Kevin Miller - Declared Hostile

Monique was getting her life back after the nightmare of the cabin. She helped Father Dan find an apartment in town, which he hated, but it was much closer for her. Why she put up with him, after their near-death experience with the Americans, was beyond her. She decided it was because of his friendly, good nature. He didn’t worry, he trusted come-what-may, and she knew whatever protests she came up with would be overcome by his impish grin. So far, though, she was having her way on one matter — no more cabins in the Woodyard.

At least she had a “new” car. The parish had replaced the old one, being full of bullet holes, with a newer used vehicle that had air conditioning. Yes, she was happy to serve Father Dan, which allowed him to serve the parish, and her simple life had meaning. Thirty-five and single. Everyone asked her why she didn’t marry, and she had suitors who told her she was beautiful. She didn’t mind men, but she didn’t want the aggravation of married life. “So become a nun,” they said.

Maybe she would.

As she drove up to her small house and stepped out of the car, she noted an unfamiliar car coming down the single lane road. As she watched it, she wondered which neighbor was expecting visitors. The glare on the windshield concealed those inside as flashes and loud sounds erupted from the passenger’s side.

Monique was on the ground, unable to move, unable to speak. She concentrated on the blades of grass in front of her eyes. She had never seen them so clearly but remembered placing her head like this against the ground when she was a child. She became fascinated by a lady bug climbing one of the blades: red-and-black wings, innocent, beautiful, peaceful….

She bled to death before any neighbors could help her.

At the same moment, Father Dan walked along the Edward Trace enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. How he missed the cabin and his daily exercise. He swung his arms in vigorous full motion as he walked, an occasional car his only company.

He appreciated the letter he had received from Jim Wilson, now safe with his family in Virginia. A good lad , he thought, just a bit misguided . But his heart was in the right place, and it was good to hear from him. What an adventure that day in the cabin was! Right out of the movies! But at what cost? He still couldn’t believe he had lived it — and survived it. He prayed for the dead and for an end to war, and he gave thanks he and Monique had been spared and could continue a life of service. What makes men behave this way? he thought as he ruminated on a homily for the weekend mass. Attendance was way down since the incident, and Father Dan sensed some were nervous to be around him. He chalked it up to his vivid imagination and settled on “Selfless Service” as the topic of this week’s talk.

The quiet. He missed it more than anything else, and, looking around, he realized he was alone on the road. Smiling, he thought of a ditty he could bellow out here. Free. Free to enjoy the glory of God’s creation. He extended his arms and took a deep breath.

Oh, it’s no… nay… never…!

No nay never, no more!

Something popped him hard, and, collapsing to his knees, he grabbed his chest in surprise. What happened? He felt a warm fluid flowing down his right side and a sharp pain. He had difficulty breathing. He looked down and saw a tear in his jacket. “ What? ”

The second bullet exploded into his sternum, killing him before his back hit the asphalt. He lay there for five minutes before a motorist passed by — and didn’t see him. His body was discovered after two more minutes by one of his parishioners coming from the other direction.

Three days later, Father Dan and Monique shared a funeral mass given by a visiting priest. The nervous townspeople paid their respects and buried them side by side in the small cemetery along the Trace. One of his fellow missionaries flew down from Maryknoll to be present. No one from the American Embassy was there. They did not know of the deaths of these two locals who had given great assistance to the United States of America, and who had led one American citizen to a deeper relationship with God.

And the people prayed God would have mercy on their souls.

Macho gazed out the window of her commuter turboprop as the city of Washington loomed larger. The aircraft snaked down the Potomac on its visual approach to Reagan National, and she noted the National Cathedral, the football stadium at Georgetown, and the Kennedy Center. She could also make out the White House, and, in the distance, the Capitol Building that dominated the city.

Below, she saw racing sculls on the river and people walking along the green shoreline near the Lincoln Memorial. The Potomac was calm, showing barely a ripple as the aircraft descended closer to the water. This was a viewpoint she had never had in her dozens of carrier landings, which required complete focus on the glide slope and the line-up in front of her. Out there, she was surrounded by water yet had never really “seen” it during any of her landings, and at night it didn’t matter as all was black nothingness.

Macho watched the water come closer and closer as the pilots maneuvered the aircraft for landing. With the LSOs screaming for power and the wave off lights warning them of impending disaster, it seemed as if they were going to ditch the aircraft in the river. The waves came closer. Death came closer, a death she deserved and would welcome, if only it could be her and not the other 30 passengers, innocent and oblivious to what Macho knew about herself. The water was right there , seconds from impact. Macho wondered for an instant if they were going to hit the carriers’ ramp, and then the airport shoreline popped into view and the pilots performed a gentle flare over the runway. They floated above it for a few moments before the wheels kissed the concrete and they were down. Alive .

The turboprops dug into the air with a WHAAAA as the pilots put them into reverse, and the aircraft slowed and turned off on the nearest taxiway. As the passengers gathered their belongings and started texting on the way to the gate, Macho kept her gaze outside, lost in her thoughts. Betrayal . She knew it well. She was drenched in it, was swimming in it. She lolled the bitter bile of it around her tongue, knowing it would be forever hers. She could not escape it.

On the flight from Norfolk, she had had time to think about what she was planning to do. She still didn’t have a clue about how she would be received, but each step brought her closer to the dreaded reckoning. She deserved humiliation, in public, screaming invective aimed at her for what she had done, deliberately and with malice. A black eye, scars, broken bones…. She had earned them, and she would stand still to receive them.

It was a pleasant day in Washington as she stepped off the aircraft and onto the bus that took the passengers to the terminal. Macho gave a polite nod to the linesman as he directed her to stay well clear of the stationary prop. He must have taken her for a young woman naïve about the ways of airplanes, he being her protector on this dangerous ground. But that was a flight deck lesson Macho could teach him: Never walk through a prop arc, and you’ll never get hit by a prop.

Once inside the terminal, Macho followed the directions to the Metro station, fumbling through the ticket machine for a pass before boarding the Yellow Line to Metro Center. She took a seat in the front car and watched commuters get on and off as they dove into the Crystal City underground. At the Pentagon, a commander wearing khakis got on the train and stood as it departed the station. Macho stole glances at his rows of uniform ribbons; he was a surface warfare officer, with a pin signifying command at sea, and ribbons denoting the number of deployments, their locations, command and personal awards, the everyone-gets-a-trophy end-of-tour recognition the senior officers wore on their chests to validate themselves to each other and to the public. No doubt this passed for street cred here in the Pentagon, and if she stayed for a career, she too would have a nice “rack” of been there-done that ribbons.