smile about. Certainly, the subject of their children was not something to smile about. Something had happened to them ever since they left for college. Radicalized would be the best word to describe them. Berkley, like many other universities, in California had that sort of effect on young minds. If you had certain Christian beliefs as a freshman, you learned to question those beliefs by the time you were a senior. If you weren't sure about those beliefs as a freshman, then you were likely to graduate believing that America was fundamentally racist, homophobic, and that the Constitution was a living document that could be interpreted in accordance with whatever winds of change were blowing at that moment.

Today is the one day I don't want you to engage in any arguments…promise?

Dave turned to look into those tired hazel eyes that had so captivated him twenty-five years ago at a mall in Columbus, Georgia. After a short pause, he turned to watch the sun filtering through the tree leaves.

Okay, I promise, no butt-ripping.

They were both smiling at his remark, but his thoughts drifted over the last twenty-five years. He drifted to the five PCS moves to Korea; Ft. Bragg, North Carolina; Wiesbaden, Germany; Ft. Benning, Georgia; and finally Ft. Lewis, Washington. During that twenty-five years, children were born, disputes hashed out, tae kwon do lessons for Dave and the kids. During those years, Maggie learned the business the colonel had built—two small vineyards and a dairy that were suffering before Maggie got down to Butterfly. She gave it her personal touch and single-handedly caused these businesses to thrive. There were disappointments to be sure; but this was a story of twenty-five years of accomplishments, growth, and love. Now this part of the story was coming to an end. Dave's thoughts, however, were interrupted by Maggie.

Dave, when I first woke up this morning, I saw something wonderful. I thought I was dreaming. But my eyes were wide open, and I could hear birds and other noises outside our window. She continued, I saw heaven, and Jesus was there waving at me to come to him. The streets were gold, but I could see through them as though they were glass. I saw mansions made of precious metals and gems, and there were pearls, so many pearls.

Dave had never heard Maggie talk in this manner before. She might be hallucinating, but she had had no morphine since one in the morning. And he never gave her more than what she needed to