Resistance: The Gathering Storm

CHAPTER EIGHT A Familiar Face

Denver, Colorado

Monday, November 26, 1951

After three days of on-again, off-again snow, the clouds had finally been blown away by a wind out of the west, and bright sunlight was streaming through the top portion of the tall narrow window on the east side of Cassie Aklin’s bedroom.

The sun hit Cassie in the face, and when she tried to open her eyes, it forced her to close them again. She brought one hand up to block the light as the other fumbled for the alarm clock. A quick peek confirmed what Cassie suspected. It was only 7:10, and she wasn’t due to get up until 7:30.

But there wasn’t any point in going back to sleep for such a short period of time, and the prospect of feeling the sun on her face as she walked to work made her want to get up. So Cassie turned off the alarm, swung her feet over the side of the bed, and began the process of getting ready for another day.

Cassie shared the tiny one-bedroom apartment with a woman two years older, who was in charge of the clerks working the night shift at the Denver Federal Center. So the twin bed next to hers was empty as Cassie showered, put on her makeup, and got dressed. As a psychologist employed by the Army and assigned to support SRPA, it was important to look professional.

So even though Cassie would have preferred to wear something more casual, she chose a dark blue suit from the three hanging in the closet. The jacket ended at her waist, and the long, slightly flared skirt fell below her knees. A crisp white blouse, plus some hard-to-find hose, completed the outfit. A pair of black high heels went into her leather briefcase and would replace her galoshes once she arrived in the office.

Breakfast consisted of tea, made from a bag that had been used twice before, and two pieces of toast smeared with a tiny bit of butter and some strawberry jam. Due to persistent food shortages the scrambled eggs and bacon she had once enjoyed almost every morning were a special treat now, and would constitute a good dinner if she could afford them. All of which seemed to run counter to what Secretary of Agriculture Seymore had said on the radio the day before.

He had referred to the shortages as “temporary allocation problems,” then “seasonal commodity anomalies,” and finally “transitory market fluctuations.” Not that it mattered much since the result was the same.

Cassie finished her second piece of toast and chased it down with the last of the weak tea, before washing the dishes and putting them in the rack to dry. Then it was time to put on her overcoat, slip her feet into a pair of galoshes, and pick up her purse and briefcase as she passed the table in the hall.

Locking the door behind her she made her way down two flights of stairs, through the small lobby and out the front door. It was only a few blocks from the apartment house located on Virginia Avenue to the sprawling Denver Federal Center where she worked. There was still a lot of snow on the ground, but stretches had been shoveled, making it easier to walk.

Even though it was a residential neighborhood, subtle signs of the war and its effects could be seen all around. Both sides of the street were lined with cars because, as people had been displaced from the northern states, many came south to stay with family or friends, filling Denver to the bursting point. Renters like herself added to the pressure, which left thousands with no choice but to enter one of the hastily constructed Protection Camps, or make a place for themselves in the shack-lands in and around Aurora to the east.

Reports from the shacklands painted the picture of a slum where people built shelters out of anything they could buy, salvage, or steal, and raw sewage ran through open ditches while people were forced to burn anything they could find for heat. Food was scarce, and medical care was nonexistent. The situation had led to a restriction intended to force as many people as possible into the Protection Camps.

Other signs of the war’s impact could be seen in the snow-covered vegetable gardens that had been planted on the parking strip, the gold stars displayed in the windows of families that had lost a father, son, or brother in the fighting, and the American flags that hung limply from porches, drooped from poles, and were tied banner-like between houses.

In order to reach the Center, as employees referred to it, Cassie had to cross Alameda Avenue. It was busy as usual—and she had to wait for a fifteen-vehicle military convoy to pass before she could hurry over. The two-and-a-half-ton six-by-six trucks threw waves of slush to both sides as they rolled by. The last five were open, with warmly dressed soldiers sitting in back, and some of them whistled.

Cassie waved as the convoy pulled away.

There was a great deal of construction going on beyond the center’s twelve-foot-high, six-foot-thick outer walls. Defensive towers had been erected at the corners and midpoint along each stretch of wall. They bristled with weapons, and at night there were high-powered rotating spotlights that the civilian neighbors hated.

Dozens of buildings made up the Federal Center, and she had even heard that a top secret facility was under construction at the very heart of the complex. There were lots of theories about what the new building would be used for, but those who knew weren’t talking, and guards had been posted to keep the curious away.

Regardless of the reason, hammering, sawing, and other construction-related din could be heard around the clock.

There were a number of gates, and because all the guards knew her, Cassie was permitted to enter with little more than a wave of her ID card. The Center employed hundreds of women, but they were outnumbered ten to one by the men, so Cassie drew some admiring looks as she made her way to what was called Central Hospital. It was much more than that, however, since it also housed the medical facilities required to support the burgeoning Sentinel program.

She belonged to a team of civilian psychologists who were paid to make sure all the Sentinels remained mentally stable—a task made all the more difficult by the fact that the soldiers were prone to medical issues associated with the inhibitor shots. Most were struggling to cope with combat-related stress, and were entirely cut off from their families—all of whom believed them to be dead.

Having passed all the checkpoints, Cassie approached her building. The brick and masonry structure had an art deco sensibility about it. Metal-clad doors opened into a large lobby with mural-covered walls and a wraparound reception desk with a stern-faced matron behind it. She sat under three clocks, each of which was associated with a different city. It was 12:00 in New York, 10:00 in Denver, and 9:00 in San Francisco.

Cassie breezed past the desk, followed a hallway to a bank of sleek-looking elevators, and was in her cozy third-floor office five minutes later. It was barely large enough for two people, but it was all hers, and a haven of privacy.

Her first client was already seated in her guest chair, and his name was Sergeant Marvin Kawecki.

Hale hated the Denver Federal Center, the hospital, and everything that went with it. Especially since the trip to Denver required him to leave the base where the preparations for Operation Iron Fist were well underway. But, as Major Blake pointed out, it was a good idea to get an inhibitor shot prior to going out on a major mission, and sitting down with one of the shrinks was part of the process.

The spinal injection was old hat by that time, and given the number of Sentinels in town to receive it, the procedure was rather impersonal as well. Just like everything else the military did. One by one the soldiers were taken into an operating room where they were ordered to strip to the waist. They sat on a metal stool while a nurse painted a wide swath of cold antibacterial solution over the injection site.

Then a balding doctor plopped himself down on a stool and injected small amounts of a local anesthetic into the area around the site. Moments later, having checked to make sure that the area was numb, he removed a 10cc syringe from a Mayo stand and positioned the needle between the L-4 and the L-5 vertebrae. As the needle went in, a fluoroscope allowed the doctor to monitor his progress via a black-and-white screen.

“Hold still,” the doctor admonished gruffly as he depressed the plunger, “or you’ll be sorry.”

Hale felt the pressure as the inhibitor was injected into his body, and was glad when the needle was removed. A nurse gave him a list of possible side effects, which the Sentinel wadded up into a ball and threw into a trash can on the way out. He’d experienced many of the symptoms in the past, and survived them. That was all he needed to know.

With the shot out of the way it was time to head up to the third floor for his interview with Dr. Alan McKenzie, an elflike man who was forever peppering Hale with questions about his childhood, interpersonal relationships, and sexual fantasies. Much of which Hale made up as he went along, thereby causing McKenzie to emit puffs of cherry-flavored smoke from his pipe, as he scribbled notes in a spiral-bound notebook.

The elevator doors parted and Hale stepped out into the hall, only to see someone he knew standing among those waiting to board. It had been a long time since Project Abraham and the first experimental inoculations, but the sight of Cassie Aklin’s face brought memories rushing back. The sterile environment, the interviews, and something more. A physical attraction most certainly, but another connection as well, and one he hadn’t experienced before. And certainly missed.

Cassie’s expression brightened.

“Nathan? It is you! I saw Sergeant Kawecki earlier this morning and he said you were here. I was about to go down to the clinic to see if I could find you.”

Hale smiled and reached out to take both of her hands in his.

“Cassie… This is a surprise! And a pleasant one. You look wonderful.”

Hale looked tired, and a bit worn, but Cassie didn’t want to say that, so she lied. “So do you!” she said brightly.

Hale glanced at his watch.

“I’m supposed to see Dr. McKenzie in a few minutes… Is there any chance that you’re free for lunch?”

“I was hoping you’d ask,” she replied, “and I am. I’ll meet you at the Alameda Diner… It’s two blocks east of the Center on Alameda.” She looked left and right. No one else was close enough to hear. “And Na than…”

“Yes?”

“I’d rather you didn’t mention our lunch to Dr. McKenzie.”

Hale grinned.

“What lunch?” And then he was gone.

Hale left the Denver Federal Center via the gate that led to Alameda and took a left. A corporal saluted him, he returned the courtesy, and sidestepped a puddle of snowmelt. By keeping his answers short—and thereby giving Dr. McKenzie very little to work with—Hale had managed to escape the hospital in record time. It had been a while since he had spent time with a woman, never mind such an attractive one, and he was looking forward to the lunch with Cassie.

The truth was that Hale had mixed emotions about the psychologist. He was attracted to her, and had been from the beginning, but he had never been sure of how she felt about him. She had been decidedly cool toward him during Project Abraham. But had that been a matter of professionalism? Or a signal for him to back off?

He had never been sure.

Then there was the fact that she had a Ph.D. in psychology, while he merely had a high school diploma, which raised the question of whether he would be biting off more than he could chew where Cassie was concerned. Still, she had clearly been eager to see him, and that was worth something. Wasn’t it?

Hale spotted the diner up ahead. It looked like what it was—a railroad dining car that had been taken out of service, refurbished for use as a small restaurant, and plopped down next to Alameda Avenue. Judging from the number of cars in the parking lot, the eatery was quite popular.

Hale followed a man wearing a business suit inside, where he looked for Cassie, but didn’t see her. So as a couple got up to leave, Hale took possession of their window booth and a harried-looking waitress arrived to bus the dishes. “Sorry, soldier,” she said. “I’ll clear this stuff away and come back for your order.”

About five minutes passed, and Hale was beginning to wonder if he’d been stood up when he looked out the window and saw Cassie hurrying up the street. She saw him, waved, and entered the restaurant a minute later. She was pretty, so lots of men took notice, but once they’d seen her most turned back to their meals.

“I’m sorry,” Cassie said apologetically, as she allowed him to take her overcoat. “My boss walked into my office just as I was trying to leave.”

“I understand,” Hale assured her. “You’re a busy lady.”

They chatted for a few minutes, Hale about life with his fellow Sentinels, Cassie about her tiny apartment and roommate, and the waitress brought their menus. When she walked away, Hale turned to face Cassie and asked something he had been wondering about. “So did they send you to Denver? Or did you request it?”

“The latter,” she replied. “I have trouble staying in one place for very long—and I was tired of Alaska.”

“Maybe you should see a psychologist about that,” he suggested dryly.

She had short blond hair, direct eyes, and full lips that broke into a wry smile. When she laughed it had a full-throated sound.

“If you’re suggesting that I have a problem with commitment, you’re probably correct…” She paused, then said, “They make a really good chocolate shake here if you’re interested.”

Hale was, and when the waitress returned both of them ordered cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. All of which cost 30 percent more than six months earlier.

“You’re a lieutenant now,” Cassie said brightly as their orders went in. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Hale replied. “I’m still getting used to it. After complaining about officers for years, it’s weird to be one.”

“Well, it appears as if you’re good at it, or at least so I’m told,” Cassie responded. “And who would know better than your men?”

It hadn’t occurred to him that Cassie might have been assigned to monitor the psychological well-being of some of his subordinates, and Hale wondered if it was proper for her to talk about it that way. Not only that, but he felt embarrassed at the compliment, and looked away. “Yeah, well, I’ve been lucky so far.”

She must have seen his discomfort, because she changed the subject. The next forty-five minutes passed quickly, as their food arrived and they discussed a wide range of topics, including the war, the economy, and the latest Bob Hope-Bing Crosby movie: Road to Rangoon.

He hadn’t seen it, but she had, and said it was very funny.

Then, having paid the bill, the couple suddenly found themselves outside. “I’ll walk you back,” Hale said.

“Thank you,” Cassie replied, “but I don’t think that would be a very good idea.”

Hale’s eyebrows rose.

“It isn’t? Why not?”

Cassie looked down, then up again. “The truth is that I probably shouldn’t be spending time with you. You’re seeing McKenzie now, and you and I had a clinical relationship during Project Abraham, so any sort of outside relationship might be considered unethical.”

“Which means we can’t see each other again?”

“No,” Cassie replied evenly, as a wisp of vapor drifted away from her mouth. “It means we shouldn’t see each other as long as we’re both working for SRPA.”

Hale grinned. “Okay, problem solved,” he announced. “I quit! Now, will you go to dinner with me?”

She didn’t laugh, as he had hoped she would, and she was silent for a moment. He realized then that he had no idea what was going through her head. Finally, she spoke.

“When do you have to return to Nebraska?”

“Thirty of us came down together,” Hale replied. “We were told to report to Stapleton by 0300. Knowing how long some of them have been waiting for a drink, I imagine the MPs will deliver at least half of them to the airport.”

“Then it’s clearly my duty to save you from a similar fate,” Cassie said, as she removed a small notebook from her purse and scribbled on one of the pages. “So rather than go out—let’s eat in. Here’s my address… Dinner will be at seven. My roommate will have left for work by then.”

Hale felt a sense of elation, but tried not to show it as he accepted the scrap of paper. He didn’t want to screw this up.

“What can I bring?”

“Bring yourself,” she replied as she glanced at her watch. “Yikes! Sorry, I have to run! See you at seven.”

Hale watched her walk away, thought about how lucky he was, and turned in the opposite direction.

There was a bus stop one block east and on the other side of Alameda. He had an afternoon to kill—and a mission to accomplish.

The administrator watched as the couple left the diner, spoke with each other, and parted company. The lunch wasn’t a big deal, not really, but it was currency of a sort. The kind of deposit which, when combined with similar payments, would eventually add up to a promotion.

The thought made him feel cheerful as he left the diner, tucked the Post under his arm, and returned to work. The world might be going to hell in a handcart, but his life was good.

It was necessary to transfer once before arriving in downtown Denver—and both of the electric trolleys were crowded. So Hale stood, as did most of the men aboard, allowing women and elderly people to sit. Based on information gleaned from the driver, he knew that the Customs House was located on Broadway, and that the trolley would stop across the street from it. So he was ready as the trolley came to a halt.

“Customs House, post office, and main business district,” the driver intoned. “Please watch your step.”

The bi-fold doors opened, Hale took two steps down, and hurried to get out of the way so that other people could board. Having cleared the back end of the trolley, he could see the Customs House on the far side of the street. It consisted of two matching five-story buildings, divided by a long, gently sloping flight of stairs that led into the courtyard between them. And, much to Hale’s surprise, a long line of people stretched from the inner courtyard out onto Broadway, where it turned the corner and ran down 19th Avenue.

There was no way to tell what the people were lined up to do, and based on how diverse they were, it was impossible to guess.

He went down to the corner, waited for the light to change, and crossed the street. A whalelike blimp could be seen in the distance, propellers turning slowly as it patrolled the western suburbs. A staff sergeant stood in front of the Customs House. He had a round face and his cheeks were a ruddy red. The noncom saluted as Hale approached. If he was curious about the officer’s golden yellow eyes, he managed to hide it.

“Good afternoon, sir… Can I help you?”

“Yes,” Hale replied, having returned the salute. “I was hoping to visit the Bureau of Displaced Persons. Could you tell me where it is?”

“It’s at the other end of that line,” the sergeant replied, as he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “It seems like everybody’s looking for somebody,” he added soberly.

That was true. And he was one of them. Now that Hale knew Susan had survived the attack on the Rocking F Ranch, he was hoping to find her. According to the newspapers he’d read, a central registry had been established by the Department of the Interior’s Bureau of Displaced Persons. The problem was that there were millions of people to keep track of—many of whom were suspicious of the government-run program. In fact, the group called Freedom First had gone so far as to suggest that rather than trying to help family members find each other, the registry was simply one more effort by the Grace administration to strip the population of its freedoms.

Hale had no way to evaluate the truth of that allegation, but he was determined to find out if Susan was alive. “Yeah,” Hale said as he glanced at the line, then back again. “I guess there are a lot of folks in that position. I’m looking for my sister.”

“I hope you find her, sir,” the noncom said, and he sounded sincere. “I’ll have Private Yano take you to the head of the line.”

Hale shook his head.

“No, that wouldn’t be fair. I’ll wait like everybody else.”

“Okay, sir,” the noncom replied doubtfully. “But you might want to bleed your tanks first.”

It was good advice, so Hale entered the Customs House via another door and paid a visit to the men’s room before returning outside. After following the line all the way around the corner onto 19th and down the block, he fell in behind a woman in a tattered overcoat. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his overcoat to keep them warm.

As they began to notice him, those around Hale peppered him with questions about the fighting, as if expecting everyone in uniform to know everything that was going on. Some of them had been listening to broadcasters like Peavy, and believed that the Chimera were on the run, while others had been tuning in to clandestine broadcasts by Radio Free Chicago, which was operated by Freedom First. They held the opinion that the stinks had crossed into Nebraska, and were pushing south.

Hale tried to set the record straight as best he could without revealing anything he shouldn’t, but he soon discovered that both groups were wedded to their beliefs, and unwilling to budge.

He had now been there for a couple of hours. Time passed slowly, and the line moved ahead in a series of spasmodic jerks, as a steady trickle of people were processed at the other end. The air grew steadily colder as the sun fell toward the mountains. After another hour and a half or so, a pair of women pushed a cart along the line. It was loaded with a big urn, and as the two handed out cups of hot coffee, they did what they could to cheer people up. Hale wanted to pay, but one of the women shook her head, and smiled.

“It’s what we can do, Lieutenant. I hope you find the person you’re looking for.”

But if the line attracted nice people, it attracted others as well, including all manner of salesmen, beggars, and fanatics. At one point a wild-eyed man waving a Bible walked the length of it. “Listen to me!” he demanded loudly while bits of spittle flew from his purplish lips. “The truth about President Grace can be found in Revelation 13:9-10: ‘If any man have an ear, let him hear. He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity: he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword!’”

The man might have said more—no doubt would have said more—if three men in plainclothes hadn’t arrived to take him away. Which was good riddance in so far as Hale was concerned. He was inside the courtyard by that time, and glad that he wouldn’t have to depart prematurely to keep his date with Cassie.

Fifteen minutes later the main line split into three shorter lines, each of which led to a wooden table with a computer terminal sitting on top of it. The man waiting to greet him wore a tag with the name Crowley on it. He had dark hair, a badly rumpled white shirt, and a potbelly. The light from the screen made his face glow. He didn’t bother to look up. “Name?”

“My name is, Hale… Nathan Hale.”

“Not your name,” Crowley replied irritably. “The name of the person you’re looking for.”

“Oh,” Hale said. “That would be Susan Farley. That’s spelled F-A-R-L-E-Y.”

The keyboard rattled as Crowley entered the name. His eyes blinked as words appeared. “I have five of them… You got a birthday?”

“March 7, 1920.”

“Nope,” Crowley replied. “Not even close. Next!”

“Wait a minute,” Hale objected. “She’s from South Dakota. Do you have any Susan Farleys from South Dakota?”

“Yes, I do,” Crowley answered insolently. “But she’s sixty-three years old. Now step out of the line, or I’ll call security.”

So after waiting for more than five hours, Hale was forced to leave the Customs House empty-handed. It appeared that either Susan had been killed during the trip south from the ranch, or had chosen to keep her name off the national registry, which wouldn’t be surprising, given the Farley family’s fierce sense of independence.

It was dark as Hale made his way to a southbound trolley stop, and joined the crowd there. He had slightly less than an hour in which to reach Cassie’s place, but figured he could make it as long as the trolleys were running on time and he was able to board the first one to come along.

Fortunately, they were running on time, and he was able to board the first one, which put him back at the Federal Center with fifteen minutes to spare. Just enough time in which to stop at a neighborhood store and buy a bottle of wine, since flowers weren’t available. Then with a cold wind nipping at his face he followed the grocer’s directions over to Virginia Avenue and Cassie’s apartment house.

As Hale entered the lobby he was nervous. Because no matter what he told himself, he knew Cassie was smarter than he was, and it would be easy for him to make a fool of himself. So with a sense of dread he climbed a flight of stairs and knocked on her door.

There was the click of high heels on hardwood, followed by a momentary rattle as she turned the knob and opened the door. Suddenly all of Hale’s fears melted away when she smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Nathan! Please come in.”

She was wearing pearls, a black cocktail dress, and matching heels. It was an elegant yet sexy look that took Hale’s breath away. Ella Fitzgerald could be heard singing “How High the Moon” in the background as Cassie took Hale’s overcoat, thanked him for the bottle of wine, and preceded him into a cozy living room that was lit by a standing lamp and half a dozen candles.

“Thank you for the wine—that’s very sweet of you,” she said. “How ′bout a drink? We can open the bottle, or I can offer you a bourbon on the rocks, a gin and tonic, or a screwdriver. Amazingly enough they had orange juice at the market.”

“I’ll take the bourbon,” Hale replied as he looked around. Although the furnishings weren’t fancy, a good deal of thought had gone into the way they were arranged, and there was very little clutter. “I like your apartment.”

“It is nice, isn’t it?” Cassie said brightly, as she went over to the side table where a selection of glasses and bottles stood. “It’s very difficult to find a place to live here in Denver, so I was lucky to hook up with Vicki. She’s my roommate. Please, have a seat. Your drink will be ready in a minute. We’re having pot roast by the way. I hope that’s okay… I went looking for steaks, but they didn’t have any. That’s how it is in stores now. You take what you can get.”

“I love pot roast,” Hale said truthfully, “and I haven’t had any in years.”

“I like it, too,” she agreed as she brought his drink over. “Although it takes quite a while to cook. That gives us time to talk though.” She sat next to him on the sofa. “So, what did you do with your afternoon?”

Hale took a sip of his drink and told Cassie about the line, the people he’d met, and his failure to learn anything regarding Susan’s fate. That led him to the trip back to the ranch, what he had discovered there, and the journey with Tina and Mark. They were on their second drink when a slow dance by the Ink Spots came on the radio.

Cassie stood and held out her hands. “You’re a nice man, Nathan,” she said as he put his drink down. “A lot of people would have left those children to fend for themselves. Now, come here… I want to dance.”

Dancing of any kind was at the top of the list of things that terrified Hale the most, but the opportunity to hold her in his arms was too good to pass up. So he got up from the chair and took her hands.

Moments later he was somewhere else, lost in the fragrance she wore, and the softness of her body. His feet moved, but not very much, as the two of them swayed to the music. Hale nuzzled Cassie’s hair, reveled in the soap-smell of her, and held her close.

Then, when Cassie looked up into Hale’s golden yellow eyes, it was as if an unspoken agreement had been reached. He kissed her, her lips melted beneath his, her hands came up to caress the nape of his neck, and their bodies seemed to meld.

At some point the dancing stopped, as hands explored, and important discoveries were made.

“Please,” Cassie whispered into Hale’s ear, “please.”

Hale swept Cassie off her feet, carried her into the bedroom, and was about to lay her on a single bed when she said, “No, Nathan… The other one.”

Which bed made no difference to Hale, who lowered her onto the white bedspread, and took up where he’d left off. Women’s clothes—especially evening clothes—were something of a mystery to him, and it was necessary for Cassie to help from time to time. But the process was very enjoyable, and by the time the black dress lay on the floor, Hale was half-naked himself.

“You aren’t my first,” Cassie said softly. “But it’s been a long time.”

Hale understood and kissed her concerns away as he removed the last of her clothing. Then he paused to look at her. The only light in the room came from candles, and one half of her face was in flickering shadow as she peered back. Her coral-tipped breasts were small but pert. He reached out and drew a line between them down to her belly button. She smiled dreamily.

“Do you like what you see?”

Hale answered the question with a series of kisses that wandered from place to place until Cassie’s breathing quickened and her fingers began to fumble with his belt buckle. Then it was Hale’s turn to help as he stood long enough to get rid of the uniform trousers before taking his place between Cassie’s long slender legs.

The bed was too narrow for them to lie side by side, but that was fine with Hale as Cassie’s hand found him and pulled him in. It had been a long time for both of them, so Hale was careful to take his time, nudging his way into her wet warmth, their mutual passion building. Cassie made little sounds in the back of her throat and wrapped her legs around his torso as she urged him on.

“I want you, all of you,” she growled softly as the age-old rhythm began to build. Then they were there, climbing to the very peak of passion, before falling into an ocean of pleasure.

The intensity of the moment was beyond anything Hale had experienced before, and once it was over, Cassie continued to shudder beneath him. Then she began to cry.

That was a development Hale wasn’t prepared for and he felt a wave of concern.

“Cassie? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Cassie replied softly, as her chest heaved. “Women cry for all sorts of reasons.”

“Oh,” Hale replied. “I understand.”

But he didn’t, not really, and he was glad when the crying stopped. They lay there for a while, happily entwined in each other’s arms, as the afterglow gradually faded away. Then came a shower, which they chose to take together, and it might have led back into the bedroom, had there been more time.

After toweling herself off, Cassie threw on a terry-cloth robe, and went into the kitchen. The candlelit dinner was consumed at the kitchen table. Hale had thrown on an olive drab tank top and his uniform trousers, but his feet were bare. The wine was good, the pot roast and vegetables were delicious, and he thought it was the best meal he had ever been lucky enough to eat.

But time passed quickly, and suddenly it was 0200 hours, which left Hale with only an hour to summon a cab, and make the trip to the airport. Both of them did what they could to keep the conversation light as Cassie put in a call for a taxi and Hale finished dressing.

Fifteen minutes later the cab was waiting in the street below, Hale was kissing Cassie goodbye, and the magical evening was over.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” Hale promised as he looked into her eyes.

Cassie smiled, or tried to, as she straightened his tie. “I’ll be here.”

But both of them knew that nothing was certain, that everything was in doubt, and that the evening together might well be the only such time they would ever have. Cassie stood at the window and watched as Hale went out the front door and entered the spill of light from a nearby streetlight. He turned to wave.

Then he was inside the taxi, it was pulling away, and Cassie was alone.

“I’m sorry, Nathan,” Cassie said, as she thought about what had been done to him. And was being done to him. “So very, very sorry.”

Cassie went to bed after that—and sought to lose herself in sleep.

But when the sun rose, and sent streamers of light down into the bedroom, Cassie was still awake.