Seeds of the Bitter Harvest. John Sheppard

Rant was as close as Chadwick had ever seen him to being joyful.

      Finally, Rant stood to leave, and Chadwick followed suit. The elder man turned towards the exit, and left without a single pleasantry or even a word for that matter. It was his normal pattern. As Mr. Rant reached the deeper shadows of the office, Chadwick was certain he saw something. It was the form of at least one other man following him. Lange almost called out, but he had seen this sight before. He could never tell if it was just Rant’s own shadows, the effects of a long day, or something real. But, it couldn’t be something real, could it? All Chadwick knew was that whatever it was it gave him chills.

      Once Mr. Rant had left, Chadwick was alone with his remorse. He seated himself at the conference table and sat there for a long time, his head spinning, mentally trying scenario after scenario looking for a way to free Andy from the web Rant was weaving.

      He rose from where he was seated, and returned to the window. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and rounding his shoulders, he let out a deep sigh. For the briefest of moments, he considered picking something up and throwing it, but let out a string of expletives instead.

      It was on occasions like this that Chadwick had uncomfortable reminders of the faith he had abandoned for what seemed like eons ago. There were only faint echoes of those days bouncing around in his mind. His faith had withstood the academic rigors of Harvard, but coming to this country had been a spiritual wasteland to drain his faith away.

      The Sirens’ Call of wealth, tied to a requirement to embrace secular thought in all aspects of life proved to be too much. He had immersed himself in a culture which prized prosperity and success above all else. Lange had slowly let his need to impress Jackie’s mother and prove himself worthy of KML’s trust subvert all he had once held dear.

      CHAPTER 3

      Was this his third or fourth cup of strong coffee this morning? thought Major Jeremy Trent, as he sipped the stout brew. He needed something to keep himself going, so the number of cups of coffee he drank really was of no consequence, he just needed to be able to function. The last several months had been overwhelmingly stressful, with long hours of work, little sleep, and tension that never left. Unlike some of his fellow officers, he chose not to spend his evenings getting drunk at the Officers’ Club. He felt he needed his head clear if the Enemy should choose a final assault on what remained of his homeland.

      Here he was, in the same room, sitting at the same “U” shaped table, with the last of the nation’s top military leaders even though he was only a Major. Promotions had come quickly. His most recent promotion had been less than a couple of months before. The country’s military was down to about one third of what it had been at the start of the war. Most of the other two thirds had been killed in action, with only a few presumed to be POWs.

      Jeremy had been surprised to discover how much influence he had garnered in the country’s military circles because of his leadership during the counter-offensive in the hours before the Capital fell. Working with his mentor, Colonel Stephen Newhouse, they had devised a plan for a counter-offensive, which had the potential to provide a last-minute escape route for some the beleaguered Capital’s residences. The plan had worked, thousands were saved, but Colonel Newhouse had been killed by a sniper.

      This gathering was the daily briefing conducted with General Ashton seated, alone at a table, in the front of the Briefing Room, facing his staff. Ashton was a tall, trim, stern looking man, who seldom smiled. His blue eyes were intense, and often appeared to bore right into ones’ inner most thoughts. While having a reputation for being “no nonsense”, he was also known to be fair, and looked after those under his command.

      The large map to the left behind the General told the status of the war, in the starkest terms. It was a map of the entire peninsula they shared with the Enemy. A mountain range divided the peninsula. The range ran at an angle from the northeast to southwest with a noticeable mountain pass about midway. It was there that the Enemy had, for the first in history, broken through those defenses and poured into this country.

      Not only was the Enemy’s homeland, which was in the northwestern portion of the peninsula, highlighted in red but so was much of Jeremy’s beloved land in the Southeastern half. If one looked closely at the map, one could see the dates of major battles annotated. Most of those dates had defeats for the defenders, and the red continued to advance. The spring offensive had seen the Enemy sweep down the coast line, then, make a sudden turn towards the west, in effect, cutting of the Capital from the Port City.

      Jeremy had been lost in his thoughts as he viewed the map; when he came aware that he was being nudged by the officer seated to his left. The officer directed him to notice a hand holding a piece of paper between the two of them. An aid was standing behind the two of them with his hand outstretched holding a note. It was not unusual to have aids deliver written messages during the briefing, what was unusual was for Jeremy to be that inattentive to his surroundings.

      He took the note, nodded a thank you to the aid, and carefully opened the folded paper so as not to distract the others at the meeting. The note was as startling to Jeremy as it was brief: “O-club, 1900 HRS, more to follow, KA”. He made a quick mental translation: “Be at the Officers Club at 7:00 PM, he would receive additional instructions; signed, General Kevin Ashton”.

      Trying to control his facial expressions, Jeremy slowly re-folded the note, and slid it into his shirt pocket. He avoided making eye contact with anyone in the room for a few minutes so as to prevent anyone from detecting the importance of the note. When he finally looked-up the General was staring right at him; their eyes locked momentarily. Another officer was providing an Enemy troop movement assessment, so the exchange went unnoticed by the other attendees.

      It was hard for Jeremy to concentrate on his normal duties the rest of the day. He had never received such a summons during his entire military career. What could the country’s top military commander want to talk to him about? He wasn’t on the General’s personal staff besides, why the secrecy?

      Around 1800 hours he returned to his room in the OQ (Officers’ Quarters). Normally he would work much later into the evening, but he wanted to take a shower and change clothes before meeting with the General. Since the briefing, he wondered if he should wear his uniform. After all, he was meeting the General, but to arrive in uniform after duty-hours in the O Club might attract attention. Yet, they were at war. Would a uniform be better? Before he could give the matter any additional thought, he saw something on his pillow. It was a plain, white sheet of paper, lying open, with a hand written message, which read; ‘Civvies’; more military short-hand; this time it meant civilian clothes. Someone is taking care of every detail, and they seem to think I might be being watched; thought Jeremy.

      It was now the Major’s turn to play the part. He didn’t want anyone to think he was doing anything more important than having some drinks, and relaxing for a change. Jeremy determined to be a minute or two late. He casually walked in the general direction of the O Club, stopping to engage in a couple of conversations with others he met on the way. What bothered him was that he had been given no other instructions but to be at the Club. Would the General be there in plain sight? Was he to ask for the General? What?

      Loud music assaulted his ears as he entered the club, and it took time for his eyes to adjust to the subdued lighting. Before Jeremy got five steps inside, a voice called out in a friendly tone.

      “Thought you’d never get here, Trent…. beers are getting warm.” It was a Second Lieutenant, the one who had passed him the note earlier in the day. Jeremy didn’t even know the guy beyond seeing him at the briefings. Yet, he was acting like they were old college buddies hanging out for a casual evening.

      The Lieutenant motioned him over to a small table in a very dark corner of the O Club. Several beers were already lined-up on the table, and there were only two seats. Wouldn’t the General be joining them? Jeremy pondered.

      Jeremy decided it was best to go along with whatever was happening; giving the Lieutenant a huge grin and a slap on the back as he slid into the one remaining chair. The Lieutenant returned the grin, and quickly gulped down almost half of one of his beers. Jeremy followed suit.

      The