Chapter 4

I didn't sleep. Before the sun was up, I was in my old pickup truck, the Medal of Honor on the passenger seat beside me. I left a note for Caleb, telling him I had to go take care of something, that I loved him. I filled the tank with every dollar I had and started driving east.

The hours blurred together. The rust-belt towns gave way to rolling hills and then to the dense forests of North Carolina. Fort Bragg. It was one of the largest military bases in the world. It was a long shot. General Miller might not even be there anymore. He might not remember me. The promise might have just been something people say at funerals.

But I kept driving.

When I finally reached the main gate, it was like hitting a wall. The sheer scale of the place was intimidating. Razor wire, concrete barriers, and armed guards in camouflage. A young Military Police officer, no older than Caleb, approached my truck, his hand resting near his sidearm.

"State your business, sir."

My throat was dry. My voice came out as a crackle.

"I... I need to see General Miller."

The MP's face remained impassive. "Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"No. I don't."

"Then I can't let you on base. You'll have to leave."

This was it. The end of the line. Desperation clawed at my throat. I reached over, grabbed the velvet box, and held it up to the window. My hand was shaking.

"My name is Owen Hughes. My wife, Sergeant Maria Hughes, earned this."

I opened the box to show him the medal.

"General Miller... he gave this to us. He told me to come here if I ever needed help. Her son... our son... he's in trouble, and no one will help us."

My voice cracked on the last words.

"I need to ask the General if this medal still means something."

The young MP's expression shifted. The professional hardness in his eyes softened, replaced by something else. Awe. Respect. He looked from the medal to my face, then back to the medal. He stood up straighter.

"Sir, please wait here one moment."

He spoke urgently into his radio. His words were quiet, but I could see the change in the posture of the other guards. They were looking at my truck differently now. They were looking at me differently.

Less than five minutes later, a black staff car with government plates pulled up silently beside my dusty pickup. The back door opened, and a man in a crisp Army dress uniform stepped out.

It was General Miller. He was older, his hair grayer, but his posture was just as ramrod straight, his gaze just as intense. He recognized me instantly.

He walked right up to my window, his expression stern but filled with a deep concern.

"Mr. Hughes," he said, and the respect in his voice was unmistakable. "I told you to call. You shouldn't have had to come all this way."