The seminary in Bronzeville had been on lockdown for most of the past week, bracing for the worst that never came.

For the first two days, Sam had paced holes in the rugs in helpless concern about what was happening to his friends in New York City and fretting over what might yet transpire in Chicago. The frustration had been all but unbearable for a man accustomed to action rather than waiting, but he was a family man now. There were times that action was not the answer. If Tommy Haas couldn't sort out affairs in the Big Apple, then affairs could not be sorted out.

It was only after a series of phone calls with his friend on the third day that Sam felt safe enough to allow himself to come off what he grimly had thought of as DEFCON 11. Further phone calls in subsequent days brought more news, and not all of it good.

Sorting through the whole mess would take time and patience, and as the end of that roller-coaster week approached, things had gotten back to a bare semblance of normal.

Philly had departed the day before. Her office-home in San Francisco had been raided on the same day as the others, but federal agents had been unable to breach the building's iron-clad security before local police arrived and, to the surprise of all, shooed the agents away. The outlandish story of government highhandedness had made the local news in the Bay Area and, with Philly's gentle nudging, had spread far and wide across the Internet.

Federal authorities even now were scrambling to come up with an explanation as to why, without any discernible legal authority, they'd staged near simultaneous raids in New York, Chicago, San Francisco, Atlanta, and San Diego. No arrests had been made. (The Atlanta raid had found only an empty apartment, and in San Diego the bureau had burst in upon a group of partying navy officers from nearby Naval Base Point Loma.)

So far, no mention had appeared in any news outlet of the four dead government men in Murray Hill. If the FBI had hoped to stage those raids unobtrusively, they had done a poor job in meeting that goal. Now the cover-up was in full swing.

It was because of such turmoil that Sam had balked at meeting with a young man who'd telephoned several days earlier and had identified himself simply as Brian.

A side-effect of Philly's outreach project over the past year was the occasional appearance of what she'd come to refer to as "walk-ins." Seven such folk, one of whom being Tommy's friend Kenny, had approached Sam, Tommy, or Philly in the past year, guided by rumors they'd found on the Internet. Brian seemed to be such a person.

Sam realized he couldn't put off the man forever. Life had to move forward. And the young guy's candor, politeness, and insistence over the course of several calls finally had convinced Sam of his sincerity. The two had agreed to meet at noon that day near the Lincoln Park Zoo. Although it was Sam's favorite meeting place, his last encounter there had seen a less than ideal ending, so he approached the site with a hint of wariness.

The Chicagoan left home in the wee hours that morning after a series of calls to friends and neighbors, all of whom kept careful tabs on the comings and goings in the neighborhood surrounding the seminary. (It never hurt to consult the village.) Afterward, he'd left a few hours early to take a short glimpse at the Chinese consulate in the city. Sam planned on keeping an eye on the place over the next days and weeks, to perhaps suss out Tommy's suspicions about that country's intentions regarding people like them. Nothing about the notion of Chinese Gifted agents in his city and his country made Sam feel good. Just the opposite.

He spied nothing out of order after two hours surveillance of the consulate, but that morning was just his first peak. Sam usually could recognize people like him, so the next weeks would tell. He was on a bench outside the zoo's front gate by a quarter past 11 am and waited patiently.

The moment a tall, strongly built young man came into view at the appointed place and time, Sam was on his guard. The youngster's great physicality telegraphed the nature of his Gift, even to Sam's casual glance. But as the fellow's gaze met his own, the Chicagoan felt his sudden caution diminish a notch. There was an openness in the younger man's face he hadn't expected, and though Sam still harbored some suspicion, it was a bright day with plenty of people about. There would be no trouble.

"Mr. Babington? I'm Brian Severance." the youngster said as he extended a hand. "I hear tell you help people get a fresh start in life."

The two men shook hands.

"A big, strong fellow like you shouldn't ever have trouble starting new somewhere," Sam responded with a friendly grin. "What can I help you with?"

"Nah, it's not me," said the man as he took a seat on the bench next to Sam. "I'm a lifer ... but a couple of my guys want to change their lives around. And that isn't easy for folks like us right now."

Sam looked at the man with a more careful eye: clean shaven, high-and-tight haircut, casual but conservative middle-class attire.

"You a service member?" he asked with a smile.

"I am ... though the others aren't ... exactly. There were a couple of guys on my team who got, well, recruited aggressively, if you know what I mean."

"You're one of Morse's people, aren't you?" Sam asked with a surge of caution.

"Mr. Babington," said Brian in a slow and polite voice, "I'm in the army. I go where I'm told and follow lawful orders ... but, yes, I knew Mr. Morse. Me and a couple of others want to put all that behind us."

Sam knew he'd overstepped with his characterization. It was clear despite Brian's politeness that the young soldier had no use for Ulysses Morse, the late gentleman adventurer.

"I've already stepped in it, son," Sam crooned apologetically. "Let's start from the beginning."

Over the next half hour or so, the two exchanged pleasantries and revealed bits and pieces about themselves. It took no time at all for Sam to realize Brian Severance was the real thing, an honest to God, decent, down-to-earth army officer.

"Mr. Babington, I cannot believe you were with the 1/508 PIR," the young man said laughing. "I had a rifle platoon in alpha company. It was my first duty assignment after commissioning. I was still with the 82nd when my powers kicked in about four years ago, just made captain. Then one day ... poof, I woke up in a strange place. And I mean that literally."

"So, how'd they pick you out?" Sam asked. How their adversaries identified them as Gifted was a question that still puzzled Sam and his friends.

"I've thought about that a lot, sir." The young captain was one of those 'sir' people, even to civilians. There were many such in the military. "I always assumed a fellow soldier just saw me lift something I wasn't supposed to—I was suddenly wicked strong. But Morse claimed he could pick people like us out by sight, and ...."

"You doubted he could?"

"Nossir, it wasn't that. The guy was impressive. He seemed to have been everywhere and done everything ... and physically, none of us could hold a candle to him. But as often as Ulysses travelled, he was only one man. It didn't seem like he could scout the whole world on his lonesome. I finally just stopped worrying about it."

"What did you make of him, captain?"

"Morse? He was complicated. I mean, toughest guy I ever met, off the charts strong, fast, skilled. And ... I know it sounds sorta crazy, but ... well, he was old enough that when he talked about Vietnam, you believed he'd served. But, damn, he'd gab on about the Korean War and both world wars like he actually had been there."

The young man twisted his mouth and looked hard at Sam.

"As good of a fighter as he was," the young man continued slowly, "Ulysses was maybe the shittiest combat leader I ever met. He could be really likable sometimes, a great guy for a drink and a laugh, but he didn't lead others through respect or through example. He led through fear, and that was a lesson most folks in that unit took from him. His discipline was brutal ... even cruel. But he was one of those guys who, as long as his troops did what he told them, he didn't give a shit what kind of lawless BS they got into. Maybe worst of all, he played favorites. If you spoke good English and had the right skin tone ...." The young man shook his head. "All that kind of crap is toxic for unit cohesion and discipline."

"And everyone took off when he died?"

"Yeah," said the young man with a faint nod, "more or less. Some stuck around a little longer, but I'm not a hundred percent sure where they all ended up." The young man gave him a look. "That day ... uh, the day Morse got his ticket punched, most of us stayed out and finished a training op we'd been working on in the desert while Morse took some guys to The Farm. One of them, fella named Feist, came back later. He said they fought against two guys that day ... a young guy ... and an older black guy." The captain paused.

Sam knew the soldier didn't want to ask. "Yeah, that was me," the oldster volunteered. "I'm sorry about your friends."

The young man shrugged and snorted lightly. "Don't worry about that. Morse just took a few of his favorites along ... the cocky bastard. There were one or two who weren't so bad, but most of the ones with him that day were dirt-bags like him. Still, I didn't think anybody could beat the old guy."

"It took my buddy more than two hours," Sam said with a grim smile. "What do you know about Wayne Summerall and his crowd?"

"Another Morse favorite," the young man said again nodding. "He wasn't there that day. Summerall ran some sort of special project, though I never knew exactly what. I was the only commissioned officer in that unit, the only real soldier actually, but physically I was sort of puny compared to the strongest"—he looked down at his hands as he flexed them in front of himself—"so I ranked pretty low in the pecking order."

"What do you think he's up to these days?"

"Summerall? I'm not certain." The captain paused. "He was back briefly after Morse bought the farm but disappeared not long after. He always had eight or ten guys and dolls he hung around with. They vanished about the same time he did. I always got the sense he was involved in logistics ... you know, talked about places he'd been. He spent a lot of time in Russia, North Africa, sub-Sahara, those kinds of places. But I wasn't much in the loop."

"Tangier?"

"Yeah." The young officer snapped his fingers. "He mentioned it quite a few times. Some of the contractors I've worked with since, Hollirich people mostly, have spoken about it, too."

"But for more than vacation?"

"Oh, yeah. There's some sort of facility there ... or there was as of, I dunno, two months ago. But I think it's mostly or entirely contractors. And it's not in Tangier. It's someplace near there. I got the sense I wasn't supposed to know that little tidbit. It was all ...." The young man seemed at a loss for words. "... so unconventional. And it felt sleazy. I am really, really glad to be heading back to Fort Bragg."

Sam smiled. "Back to the 82nd?"

"Nah, Special Operations Command. It's been a long, strange journey, but that's always where I wanted to end up. And I'm on the list for major next year. You can understand why I'm so happy." The man continued chuckling.

"You think that's where he is now? Tangier?"

The captain wetted his lips and appeared to think.

"There's a lot of things going on I can't talk to you about because it's ... well, you know." He hesitated. "Summerall had something doing, something off book. I don't know the details, but rumors were that some of it went on here in Chicago. But I guess you figured that already."

The young man wet his lips again and looked about.

"There's a place at an abandoned airbase a couple of hours south of here. I'm not supposed to know about it, but Hollirich uses it for something."

"Chanute?" Sam asked.

"That's the place. Hollirich bought up some real estate there after the base closed. It's the one advantage of having spent way too much time with contractors. Sometimes they let things slip. And I don't think that place is run by the government, or even whether they know about it. So, it isn't classified. But, if you're looking for Summerall, Chick, Feist or any of that lot, they might've holed up there. Hollirich keeps a couple of planes there, too. Or that's what I heard."

"Hey, sir," the man said standing, "I need to report at Bragg by zero-six tomorrow morning, so I gotta saddle up. I'm incredibly grateful you found time to meet with me."

They young man reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Sam.

"Your men?" Sam asked unfolding the sheet and glancing at it.

"If you could help them, it would mean the world to me. These guys are good people who deserve a chance at freedom, and they don't have the resources to do that on their own. Ayman is from Cairo and wants to make it back home without getting shanghaied again. Nick just wants to start a new life somewhere in the U.S., away from all this bullshit."

"Son, I'll give them a call and do everything I can," said Sam rising and taking the young officer's hand in his.

"Call me if I can ever return the favor," Brian said. "And if you decide to go looking for Summerall ... he's an asshole, but he is strong as an ox. And a few from his posse are nearly as dangerous."

"I'll take care. You do the same."

After the young man departed, Sam began strolling his way back toward the bus stop. He'd been to Rantoul once, years ago. It was a nice town, with nice people. He looked forward to seeing it again.