Parked beside the BearCats, its engine idling with a steady, protective rumble, was my 2011 Chevy Silverado.
Inside the heated cab sat thirteen-year-old Evan, holding the thermos of warm broth, his breathing restored, his hazel eyes wide with awe as he watched twelve DEVGRU operators in night-vision gear securing the gravel lot.
I opened the driver’s door, leaned inside, and placed my hand gently over his shoulder:
“Evan,” I said softly:
“Your great-grand-uncle David is here. Grandpa Arthur’s line is holding. It’s time to go lock the redoubt.”
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Evan set down the thermos, wiped his eyes, and looked at me with an expression of pure, un-broken Mercer resolve:
“I’m ready, Dad.”
We bolted across the gravel lot directly toward Lead Bird Nine-Seven-Two, where the twin General Electric turboshaft engines shrieked into the night sky!
ROOOOAR.
Behind us, Barnaby vaulted through the open cabin doors of the Black Hawk, his amber eyes reflecting the tactical status screens, his low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest as the aircraft lifted vertically into the freezing Iowa rain!
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