Home Front(114)

In town, there was bumper-to-bumper traffic.

“They all have their lights on,” Michael said.

“But it’s not night,” Lulu said from the backseat.

“It’s for Tami,” Mila said quietly.

Jolene climbed out of the darkness of her own grief and looked around. The hearse was about three cars in front of them, crawling forward. There had to be a hundred cars behind them.

They were going through town now. On either side of the street, people stood in front of the shops, gathered in clusters, waving at the passing hearse.

There were flags everywhere—on posts and poles and streetlamps. Yellow ribbons fluttered in the breeze—from doorknobs and flower boxes and car antennae. A sign in the window of Liberty Bay Books read: GOODBYE TAMI FLYNN. SAFE JOURNEY HOME.

By the time they made it to the end of town—only a few blocks later—there were hundreds of people waving at the hearse as it passed.

Then the honking started. It sounded like a symphony as the snake of cars turned up toward the cemetery. Once there, on the crest of the hill above Liberty Bay, you could see forever—the Sound, the town, and the jagged, snow-covered Olympic Mountains.

After they parked, Jolene sat there long enough that her family started to worry. They threw questions at her like tiny darts until she said, “I’m fine,” and sighed and got out of the car.

The family merged into the crowd of mourners, many of whom were in uniform.

Behind them, Jolene heard the throaty roar of Harley-Davidson motorcycles.

She shouldn’t have turned, but she did. The cars were still streaming in, lights on. There, in the middle of traffic, were about thirty motorcycles, moving in formation; huge flags flapped out behind the riders—Guard, army, American. They created a blur of flying colors. She could see from here that the riders were of all ages and most were in uniforms.

Patriot riders.

Jolene stumbled; Michael caught her, steadied her. Giving him a tight smile, she squared her shoulders and kept walking.

As they rounded the bend, she saw their destination. Perched out on a lip of land that overlooked the Sound was a peaked green tent roof supported by four glinting silver poles. Beneath it was a casket draped in an American flag.

Already there were hundreds of mourners standing around. Behind them stood a row of flags—the Guard, the United States, the army. Last was the Raptor flag.

She wanted to lean into Michael and feel him take her in his arms, but she stood tall, lifted her chin just the slightest amount. This might be the last moment she would ever be Chief Warrant Officer Zarkades, and she’d be damned if she’d disgrace the uniform.

At the side of the casket, she saw Carl and Seth, both dressed in black, looking blank and confused. Beside them was Tami’s weeping mother.

She went up to Seth, put her arms around him. She saw the tears glaze his eyes, and it took every ounce of willpower she had not to cry. She concentrated on each breath, remaining composed by sheer force of will.

And then it was beginning. Michael led her to one of the folding chairs reserved for the family. It hurt to look at Seth and Carl as they took their seats beside her, but she did it, wanting desperately to say I’m sorry to each of them. Amazingly, they looked at her with sadness, but not blame. That only made her feel worse.

Somewhere a bagpipe started to play.

This time Jolene closed her eyes. She heard the high, mournful notes of the instrument, heard the muffled sound of boots marching along behind, and knew the soldiers were making their way down the hill, toward the casket.

“We are here to say good-bye to a special woman. Chief Warrant Officer Tamara Margaret Flynn…”

Jolene dared to open her eyes.

The minister from Tami’s church stood by the casket. He had no microphone—no one had expected such a crowd—but the people quieted instantly, until all you could hear was the wind fluttering the flags out front. “But she wasn’t Tamara to us, was she? She was just Tami, the girl who used to climb trees with the boys and run wild along the beach. I remember when her mother despaired that she would ever slow down enough to find a career.” He looked up the hill.

Jolene knew what he was seeing—hundreds of people, and more than half of them in uniform. “She did find that career, though, and I have to say, I wasn’t surprised that she found her passion in the sky. She loved flying. She once told me that it was as close to God as she could imagine being.”

He looked down at his hands, then up at the crowd again. “We lost her, and that is a wound that won’t heal. We lost her in a faraway land, doing something that most of us can’t begin to understand. We ask how we could have lost her in such a way. But then we know: that was Tami. If someone needed help, she was the first to show up. Of course she put herself in harm’s way. That’s who our Tami was.”

Jolene heard Seth make a sound beside her. She reached for his hand, took it. He held on tightly.

“We thank Tami for her service today, as friends and as Americans. She gave the full measure to protect, and she is a hero. But we knew that, didn’t we? We knew she was a hero long before today. To Seth and Carl, whom she loved with a fierceness that was matched only by her courage, I say, remember her, all of her. And when you look at the sky, think of her up there, in her beloved blue, with our Lord beside her. She would not want you to mourn.” He looked up at the sky and said quietly, “Good-bye, Tami. Peace be with you.”