Sky Walkers Book 2

By D. Owen Powell

Their alien DNA made them unique. Their father’s legacy made them heroes... Identical twins Joe and Frank Hunter are caught up in a top-secret military project known as Operation Starlight—Trained Psychic Warriors, and spies. Fate has pulled their lives in different directions until two government agents visit the Hunter home asking for Joe’s participation in a special program. A new mission looms on the horizon. And its dangers are outweighed, only by the hope of restoring the use of Joe’s legs—an injury in Joe's childhood left him Paraplegic. Now—the promise to walk again, to run, and even fly, is too good for Joe to refuse. And Frank, now a detective with super-hero like abilities akin to Joe, eventually is pulled into the mission as well. As the military operation escalates, the twin’s skills increase, reaching levels attained only by their father, Captain Jon Hunter... but their onslaught blasts open the door to a confrontation with alien beings, and Earthly adversaries. A final battle for possession of an ancient alien flying machine is inevitable. And the fate of humankind... annihilation, hangs in the balance...

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Owen Powell
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9780997262766

D. Owen Powell

A bit about me: Born in 1946, I grew up in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio ... a small city just outside of Akron.I guess you could call me an original Baby Boomer. It was the time of change and an exciting era, when new music and industry was booming just like us—the products of our moms and dads ... and for the most part, our fathers were home from the Second World War, and eager to begin a family.Not continuing an education in college, my secondary education began in the rice paddies of South Viet Nam. Fortunate to come out unscathed; the reception back home was unpleasant. Not from my family, you see I lived right outside Kent, Ohio, and most will re- member what transpired at Kent State University, May 4, 1970.From there I moved to south Florida ... met a girl from Finland, and fell in love. She took the leap... moving to the USA to see if this yank was worth the risk. We have been married over forty years with two fine sons two super daughter-in-law’s two wonderful granddaughters and one great grandson— and an assorted array of grand doggies.My income is derived mostly from a small business—now of over forty years, and I took up writing as a hobby along with hypnotherapy and had a part-time practice for several years. In retrospect, my writing hobby met too much procrastination over the decades—finally getting serious a little over three years ago.Most of us, have much to be told as ‛Our Story’... the behind the scenes us. There is a novel lurking in us all, and with a little embellishment, no one would really know that your fiction is three quarters fact. Nevertheless, we... fiction writers explore another element. That is what makes up genre fiction. How much truth is behind the vail of that word fiction? An interesting thought, to be sure.Your friend,D. Owen Powell

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SKY WALKERS

Sky Walkers Book 2

D. Owen Powell

Copyright © 2019 D. Owen Powell

SKY WALKERS SKY WALKERS BOOK 2

Published by LooseBolt Publishing

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

ISBN-EBook: 978-0-9972527-6-6

ISBN- Paperback: 978-0-9972627-7-3

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior contractual or written permission of the copyright owner of this work.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of fictional characters to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

Once you have tasted flight,

You will forever walk the earth

with your eyes turned skyward,

for there you have been and

there you will always long to return.

—Leonardo da Vinci

What if you could fly?

ASTRAL PROJECT, anywhere on planet earth and beyond.

Send your mind and body where you choose.

—author: D. Owen Powell

PROLOGUE

Fort Meade Army Base, Maryland

Captain William Tolliver of the Special Operations Psychic Unit paced back and forth inside a secluded cottage behind the outdated 1912 enlisted man's barracks.

The room temperature read a cool sixty-eight degrees, though the Captain sweated profusely.

He stopped. His gaze riveted on the entrance before he checked the wall clock.

Now shit's gonna fly. Jon's gone—I had to make the call. Questions will become interrogations, verbal explosions part of the game.

The front door swung open.

Tolliver stepped aside as two military police officers entered the room, sidearms drawn. Without a word, one MP crept up the wooden staircase to the second floor. The other searched the rooms on the ground in silence.

Colonel Gomer Westward stood in the doorway—a career U.S. Army officer and five feet eleven inches of Bulldog brawn.

The Colonel removed his hat as he entered the building, displaying half-an-inch silver-grey hair cut flat as a counter-top.

All clear, sir.

Thank you, Lieutenant. Please station yourselves outside.

Yes, sir, Colonel Westward.

What the hell's going on, Captain Tolliver, and where may I ask are the rest of your technicians? Goddammit, our primary psychic operator abducted, or did he go to take a shit?

No sir, Colonel. Captain Hunter came in for a priority session, which I volunteered to assist on my own time. The civilian employees are off for the weekend due to governmental cutbacks. Jon assured me that he procured the necessary authorization for the voyage, and I did not question his integrity.

Westward sat in a chair beside the room's light gray standard military desk, appeared to calm down—from his position. He assessed the small room.

Captain Tolliver stood at ease while his superior remained silent.

The Colonel leaned back in his chair in thought.

The room is as sensory deprived as the other psychic operation on base. No pictures, plants, or decorative items, only drab beige painted walls and ceiling—replace sensorial stimulation in exchange for the paranormal, mental acuity.

On the top of the desk lay yesterday's New York Daily, AP headline: White Sox Blast Tribe, Cut Lead to 2.

Upset and an Indians fan, the Colonel slung the newspaper across the room.

His gaze leveled and rose from the floor where the strewn paper rested to the uneasy United States Army Captain—when his attention caught sight of a red, white, and brown candy bar wrapper on top of the same desk. He snatched, unwrapped, and begin nibbling on the chocolate-covered treat.

Okay, Tolliver, the Colonel said.

Captain Hunter is missing, so before I put the Fort on full alert and lockdown, give me all you've got.

Yes, sir, Captain." Tolliver avoided the Colonel's intense steel-gray eyes—he escorted his superior through the rooms as the last scene took place.

Captain Hunter affirmed his directive top secret, Tolliver said. "This would explain why I was not privy to the operation particulars. Captain Hunter's alleged orders: to psychically probe, remote view, and, if possible, perform an out-of-body episode for the maneuver.

Jon could only give me so much. I needed enough to adjust the equipment to his physiology. His nervous system and brain function change with each discipline.

He adjusted the outbound chair, began his internal countdown, slowed his heart rate, maintained deep rhythmic breathing, and refused tonal or verbal assistance.

The hook up complete; I activated our monitor systems and calibrated their frequencies. My observation of Jon's composure with the analysis on the screen proved Hunter's consciousness level theta. He goes down-the-rabbit-hole fast."

Next, Captain Hunter's eyelids fluttered open. He became distant, hyper-focused... like a combat stare, and he spoke, not to me but to the ceiling.

The two Army officers stared at the ceiling as if they were about to witness the event.

Tolliver continued, I'd say you're nuts, but I'll give it a go, is what Jon said. Then he turned to me and asked if I would get him a Mounds candy bar from the vending machine down the hall.

Well, his request took me by surprise, and I did what he asked. I returned with his candy, ah... the bar, Sir, the one you just ate, then when I came back in the room to give Jon his candy bar, he was gone.

I searched everywhere within this small building, no trace, but then noticed that his monitor system had a recording."

The officers walked beside the row of monitors and audio instruments. Tolliver replayed the short sound bite for his superior.

Sorry, Bill, I must leave to do something important. You will not see me again." The remainder of the audio played on only white noise, to both candy bar consumer and retriever.

Several days later, a select assemblage of military officers met in a secure room at Fort Meade. Lieutenant General Rab Brody addressed the group.

Our situation is undeniable. The United States Army's Psychic Operations officer, Captain Jon Hunter, is missing under strange and peculiar circumstances. A thorough inspection of our security systems on the base underwent examination for tampering. The recorded material revealed nothing suspicious or relevant. We also Heli'd in advanced facial recognition hardware from Langley within several hours. This advanced hardware combined with all surveillance recording of personnel coming into Meade or leaving our fort. Classified observations were conducted on various designated perimeters. All proved negative.

General Brody stared out at the assemblage. He gulped down the entire glass of water that sat on top of the lectern. A chief operator had been abducted, had deserted, or something very different. The audience of military officers, DARPA, and a few CIA agents sat silent, motionless. Rumors of this mysterious covert unit bordered on conspiracy theory.

Thin air people, General Brody said. Captain Hunter's body, his mind, and our number one psychic operator vanished into the ether, and as you can imagine, this disappearance is tantamount to disastrous.

"We sanctioned a classified operation for Captain Hunter last week. His execution of the mission produced solid results; however, we believe Captain Hunter withheld vital information. Why we have no idea, and while I cannot elaborate further, I will say this: We need our primary operative back at any cost.

His family will be informed of his status as killed in action. In several weeks, we will notify Mrs. Hunter of the posthumous promotion to lieutenant colonel. I will award the late Captain for his exemplary work and heroism. However—due to Captain Hunter's classified top-secret office, no media or representative from anyone outside the unit will be notified or in attendance for this honor. Some of you will think this premature advance in rank will never take place. Be assured; there will be no resistance in the procurance of its approval. This elevation may assist the family with their new financial matters and perhaps avert inquiring minds.

General Brody turned toward Colonel Westward. Colonel, attend to this matter without delay. This meeting is adjourned. All present—dismissed.

The assemblage stood as the General left the building.

Chapter 1

Extraordinary Day

—Memories. Fourteen years later

J

oe's internal alarm clock went off. Excited. He had planned this psychic journey for the last two weeks.

He awakened with the thought:

Today, I am taking a spin to the beach in a new Velocity Yellow, 2011 Corvette c 7.

I performed a double phase, which I seem to know without instruction. I rolled out of my physical body and glanced back at my sleeping form under the covers of my bed. Some called it astral travel. Most people didn't believe in it what they don't recognize the reality of it all. Astral travel was considered a fad during the 60s and early 70s; but, the military connection was the real deal. The public doesn't know the truth, which may be decades or centuries old fiction.

I walked or floated into the bathroom, began to do the morning routine, and thought ...

Joe Hunter, mind awake, body asleep, as I lay under the white cotton sheets and green plaid blankets in my bed—but I am outside of my physical body. My body appears translucent to an extent but soon will appear almost normal.

I shot toward the stairs, glided down five at a clip, rounded the kitchen corner, reached out and touched my black North Face Wind Parka, opened, and closed the side-door, and floated into the driveway.

In my astral body, I had learned the trick of what I call morph manifestation. I create the pattern of clothing, and it appears attached to my astral body. Like my car. A complete manifestation. Real, but not.

I am in my inner phase now. I can be seen, and heard, and even interact as in my physical body. I seem to learn new things by the minute. Thoughts come, and I just make it happen.

Our neighbor, Rick, was in his yard with his customary hat glued to his head, a moss green weathered safari with neck flap. Fishing lures jut out, almost covering the entire headpiece.

Good morning, Mr. Rollins."

Good morning Joe, you are up early."

I'm headed down to Daytona Beach today to catch some waves."

Ahh! Rollins groped for words. His gaze traversed the sleek new sports car.

Daytona, Florida. That is a long drive, Joe, but a nifty car for the trip."

Rollins set his leaf rake on the ground and walked beside the Corvette. His hand hesitated over the fiberglass fender as if it were dangerous. He tested it with one quick touch.

I suppose he wants to check if the car is real, Joe mused, as Mr. Rick examined the sleek sports car. I guess that many questions are rising in my neighbor's mind.

Well, I'm burning daylight. Have a wonderful day Mr. Rollins." The elder gave a nervous smile, a brief wave, picked up the rake, and continued to gather the fall leaves that besieged his yard by the hour.

Joe pressed a button, and the black convertible top lowered, exposing leather, space-age technology, and a clear blue sky. He depressed another switch, and the electronics launched the six-hundred-plus horsepower. Joe backed out of the driveway. He shifted into first gear and goosed the gas pedal—which produced a no-nonsense screech—, and the acrid, nose-tingle smell of burnt rubber greeted the neighborhood. Joe raced off to McDonald's for a breakfast bite.

~ * * * ~

Rick Rollins laid his True Value leaf rake against the tree. He needed time to think.

Several quick steps led him through the garage to the kitchen door then into his dining area. Mr. Rollins removed a bottle of Gentleman Jack Tennessee Whiskey from his ample liquor bar, poured two fingers of the rich brown liquid, and sauntered over to his favorite leather chair. He allowed gravity to receive his seat.

Rollins, a former physicist, began to sip and think.

The boy stood, up-right, big as life and not any assistance at all. Why, I said hello to his mother, brother, and Joe himself several days ago.

I notice the smallest of detail; I give credit to my scientific background.

Strange though. It's quite cool now late September morning here in Hackensack.

The most peculiar thing about it is that when we spoke, my breath condensed into a mist; Joe's did not.

His sampler of Jack gone, he glanced at his Bulova Accutron, Vintage wristwatch.

Six fifty-five, for Christ's sake. At this rate, I'll be shit-faced before noon," he muttered.

Rollins stood, made a trip to the bar, poured another round. He retreated again to his leather haven, sipped his whiskey, and broke into hysterical laughter. We're a two-man think tank, ... he said aloud. Thinking tanked ... me and my ole friend Gentleman Jack.

He laughed so hard he sprang up, trotted-off to the bathroom, showered, and changed into clean underwear.

Twenty minutes later, the retired physicist returned to his comfortable seat—he recalled the past forty-eight hours of his memory. I would be one of the first to be informed about any medical breakthroughs. My friends and former colleagues ... we meet all the time. Why I spoke with his mother last night. She did not mention a new car or their miraculous good fortune.

I need to investigate that matter further.

With an arthritic groan, he arose one more time and, with a Jack-Daniels-induced swagger, walked to the kitchen. He set the empty glass in the sink and exit through the laundry room and garage door. Rollins staggered into the middle of the street in front of the Hunter home. He spotted what he had come for. He scanned the immediate area and checked to see if anyone had witnessed their inebriated neighbor standing in the road.

There they are. ... Two black marks where a yellow Corvette left rubber on the road. Mr. Rollin's gaze followed the trail in the direction that the mystery traveled.

~ * * * ~

Joe pulled into the parking lot of the local fast-food empire. Several of his old schoolmates sat at a table outside of the restaurant. He climbed out of the bucket seat and strode through the River Street entrance of McDonald's.

Hello, Megan. I'd like a medium order of fries, an Egg McMuffin, and black coffee," Joe said. Megan appeared puzzled. She offered a radiant smile, turned, and sashayed off to retrieve his request. Joe sensed the confused emotion and watched her sway away. He thought about it for a moment.

My old friends haven't been around in a long time. Their visits stopped close to a month after the accident. Not even a real girlfriend—I hadn't had a date either.

Joe's order already paid. He thanked Megan, headed for the doors, and was anxious to begin his trip. Outside, former old friends ogled the Corvette. They exchanged pleasantries and said goodbye. Bob Darby, his former best friend, was still a chick magnet and flanked by a girl to his right and one on the left. Being the finest quarterback on the hometown high school football team ever, his legacy isn't broken to this day.

Brad and Todd Allan, both former jocks, still tagged along with him, as they did then. He'd grown up with these kids from kindergarten to middle school when his life had taken a turn. ...

Aww heck, it's history." he said aloud and wolfed down his Egg McMuffin and French fries.

Convincing himself that today was no different from any other day, he started the Vette and activated the MP3 player. Joe glanced up he looked into in the rearview mirror. And even though not one of my ex-friends recognized me, the least I could do was make a righteous exit.

Joe slammed the sports car into first gear, floored the accelerator, and saluted everyone with twenty feet of smoke and vulcanized rubber.

We, the Corvette, and I drove south. Interstate ninety-five proved traffic wasn't too bad. The signs on the side of the road answered the obvious—my speed is much faster than sixty-five miles per hour. The speedometer and tachometer gauge had fogged up. I guess it is part of this whole experience, Joe mused.

The sun burned bright white with deep golden hues. A luminescent yellow ball of fire began to blanket the east and illuminate this portion of the hemisphere for the start of a new day.

~ * * * ~

A sign read Daytona Beach 7 mi. Joe exited the interstate and headed toward the Atlantic Ocean and Florida's coastal highway, A1A.

He parked the car in an attended lot off South Ocean Avenue and journeyed toward the water. He trekked by the Volusia County Beach Patrol station, where a young man about his age appeared along his path, a surfboard tucked under his arm. A patch on his swim trunks said, Surfs-up,—get board. The print on the board read ... Astral Surf Shop, with the beginning letters of each word emboldened in red, the rest black.

Get A S S. Creative, Joe thought.

Say, can you tell me where I could rent a surfboard for half a day? Joe asked.

"Today, Dude? ... There's not even ankle snappers out there, and the water is cold.

Where's your wetsuit?"

Don't need a suit. I have unusual skin, Joe grinned.

Could I ask why you have a board today? And where is your wet suit?

Yeah, the same—I have weird skin too. I'm waiting, the board-bearer said with a wink.

Several paces away, the surfer turned and called out.

Hey Joe, it is easier than they think, isn't it? Stay focused. See ya around, he said and whisked away.

How odd, Joe thought. I don't know the guy, and he called me by name and said he'd see me around. I'm not from around here. Joe shrugged the thought off and bolted toward the water.

And now to give my ASMAB, acronym for the astral material body, the wet-test.

Joe entered the salty water like a scalpel slicing to make an incision—Splash, splash, splash. He freestyled out around one hundred yards and decided to breaststroke, turned, and swam south, parallel to the beach. Oh, how I enjoy this. The renewed motion in my legs, the cold sensation of the water, and the bump... The jolt came on his right side. Out of the corner of his eye ... he thought that he spotted movement on the glassy horizon.

Joe elevated his head as much as possible and caught a visual—his fear intensified—his mind froze, and body slowed. He treaded water—his respiration increased. Half-a-dozen shark fins protruded the surface. Movie-like, the aquatic predators circled him. The ocean smooth, no chop—not counted—the turbulent water the sharks made.

A small crowd gathered along the shoreline. All pointed in Joe's direction. Two, what appeared to be lifeguards, negotiated which one of them would take the paddleboard out to his rescue. Neither of the public servants looked enthusiastic.

The distinct whop, whop of rotor blades caught Joe's panicked attention. Out of nowhere, a bright red helicopter hovered above him. A man in an orange suit descended from the whirly-bird on a motorized, harnessed line.

Another bump came. Joe winced. That one hurt.

Ready to make a quick exit, son, the rescuer shouted over the noisy rotor-blades.

"Yes, Sir.

Now would be great! Joe shouted as loud as he could between several gulps of the Atlantic Ocean, churning from the backwash of the Heli's rotor blades and the shark-infested swarm.

Grab the line, harness up and hang on tight. I'm here just in case you miss the first try, the officer said.

Joe reached up, grabbed hold of the cable, and slipped into the sling. The aircrew member gave a thumb up to the pilot, who, with precision, hoisted Joe out of the churning surf.

The chopper banked, took a minute dip toward the water, and pulled up both men attached to a line ... in tow.

The whirlybird flew low over the excited crowd. On the boardwalk, the onlookers shaded their sun-soaked eyes with one hand and pointed at the dangling duo with the other. The craft hovered over a grassy patch of ground near the beach patrols parking area, scattering the spectators. All clear, the pilot maneuvered for passengers and crew to make contact with mother earth. He landed the Heli thirty feet away.

The rescuer examined Joe's injury.

You're bleeding, he said. I Guess they nipped you, but it's minor. I'll patch you up. Then we can take a ride to Memorial Medical. You may or may not want to know, but the sharks, he said as a question ... were a school of hammerheads and not a baby in their class. Consider yourself lucky, son. At the time we spotted your close encounter, our MH-65C Heli happened to be on its way back to Jacksonville.

Joe refused the trip to the hospital, and someone had called a local television station. The news crew had appeared before the copter touched down. The reporter stalked Joe to the parking lot, where his Corvette...

My car is gone! Joe shouted.

A Daytona Beach police cruiser arrived on the scene, following up on the emergency call. The officers obtained statements from everyone present, as well as the Coast Guard team. Concerning the stolen vehicle, they focused much of their attention on the lot attendant. His history, on the opposite side of law enforcement in Daytona Beach, spoke volumes.

Within the crowd, Joe spotted the surfer dude.

The young man grinned, nodded his head, and vanished.

I've had enough! This is a nightmare! I want to go home, Joe screamed.

The affirmation made, the traveler found himself back in his bed, in Hackensack, New Jersey.

His bedroom door flew open, and in charged Barbara Hunter.

You cried out. Are you okay, Joe?

I'm all right, Mom. I had a rough trip. Not to worry.

Remember, Joe, the therapist from The Institute, will be here tomorrow. He said to begin your psychic excursions with small treks ... the store, the park, and so on.

I remember. Thanks, Mom.

Chapter 2

Reflections

B

arbara walked out of her son's room, reminiscing. Beds and chairs. Ever since he was sixteen years old. Wheelchairs had become his mobility after sustaining permanent damage to his spine from a skateboarding tragedy while competing in the ESPN B3 X games in Lake Havasu, Arizona. March of 2000. Joe came down on a rail and hit his head. His accident left him full range of motion in his upper body, but nothing below the waist, only a phantom sensation, like a memory.

Joe's injury proved mysterious compared to the definition of paraplegia, which in most cases allowed normal function from the abdomen up. But his legs did not show any signs of atrophy. He maintained muscle tone as if ... they remained active. Some of his days were good, others not so. I am glad that he is smart enough to run a small computer business from home.

Several months after Joe returned home from the hospital, two men wearing black suits called upon our household. They represented a government organization. She visualized the scenes as they had taken place.

I opened the front door.

Mrs. Barbara Hunter?"

Yes."

Mrs. Hunter, I am Agent Eric Recant, and this is my associate, Agent Troy Wright. We work for a government agency that I cannot name. However, we represent The Institute, a subsidiary of the Science of Mind Travel." The agents showed their credentials.

It has come to our attention that your son Joseph received a severe injury in an accident. He may qualify for an internship in a unique program not known to the public", Recant said.

Not experimental, nothing like that—it is all scientific, a proven exercise one can learn. Why, Joe could learn to run, walk again, and many other things.

If Joseph is here, could we step in and discuss this in-depth? There would be no cost if he is admitted," Agent Wright said.

Please excuse me for a minute, agent. Barb shut and locked the door.

Two minutes later, the door reopened.

Please come in, agents. I would like you to meet my son, Joe Hunter."

This meeting became our juncture of hope, Barbara thought, remembering a previous incident. She wiped a tear off her cheek, recalling the episode.

It was some years ago, but I had begun to enter Joe's room. Joe lay on his back in bed, eyes closed, hands clasped together. He was praying, so I waited outside.

My son's words still echo in my mind...

Thank you, God, for my wonderful family and the beautiful times we have shared. I think I have been a good person, a good son, and a good brother. You blessed me with talents, and I hope you are pleased with my actions. I would like to ask you a favor. Please make me die, so I can walk in heaven and maybe look for my dad. Amen."

Joe would never know that his mother came to announce breakfast. She did not knock; she stood outside his room and listened to every heart-breaking word. ...

I think I know where I went wrong, Mom.

Barb snapped back into the present.

Yes, tell me about it.

Well, I mapped a route to Daytona Beach and then read about the new Chevrolet Corvettes. After the car thing, I did a refresher on how to swim in the ocean. There was another book on how to surf, and I studied it too. This led me to an article on sharks, so I reviewed that one, especially hammerheads. Joe glanced up to the right staring at the cloud-white ceiling in an attempt to recall more detail.

From the sound of it, Joe, you have done your homework well, Barbara Hunter said. Tell the therapist from The Institute what you have accomplished. Can I fix you some breakfast?

Thanks, Mom, but I stopped at McDonald's and had an Egg McMuffin and fries.

Barbara smiled, shaking her head at the McMuffin and fries statement. The boy always had a wonderful sense of humor.

I reached the bottom of the stairs, paused, and walked over to the three by twelve foot, bay window. This is my favorite place to relax.

It energizes me as I look out in our storybook yard: red blaze maples, Colorado and Norwegian spruce, and a birdbath.

From our front door, a path of inlaid rock weaves through the brown, orange, and maroon fallen leaves, settling on the dying fall lawn; they twist and turn and end by the mailbox at the street's edge.

The wide casement of the window beckoned me to come and take a seat. I sat down and reached for the family scrapbook where it rests between dusting and updates since 2001.

We've lived in a home where memories were made. An upscale neighborhood with fantastic neighbors, shade tree summers, and White Christmas" dreams. A real made in America treasure. There is a substantial bank account for emergencies. While Jon's insurance and military benefits help, we could never have maintained our current lifestyle had it not been for his genius. When he was home and not engaged in family activities, he would be creating inventions in the garage workshop. Jon liked to call them gadgets ... several of which pay substantial royalties.

I peeled back the cover of the scrapbook, recalling simpler, happier times. There they were, memories trapped in time—the photographs of our son's youth and my husband, Jon—Colonel Jon Hunter, United States Army Special Intelligence, and ranger.

Tears welled up in Barbara's dark brown eyes, cascading over the rims, allowing several streams of moisture to course down the contour of her lovely face. She remembered her husband's boyish smile, his radiant warmth, his insatiable curiosity, and his quest for excellence.

Jon's career was demanding. The time that he had at home was sparse, to say the least. But when he was there, we made it quality times ten. Around 1994, he began a new secret military project. There were whispers here and there when his colleagues arrived at our home unannounced. Army time became more secretive and mysterious. I could have sworn our lives were under surveillance.

On July 4, 1996, at six AM, there was a loud knock at the door. Barbara, again, relived the scene.

I opened the door; my knees went weak. I was light-headed and felt sick to my stomach. At the door stood Colonel Gomer Westward, with whom I was acquainted, and a United States Army chaplain.

Barb, I'm so sorry to disrupt your life. May we come in?

I do not recall answering the Colonel but remember that I left the door wide-open and followed the officers into the living room.

Barbara, this is Captain Brainer, chaplain out of Fort Meade, Maryland.

The clergyman offered his hand, but I do not remember taking it.

Captain Brainer and Colonel Westward removed their military dress hats and sat down.

I sat down.

The Army chaplain was the first to speak.

"Mrs. Hunter, on behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, the Colonel, and myself, I wish to extend our deepest sympathies and condolences.

Captain Jon Hunter was killed in the line of duty on July 1, 1996. His courageous and loyal patriotism precedes him. His defenses of the freedoms we hold dear in the United States of America demonstrate his love of God, country, and family. It is with extreme sadness we bear this news today of all days."

Colonel Westward spoke. "Barbara, your husband, has