February 24, 4:47 a.m., MT

February 24, 4:47 a.m., MT

“They left a message again.”

“Who?”

“Murdoch.”

“Murdoch. Must be desperate, bringing out the lowest of the low.” They were walking back through a row of bright green healthy crop, fed by water from an ancient cistern carried by stone conduits down the mountain to their small hermitage, built by a long-dead civilization. 

“C’mon, Jake. He was your best friend.”

“Was; remember that.” 

“I remember,” she said, weary. They were both unused to the constant hard work of establishing a safe space for their family with others who had also walked away and ended up here; some by accident, some by intent. “But would it hurt to give it another try?”

“One last shot, no allusion intended, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Too late.”

“How do you know? You could…”

“Jesus!” He exploded, turned, walked down the row and back, shaking, his fists tight to his thighs. “Could what? They gave me the boot. Walked me out, box in hand, riffled through by an officer while two soldiers with guns (guns!) to make sure I didn’t steal any pencils.”

“Or secrets,” she said.

“Yes, I suppose, secrets. Wouldn’t want anything vital to the public interest getting out, now would we?”

“No, of course not.”

“Julie. They were wrong and now we are experiencing the result of their timidity and magical thinking.”

“C’mon Jake, they didn’t want to take the risk…”

“Shit woman! Listen. They were at ease and complacent. Though the evidence was before them for years, they did not want to believe a few Caesars still exist, eyes gleaming for new empires. They allowed the involuntary sacrifice of others to pay for their temporary security.”

“But…”

“No buts! If they had listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this godawful mess, half the world swallowed by those gangsters, the enemy poised to break us, other smaller powers circling at the gates and all that.” 

“But why don’t you give them another chance!? Maybe they think you can see something they can’t? Maybe you can be the hero this time.”

“A hero? Instead of a goat. Never wanted to be a ‘hero’. Just wanted to… shit!” He paused. 

“What?” 

“This row is dying.”

“You’re more worried about a row of beans than about the end of the world?”

“Yes, and why not? We can’t stop the enemy without far more devastation than what has already happened. They now have at least 40 times the resources they had when they started their war… I might consider it, but I don’t see how to beat them, unless we do something like what I argued when all this started.”

“You’ve never told me what you argued. Yes, I watched the news. My dad told me a few things, but nothing about the conversations among the leaders who could make the decisions.”

He looked at her, bent his head. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I… argued they need to ignore the rules and make a first, vicious, all-out strike, or history will repeat. Hit them everywhere and from all sides the moment the first soldier stepped over the border, at 4:47 a.m., MT. We have to think like them: screw rules.”

“My God! They must’ve thought you were crazy!”

“Yes, they did.” 

“But, but…”

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “But, but…” he mimicked. “There is no but. There is no going back…”

She shook him off, rubbed her arms. “For who?” she spat. “Them, or you?” The slap sounded louder in the rows of corn than it should have. She fell. “Bastard!”

He stood still, hands at his side, trembling. He fell to his knees, fingers digging in the dirt, and rocked. “I… I’m sorry. Politicians self congratulate, with corpses behind each word. Children shot trying to hide, bombed hospitals full of patients. Do you remember the picture of that man holding his crying child, smoke behind them rising from a bombed building?

She nodded, but didn’t move, watched him, a blank look on her face.

“Jesus! Too many bodies. Every time the meetings were called, I argued the points. They always found reasons to do everything but intervene with our mighty military that we’ve used for worse reasons than a just war. Even when they kicked me out, I tried. I wrote op-eds, showing the analysis, making the points. The few newspapers who would take them were ‘persuaded’ to ignore me. They discontinued my blog. They cut off my social media accounts. They shut me out. I had no way to warn or argue except stand on a soap box in the middle of downtown-and how many downtowns could I visit?- I would have been a fool.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” 

“Why did they do all that?”

“Because they thought they could pay the enemy off by allowing him to take over one country after another, ‘if we give him this, maybe he will stop’. They were afraid of the worst, even the unimaginable. So they let themselves believe they were doing all they should.”

She kneeled in front of him, put her hand on his head. He looked up. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He reached out to her, “I’m even more so.” He touched her cheek. She flinched. “This is where I slapped you. I will never do that again. Can you forgive me?” 

She reached over with both hands, pulled him by his neck to her and gave him a long kiss. “Yes, I forgive you.” She leaned back away from him and punched him as hard as she could. He fell over and stared at her. “You said you forgave me!”

“Oh, I do, but there is always payment.” She smiled. Then he smiled and lunged for her. They rolled along the path until she was on top of him. She slumped down beside him and they lay in the dirt, holding one another and stared at the sky.

After a few moments, he said, “I’m so anguished by it all. The solution was a first strike. The necessary strategic info, the experts, all that expensive military equipment were all in place. We and our allies were afraid to use the assets; they decided to be bystanders. I could not accept that.” She kissed him, then they stood, walked down the path to their new home, a new beginning.

Later in the day when Julie took their two boys out to run around with other children, he walked over to the satellite messaging device (SMD) and raised the hammer. He paused, slowly lowered the hammer and turned off the SMD.