“I have a dream . . . ,” roared the Negro. “That one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal . . .”

The man’s voice rang out and filled the world as the footage segued into film of men and women, black and white, under attack by police dogs and fire hoses.

“I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood . . .”

Newspaper photographs of a black man who looked like he’d been shot on a motel patio faded to color images of a jungle war, of black and white soldiers so befouled with mud and gore that beneath their ruined fatigues all difference had been erased. Lieutenant Commander Black thought he recognized Marine Corps insignia on one Negro whose bandaged, bloody head lay in the lap of a white comrade. The black soldier stared sightlessly into the heavens, his face streaked with tears fallen from the eyes of his friend.

“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character . . .”

Snatches of color movies, and strange music, of grinning black basketball and football players cut to images of city workers, black, white, Asian, male, and female running blind and fearfully through streets turned gray by clouds of pulverized cement that rushed at them while a stupendously tall building collapsed straight into the ground behind them. And the same preacher still called out his message in Black’s ears.

“Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York . . .”

Bright, clear color film of U.S. Marines, obviously of many races, standing atop the rubble of some palace in a place identified as DAMASCUS faded to a shaky handheld shot of a beaming Colonel J. Lonesome Jones on the lawn of the White House, escorted by his impossibly beautiful and—for Dan Black—improbably blond and blue-eyed wife.

The woman was teasing Jones, repeatedly stroking the decoration newly pinned to his chest, a Medal of Honor. A black woman, beaming fit to burst and identified on the screen as VICE PRESIDENT RICE, wandered over to shake his hand.

The preacher still roared out.

“Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!”

The images froze, and Black felt someone tapping on the goggles. He lifted them off. The sudden darkness of the chopper cabin was unsettling.