Finally, it was their lieutenant who snapped them out of their awed trance. “Okay,” he stated in a flat, unemotional voice, “we have a job to do.” With that, Bowman and his companions went into action. As they did so, Bowman found that it was difficult to ignore the multitudes of victims who wandered about all over the street and plaza. Most were stunned, dazed, and choking from the smoke. Alone and in small groups more could be seen staggering out through the rubble that had once been a building’s lobby. Others who had escaped the inferno earlier were rolling on the ground or thrashing about in pools of their own blood. Through this throng of victims, the men and women of Engine Company 3 struggled forward with their heavy hoses and tools to attack the flames that were leaping out to greet them. Sorting the dead from those who were wounded or simply stunned was someone else’s responsibility. Bowman and his companions belonged to an engine company, charged with knocking down the roaring blaze that was climbing the shattered building with alarming speed.

When all was set the firefighters on the nozzles cut loose and began to attack the sheet of flames rolling across the pile of rubble before them. With drilled precision, they began their advance, leaving teams of EMTs in their wake to deal with the casualties. This task was complicated, somewhat, by the streams of dirty water that began cascading down over the bloody debris strewn steps of the building. When this water had finished its task of quenching the fire, the warm, dirty water wound its way out of the shattered building and into the street. Along the way, it passed over and around the bodies of the dead, the wounded, and the dying. From there the water, now tinted red, ran through the crushed mailboxes, carrying with it into the gutter and down a storm drain the letter that contained Dale Stoner’s confession of guilt and his feeble justification.

CHAPTER 2

LEXINGTON, VIRGINIA MAY 11

Taking his time, Scott Dixon turned his back to the shower head, letting the streams of hot water cascade over his shoulders, then down his spine. Placing his hands on the wall of the shower, he eased himself forward, permitting the jets of near scalding water to pound their way downward until they were pelting the small of his back. For Scott, long tormented with back problems, this was a treat, a genuine luxury to be enjoyed whenever possible, for as long as possible.

Indulging himself was not something that came easy to the senior Army officer. As the commanding general of the 4th Armored Division and post commander at Fort Carson, Colorado, Scott found he had precious little time to enjoy much of anything remotely personal. What made this sorry state of affairs even more annoying was the fact that the United States was still enjoying its longest period of “Peace” in the past half century. With each passing year he found himself complaining more and more to his wife of ten years. “For crying out loud. I’m a general officer, lord master of all I survey. I should be able to come and go as I please.”