COLORADO SPRINGS —18 JUNE 2006

Marcus Ryker tore south on I-25, but this time he was not a man possessed —someone was going to be born tonight, and he’d never been so excited.

With Elena in the backseat of their Ford Expedition, groaning in pain and pleading with him to be careful, Marcus abruptly flashed back to the night his mother had been in such danger, the night he’d driven like a maniac to come to her aid. He was still a risk-taker, but he’d learned a few lessons along the way. He was older now, wiser he hoped, more focused, more experienced, and more careful. He wasn’t going to do anything to put his wife and child in danger. Not now. Not ever.

That said, he was going ninety miles an hour as he blew past the exit for the Air Force Academy on his right, then the Focus on the Family campus on his left. Before long, he was getting off on Highway 87, zigzagging through a series of side streets, pulling into the parking lot at Memorial Hospital, and racing toward the emergency room entrance. Elena was just shy of forty-two weeks. She was, therefore, almost two weeks late. She had been experiencing intensifying labor pains for much of the last two weeks yet showed no signs of dilating. She was scheduled to be induced in three more days. But just after 10 p.m., her water had finally broken.

It was now 10:27. Elena’s contractions were coming harder and faster. Marcus screeched to a halt, jumped out, and carried his wife inside, abandoning the Expedition and tossing the keys to a security guard inside the door.

Elena’s ob-gyn met them in the lobby accompanied by two nurses. They helped Elena into a wheelchair and whisked her off to labor and delivery, Marcus following close behind. Once there, a team of medical professionals immediately surrounded her, but Marcus wasn’t about to be boxed out. He moved to her side, took her hand, and watched the blood drain from his own as Elena gasped and cried out and squeezed with all her might.

For the next two hours, Marcus coached her along. He reminded her to breathe deeply. He dabbed the sweat off her face with a cloth. He offered her ice chips and fought not to comment on just how powerful her grip could be with this much adrenaline coursing through her body. All the while, he silently thanked the Lord for his timing. Only weeks before, he’d finished his four-year contract with the Marines and raced back from Baghdad to be at Elena’s side.

Eventually, however, it became clear that a serious problem was developing. As Marcus watched a bank of monitors digitally displaying the latest second-to-second data from mother and baby, he could see what the doctor and every nurse in the room could see. With every contraction, the baby’s heart rate was beginning to drop precipitously.

Initially, between contractions, the baby’s heart rate had settled at between 140 and 150 beats per minute. But now, during the peak of the contractions, it was plunging. The first time Marcus noticed it, the heart rate had dipped to 83. The next time it dropped to 76. Then 72. Then 64. Then just 61. Worse, when each contraction was over, the baby’s heart was not returning to normal. Rather it was returning to barely over 100, and now the ob-gyn informed her team that she was concerned the baby was going into fetal distress. She ordered them to prep for an emergency C-section.

“No!” Elena cried out when she heard that. Then she dissolved into tears.

Her body was trembling. Her lips were starting to turn blue. Marcus thought he’d seen everything. He’d been in combat. He’d seen friends die. He himself had been shot and nearly burned alive in the wastelands of Kandahar. He thought he’d become impervious to fear. But seeing his wife in such pain and seeing their baby experiencing such trauma was almost more than this Marine could bear.

“Doc, she wants a natural delivery,” Marcus said, his voice nearly faltering midsentence.

“I know,” said the ob-gyn. “But the baby can’t take much more.”

The doctor checked the monitors again. The baby’s heart rate was just 95.

“Mrs. Ryker, I’m going to ask you to push again,” she said. “You’re doing great. You’re doing everything I’m asking, and I want to give you the chance to try again. But if your baby’s heart rate drops too far, I’m going to do what we call a crash C-section. But don’t worry. I can have the baby out in thirty seconds. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Elena said nothing. She couldn’t. Tears were streaming down her face, but she was doing everything she could not to make a sound. Marcus knew why. She wanted to be strong. She didn’t want him to see her falling apart. But her hands were clammy. Her body was getting weaker. The whole thing was taking a terrible toll on both mother and baby, and Marcus was fighting back his own emotions. His bottom lip quivered. His eyes were moist. He was scared. Not for Elena. She was tough. She’d be fine. He was terrified that the baby —his little daughter or son; they still didn’t know which —might not pull through.

“Okay, Mrs. Ryker, take a deep breath and push one more time,” the doctor said.

Elena squeezed Marcus’s hand and did as she was told. Immediately the baby’s heart rate began to drop again: 90. Then 80. Then 70. Then 60. When it dropped under 60, the doctor made the call.

Marcus was pushed away from the table, and the team went to work. He couldn’t see everything that was going on, and it was all happening so fast. But he heard a gurgling sound as the scalpel plunged into his wife’s belly. He saw blood gushing from her, blood mixed with amniotic fluid. It was spraying everywhere. His hand immediately went to his mouth, covered though it was by the surgical mask. He felt light-headed. Tears poured from his eyes, though he dared not make a sound. He took several steps back, then felt the reassuring touch of a nurse’s hand on his arm. He’d seen more blood than this. On that mountainside in Afghanistan and in that cave. But he’d never seen it flowing out of his wife. He hadn’t prepared himself for this. Neither of them had. They’d never seriously considered a cesarean might really be necessary. That was foolish, of course. He’d been trained to not only consider but plan for every eventuality. But he hadn’t, and now he regretted it.

Elena had been given general anesthesia, so she was out cold, and for this he was grateful. Because the baby —covered in blood and mucus —was not crying, was not making a sound of any kind. Everything in him braced for the worst. This baby was dead. He was sure of it now. Elena was giving birth to a stillborn child. He was watching it happen with his own eyes, and when Elena awoke, he would have to be the one to tell her. He didn’t know if he could.

But suddenly he saw the legs begin to flutter, then heard a cry and then wailing.

No sound had ever seemed so precious.