“Oh, it’s not Arthur, that dear, dreary fellow, so much as it is the subject he keeps harping on,” Jan explained.

“The bombing,” Scott threw in. “Yes, it’s been getting to you, hasn’t it.”

“It’s not so much that,” Jan went on. “This story is different than any other terrorist story we’ve covered. It refuses to go away. It just keeps hanging there, like all the unanswered questions it raises. Try as hard as I might, I simply cannot convince my bosses at the network that we need to move on to other, more important issues.”

“Such as?” Scott ventured.

“Such as the President’s inability to dodge the charges that Congress keeps getting hurled at him.”

Scott, trying to make light of Jan’s concern, smirked. “We’ll, if you ask me, I’ll take a good old home grown bombing over political mud slinging on the six o’clock news any day of the week.”

Jan gave Scott a dirty look. “How can you be so cavalier about something like that? People were killed.”

Though annoyed by Jan’s attitude, Scott knew he had made a grievous tactical error and tried to extract himself. “Please, Jan,” he pleaded. “I’m not trying to make fun of the bombing. Lord knows, I’ll be glad when they catch the bastards. I’m getting tired of passing through every sort of security check, short of a cavity search, whenever I enter my own headquarters.”

Jan sighed, realizing that she had been too sharp with Scott. “With luck, the FBI will find a lead somewhere and we’ll be free to go about our business.”

Laying his hand on Jan’s thigh, Scott gave it a squeeze. “Well, with one son launched and sent slipping down the ways and the other just a few years behind, luck is something I think we have plenty of.”

Placing her hand on his, Jan smiled. “I suppose you’re right. We have to be thankful for what we’re here to celebrate.”

“Yes we do. Even if it means enduring dinner with the Goldmans.”

Pulling her hand away, Jan gave Scott a dirty look. “General Dixon, I warn you, don’t get me started.”

Raising his hand as if he was prepared to fend off an attack, Scott pulled away from Jan. “Oh, yes, missy, so sorry missy. Please don’t hit this poor soul. I sorry, missy.”

Unable to hold back, Jan laughed. Though she had just lost a son, Jan was pleased that she would always be surrounded by the outrageous Dixon humor. “Driver,” she commanded, “pay attention to the road and don’t call me missy, or I’ll …”

“You’ll what?” Scott snapped.

Reaching out, Jan laid her hand high on Scott’s thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’ll show you later, dear sir, when we’re alone.”

CHAPTER 3

CENTRAL WYOMING MAY 11

Evening came early along the eastern face of the Rocky Mountains. The sun, well along on its daily journey to the west, was blocked by the towering mountains long before last light of day gave way to the star studded night sky. During this protracted passage of day into night, long shadows chilled the barren foothills that gave way to the sweeping plains farther to the east. Even now, as spring struggled to overcome the last, desperate days of a long, hard mountain winter, the view, from any spot in this lonely part of the country, was spectacular.