Faces.
They could be as dear as breath.
General Scott was smiling as the Hercules taxied toward him. His smile broadened when the rear cargo bay opened and L.A.S.E.R. emerged behind Major Bryan.
The general’s L.A.S.E.R.
His team. The one he had fought to assemble and train and put in the field. The one that had just performed miracles under the antarctic ice, of all the miserable damn places on earth.
The major walked over, his flight jacket and scarf flapping hard in the wind. The field was black, the way it was when they had parted, but the mood was defiantly less dark. The two men saluted sharply as Bryan stepped over, and then they embraced. Spontaneously, out of protocol, warmly. Neither man spoke. There was plenty to say but there would be time to say it. In private, quietly, after a toast, not shouted over the wind and the powerful Hercules turbines.
The other team members came over at Scott’s waved invitation. He saluted and then shook the hand of each soldier in turn. He looked into their eyes. It was all there: the courage and pride, the challenges and triumphs, everything they had seen, faced, and defeated.
And there was one thing more. It was the clearest of all, and also the most rewarding. He cherished it as they left the field, as he invited the members in for a drink, and then afterward as he slipped into bed beside his wife.
General Scott saw the future.
His, theirs, and those of the men and women they had saved.