The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

them sit on the trailers. It was raining now. The yard was turning into a damned
swamp, the mud churned by every passing truck and loading machine. Well, the
Japanese probably had their own plans for seasoning and working the logs. Their
orders precluded doing any real seasoning here, and it was their money. Even
when they were loaded on the ship, they were supposed to be carried topside, the
last items loaded on the MV George McReady for shipment across the Pacific. Sure
as hell they'd get wet that way, too. If they got much wetter, the dispatcher
thought, someone would have to be careful with them. If they got dropped into
the river, they would scarcely float.
***
The farmer knew that his grandchildren were embarrassed by his backwardness.
They resisted his hugs and kisses, probably complained a little before their
father brought them out here, but he didn't mind. Children today lacked the
respect of his generation. Perhaps that was a price for their greater
opportunities. The cycle of the ages was breaking. His life had been little
different from ten generations of ancestors, but his son was doing better
despite his injuries, and his children would do better still. The boys were
proud of their father. If their schoolmates commented adversely on their Druse
religion, the boys could point out that their father had fought and bled against
the hated Israelis, had even killed a few of the Zionists. The Syrian government
was not totally ungrateful to its wounded veterans. The farmer's son had his own
modest business, and government officials did not harass him, as they might
otherwise have done. He'd married late, which was unusual for the area. His wife
was pretty enough, and respectful – she treated the farmer well, possibly in
gratitude for the fact that he had never shown an interest in moving into her
small household. The farmer showed great pride in his grandchildren, strong,
healthy boys, headstrong and rebellious as boys should be. The farmer's son was
similarly proud, and was prospering. He and his father walked outside after the
noon meal. The son looked at the garden that he'd once weeded, and felt pangs of
guilt that his father was still working there every day. But hadn't he offered
to take his father in? Hadn't he offered to give his father a little money? All
such offers had been rejected. His father didn't have much, but he did have his
stubborn pride.
'The garden looks very healthy this year.'
'The rain has been good,' the farmer agreed. 'There are many new lambs. It has
not been a bad year. And you?'
'My best year. Father, I wish you did not have to work so hard.'
'Ah!' A wave of the hand. 'What other life have I known? This is my place.'
The courage of the man, the son thought. And the old man did have courage. He
endured. Despite everything. He had not been able to give his son much, but he
had passed along his stoic courage. When he'd found himself lying stunned on the
Golan Heights, twenty meters from the smoking wreckage of the personnel carrier,
he could have just lain down to die, the son knew, his eye put out, and his left
hand a bloody mess that doctors would later have to remove. He could have just
lain there on the ground and died, but he'd known that giving up was not
something his father would have done. And so he'd risen and walked six
kilometers to a battalion aid station, arriving there still carrying his rifle