Condley stood respectfully, his usual sarcasm fully in check in the presence of such certifiable heroes despite the nearly sixty years that had passed since their deaths. And he had no doubt that Hanson Muir and the others at CILHI would indeed identify the remains. First, they would pull the military files of all those who had perished in the famous raid. The starting point would be dental records, which on skeletal remains were as accurate as fingerprints, so long as a jaw had been recovered. Where dental records were not sufficient, the anthropologists and scientists could go to identifiable trauma on the skeletons that would have been present before the war, such as evidence of broken limbs. They could also narrow down the unknowns through one’s height. And if they could find a maternal relative and a good sample from the skeletons, they could match DNA.

“We leave no one behind, Brandon,” said Muir with his unending emotion. “I don’t need to tell you that, you’ve lived it. I’m not a soldier and I’ve never been one. But I’m an American, and when I look across a room like this it makes me so proud that we are the way we are.”

Sarcasm was Condley’s best refuge from his own inner emotions, and he’d found his once again. “So what do you want me to do, salute?”

“Actually, that would be fine.”

Condley thought about it, then came to a full attention and offered the retrieved heroes a slow, crisp Marine Corps salute.

“Thank you, Brandon.”

“Don’t thank me, I didn’t salute you.” He chuckled softly as Muir turned to leave the room. “But I’m proud as hell to salute them.”

“Let the record show that Mr. Condley has a heart.”

“So where are we keeping Specialist Deville?”

“He’s right down here,” said Muir, again leading Condley down the corridor.

The remains from Ninh Phuoc were on a gurney at the rear of the next room. Muir had carefully assembled the bones into a semblance of a skeleton but left them atop the rotting poncho. The dead man lay on his back, his skull facing the ceiling and his arms flat at his sides. Condley approached the gurney carefully, his mind exploding with odd images from the dark trails of the isolated village and the shed from which they had retrieved the remains. The lab was spotlessly clean and well-lit, but an aura seemed to rise above the bones, shimmering with sole-sucking mud, barking little dogs, bad tea, and dead, bloated pigs rushing past in the river’s chalky current.

“I don’t have his complete file yet,” began Muir.

“You told me two days,” teased Condley. “I busted my ass to get out of Sai Gon in time.”

“You know the government, Brandon. Promises, promises. They’re sending it out from St. Louis with a courier. It’ll be here by tomorrow.”