It was hard to tell from the level of activity in the harbor what was happening in the world. North Island had two carriers in port right now—that was unusual. Thirty- second Street Naval Base was busier than Patrick had ever seen it before—every pier looked occupied. Would it be busier if war was imminent as ships prepared for deployment, or would it be quieter because all available warships were heading into battle? Patrick didn’t know. A trained spy might be able to deduce the answer to that, but Patrick wasn’t a spy.

He wasn’t anything right now—not a military man, not a Night Stalker. Just a man with a young son, a missing wife, a dead brother, and not much else—not even a future.

After the last strikes against Libya by the Night Stalkers and the Sky Masters Inc.’s EB-52 Megafortress, Patrick finally got his men out of Egypt. They first flew by CV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft to an isolated base in southern Israel, where they sanitized their gear and received civilian travel documents. They drove to Tel Aviv, flew via commercial airlines to London, then to Los Angeles, and finally to San Diego.

Coming home was without question the happiest—and the saddest—day in Patrick’s life. Little Bradley was brought to San Diego-Lindbergh International Airport by Patrick’s mother and sisters; they hugged Patrick warmly, but they wore stony, stem expressions on their faces—they were silently accusing him of killing both Paul and Wendy and nearly orphaning his son. Patrick ignored their anger. He hugged his son long and hard right at the Jetway door, ignoring the aggravated comments of the others who had to maneuver around them. One look at Hal Briggs, Chris Wohl, and David Luger, however, and the complainers fell silent and went about their business.

But no sooner did they turn away from the Jetway than five-year-old Bradley asked, “Dad, where’s Mom?”

Patrick was dreading this moment. He took his son aside to an isolated set of seats near a big picture window, motioned the others to go on ahead, and sat his son beside him. Despite his request, his mother and sisters stayed, respectfully apart from them but close enough to watch and listen.

“Brad,” Patrick said, “Mommy’s not coming home with us.”

Bradley’s blue eyes instantly filled with tears. “Why?”

“Mommy was hurt,” Patrick replied. “She was helping me, and Uncle Paul, and Uncle Hal, and Uncle Dave, and Uncle Chris, and a bunch of our other friends, and she got hurt real bad.”

“Is she dead?”

Patrick took immense comfort and drew a lot of strength from little Bradley’s maturity. He wasn’t sure if Bradley completely understood what death was, but the very fact that he asked if she was dead made Patrick think that he understood a little of what death meant. Bradley watched a lot of movies that should probably not be watched by young children, and then he liked to act out the fight scenes with his father and baby-sitters. But in the movies, the dead guys all came back to life when he replayed the movie; in their playacting, Daddy always got up moments after Bradley delivered the coup de grace with his plastic laser-sword. Was that his only concept of death?