3

ARLINGTON CEMETERY

No snow had yet fallen in the nation’s capital.

The temperature was hovering around forty degrees, and it was pouring rain.

Thunder crackled to the east. Marcus—wearing a borrowed black suit, hand-me-down shoes that were too tight, mismatched socks, a bedraggled old coat from Sears, and mittens his mother had knit for him—stood soaked to the bone. Shivering, he nevertheless bravely tried to hold a golf umbrella steady over his mother’s head and clung to her gloved hand as tightly as he had ever done.

Standing beside him, Marta and Nicole huddled together under their own umbrella, though in the crosswinds and driving rain, they were having no more success than he was. Their matching black wool coats were also drenched. Yet they didn’t complain or even cough or shift from foot to foot as the brief ceremony commenced. Instead, as a chaplain spoke, Marta put her arm around Marcus and gently squeezed his shoulder.

“Today we have gathered to remember, to mourn, but also to honor and celebrate the life of Captain Lars Johannes Ryker,” the clergyman said in a rich baritone. “A faithful and loving husband, the father of these three beautiful children, and a devoted follower of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, Captain Ryker will always be remembered as one of the most courageous and most decorated fighter pilots ever to serve this nation. In his storied career that spanned two decades, he shot down thirteen enemy planes—more than any of his contemporaries—the last of which saved the life of his wingman and best friend.”

Marcus stood ramrod straight. He couldn’t bear to look at the flag-draped casket or the freshly dug grave. Instead, he stared at his exhaled breath condensing in the morning chill.

“Captain Ryker believed what the Bible teaches, that ‘to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.’ By faith, he had come to believe that Christ had forgiven all of his sins—past, present, and future—that he had been ‘born again’ according to John chapter 3, that he had been adopted into the royal family of God and thus had been assured a place in heaven for all eternity. I know he believed these things because we talked about them many times. At the academy where we first met. On the many bases where we served together. And even at the Dhahran air base in Saudi Arabia just before Christmas.”

Marcus began scanning the southern sky, sure that he had heard a roar in the distance but seeing nothing yet. The clergyman kept speaking, but Marcus couldn’t listen. He had promised himself he would not cry. He was the man of the family now. It was his responsibility to protect his mother and his sisters. The last thing he could afford to do was show weakness. He had to be strong. He refused to watch as four officers from his father’s squadron crisply and methodically folded the American flag and handed it to his mother. He refused to watch as his father’s casket was lowered into the ground. He looked away but found himself flinching when the seven-man honor guard wearing white gloves fired their rifles in unison. Then again. Then a third time. The echoes of those gunshots seemed to hang in the air forever.

A solitary bugler played taps, as haunting a sound as Marcus had ever heard. Still, he kept his attention riveted on the southern skies. He saw nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The ceremony was almost over. He feared it wasn’t going to happen. Had there been a malfunction? Was it the weather? Perhaps someone at the Pentagon thought his father didn’t merit the missing-man formation. But if his father didn’t, who did?

Then as the bugler continued to play, Marcus saw them. They were microscopic at first, four gleaming dots against a dark-gray sky. Soon enough, however, the missing-man formation was surging toward them—four F-16C Fighting Falcons flying in a V formation. As they approached the burial site, the third fighter jet from the left abruptly broke formation, flying straight up into the heavens as the other three jets remained level and roared over their heads.

As the breakaway jet shot higher and higher into the morning sky, Marcus strained his neck to follow its path until it disappeared into the clouds. His mother squeezed his hand. His sister tightened her grip on his shoulder. But the little boy couldn’t restrain himself any longer, and the tears began to flow.