Code 13 (26 page)

At least that's what Caroline told herself. For the beauty gave her comfort in the midst of sorrow and a surrealistic reprieve from the surrealistic shock.

Though she had been
ordered
to report to work yesterday, all that changed with P.J.'s death. Captain Guy had told her to take off a couple more days and meet them at the service.

Now here she was in full uniform, standing at parade rest with the other members of her new command, the prestigious Code 13.

In the distance, they heard the
clip-clop
of horses' hooves on the
asphalt cartway just behind them. Then from around the bend, about a hundred yards away, down by the old oak tree, two white horses appeared. They approached at a slow gait, walking side by side.

On the left horse was a rider, a United States Army sergeant in service dress blue uniform. The right horse bore only an empty saddle.

A second pair of horses followed the first pair, and then a third, all tethered together in pairs of two, clipping and clopping against the grief-laden silence awaiting their arrival.

There were six white horses altogether, commanded by three Army sergeants in service dress blues.

As the third pair of horses rounded the bend, the red, white, and blue of the flag covering P.J.'s casket appeared atop a caisson pulled behind the third pair of horses.

Walking just in front and to the right of the caisson was a United States Navy admiral in full choker white uniform. Caroline recognized him as Rear Admiral Jeffrey Lettow, the Chief of Navy Chaplains who had prayed with her at the medical center. He would officiate.

Six U.S. Navy petty officers, in service dress white jumper uniforms and white Dixie cup caps, marched two by two in exact precision behind the caisson.

The sight brought tears to her eyes and chills to her body. Fighting the compulsion of her emotions, she cast her eyes away from the caisson, although she could not erase the haunting sound of the
clip-clop
of the horses as the procession drew near.

By the open grave a few yards away, three rows of empty seats awaited the family, who were still sitting in black limousines along the cartway, waiting for the casket-bearing caisson to arrive.

Other friends and family members, mostly civilians, were gathered in a semicircle behind the row of empty seats. To the right of the empty seats, a Navy commander who would serve as funeral director stood at parade rest.

Behind and to the right of the civilians, about thirty yards from the grave, a U.S. Navy bugler stood at parade rest. Another ten yards or so behind the bugler, six U.S. Navy riflemen—the firing party—also stood at parade rest.

The
clip-clopping
drew nearer, now so close that Caroline could hear the squeaky sound of the caisson's wheels turning and a snort from one of the horses.

A moment later, the horses stopped. The caisson had reached its debarkation point only a few yards from the gravesite.

The sound of car doors opening. Car doors closing. More opening and closing.

Navy-enlisted men led family members in single-file columns toward the reserved seating, where they began filling the back row. A moment later, all but the front row had been seated.

The Navy commander, who had been standing just a few feet from the front corner of the grave, and who wore a ceremonial sheath and sword holstered to his uniform, turned and walked toward the cartway. With sunshine reflecting off the stainless steel sword, he changed direction slightly, walking to the front of the team of horses pulling the caisson, which had stopped just behind three black limousines, their engines still running. The commander gave a hand signal, and the front and back doors of the first two cars opened. Men, women, boys, and girls, all looking solemn, some wiping their eyes with handkerchiefs, emerged from the lead cars.

A lieutenant, also bearing a sword at his side and who had been standing guard by the parked cars, led them in a solemn, single-file procession across the grass.

Some looked off to the right at P.J.'s flag-draped casket. Others looked away, staring straight ahead. One little girl with curly blonde locks, her hair fluttering in a gust of breeze, took her mother's hand.

A young couple clasped hands.

The lieutenant directed them to the front row, where they sat, leaving three seats on the end vacant. The lieutenant nodded at the commander, who opened the back door of the third limousine.

Gabrielle Barnes MacDonald stepped from the car and took the commander's arm. Even in mourning, wearing a simple black dress that accentuated her slim body, P.J.'s sixty-three-year-old mother looked gorgeous and elegant in the afternoon sun. Her face bore a grim look with all the grace that Jacqueline Kennedy had displayed so
courageously all those decades ago in this very cemetery for another former naval officer struck down by an assassin's bullet.

P.J.'s father, William, and his younger sister, Delia, fell in behind Gabrielle and the commander. They were a graceful family who projected strength and reassurance among dozens of sniffling mourners displaying emotions of sorrow around the grave. The MacDonalds were class personified, and Caroline had hoped to become a part of this family.

Now that would never happen.

The commander led the MacDonalds to their seats, and they sat in silence, absorbing the sounds of chirping birds and the breeze rustling through the treetops.

Caroline noticed for the first time several high-ranking naval officers behind the family. There stood her friend, Captain Paul Kriete. She felt a sense of comfort and appreciation that he had come. Beside Paul, Vice Admiral Zack Brewer stood with his wife, Diane Colcernian Brewer, her auburn hair gleaming in the sun, wearing a dark-blue dress and large designer shades. Just beside the Brewers was the Secretary of the Navy, the Honorable H. Lawrence Anderson, with his wife, Amy.

Gabrielle MacDonald looked up at Admiral Lettow and nodded her head, signaling the chaplain to step forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

“We gather here in this gorgeous place, on this hallowed ground, in the midst of God's natural beauty, to say our final good-bye to Lieutenant Commander P.J. MacDonald, who was an officer, a gentleman, a servant of his country, and, most important, a servant of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

“As we prepare for the final portions of this military ceremony, to render honor to this strong man whom we lost too soon, a patriot who loved his country, the family has requested two passages of Scripture that were P.J.'s favorites, one from the Old Testament and one from the New, each marked in his Bible.

“The first is from the book of Psalms, from Psalm 29:3–9 to be precise, and reflected P.J.'s love of the sea.

“The voice of the L
ORD
is upon the waters;
The God of glory thunders,
The L
ORD
is over many waters.
The voice of the L
ORD
is powerful,
The voice of the L
ORD
is majestic.
The voice of the L
ORD
breaks the cedars;
Yes, the L
ORD
breaks in pieces the cedars of Lebanon.
He makes Lebanon skip like a calf,
And Sirion like a young wild ox.
The voice of the L
ORD
hews out flames of fire.
The voice of the L
ORD
shakes the wilderness;
The L
ORD
shakes the wilderness of Kadesh.
The voice of the L
ORD
makes the deer to calve
And strips the forests bare;
And in His temple everything says, ‘Glory!' ”

Lettow paused, looked up, and cast a reassuring glance at the family. “And then there are two short verses from the New Testament, which in so many ways go to the very heart of who P.J. was, and indeed of who he still is.” He looked down. “The first is from Saint Paul's letter to the church at Ephesus, chapter 2, verses 8 and 9. ‘For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God, not as a result of works, so that no one may boast.'

“And finally, from Paul's letter to the church at Rome, chapter 10, verses 9 and 10. ‘If you confess with your mouth Jesus as Lord, and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved; for with the heart a person believes, resulting in righteousness, and with the mouth he confesses, resulting in salvation.' ”

Lettow closed the Bible in his hand and looked up.

“This concludes the reading of the true and everlasting Word of God. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

“The words of Holy Scripture remind us that even in death, there is yet life. The promise of the great Savior, Jesus Christ, is that if we have placed our trust in him, though we should die, so also shall we live. P.J. placed his hope and trust and confidence in that great Savior,
who is the only way to God the Father, and because Jesus lives, so, too, does P.J. live.

“If you do not know Christ Jesus as your Lord and Savior, if there is doubt in your mind, doubt in your heart, if you don't know your destination should earthly death come upon you, suddenly and unexpectedly, as earthly death came quickly for our brother-in-arms, then I invite you today to place your faith in Christ. Only in him, only through him, only by him, may we escape the fiery bondage of eternal death and be assured of life forever, on streets of gold, by precious running waters, in the presence of our glorious Savior under the wings of God the Father.

“Accept Christ now, before it is too late.

“Even so, come quickly, Lord Jesus.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen.”

Another moment of silence, as the chaplain's words resonated against the peaceful sounds of nature.

The commander turned to the family members seated by the grave and gave them a silent hand signal to rise, and they all stood.

The sight caused Caroline's heart to pound. She knew what was coming, and she dreaded it with all her heart.

“Attention on deck!”

Caroline snapped to attention, along with every other member of the United States military standing by the grave.

“Present . . . arms!”

Every naval officer flashed a sharp salute.

The commander withdrew his sword, bringing it to a tight vertical position, gripping it just below his chin, holding it in alignment straight in front of his face, the sun glistening off the sharp, stainless steel blade.

The pallbearers moved in perfectly executed half steps to surround the casket. In somber silence, with their hand movements in exact unison, they began to lift the casket up off the caisson. In precise half steps, they stepped back with it, now clearing the caisson.

“Mark time, march!” the squadron leader called.

They marched in place as they executed a pivoting maneuver, turning the casket, feet first, at an angle lined up with the grave.

“Forward, march!”

In hallowed silence, they stepped forward, the squadron leader out front, carrying the casket across the green grass to the grave. In a reverent unison of motion they brought the casket over the grave and laid it onto the lowering device, then stood at perfect attention, guarding P.J.'s body in respect.

“Order . . . arms!”

The officers dropped their salutes.

“Parade . . . rest!”

Captain Guy stepped forward, to a position just away from the head of the casket, as the six pallbearers lifted the American flag off the casket. Caroline watched the flag. They started from the feet of the casket, the end covered only with the red and white stripes of the flag.

They worked in a slow, robotic, dignified fashion, wearing white gloves, as if they were handling the most precious commodity on the face of the earth, something more valuable than gold or silver or rubies. One perfect fold followed another, a third fold, then a fourth.

Searching for a mental exercise to help her fight tears, Caroline counted folds. And when they reached the head of the casket, they folded the flag for the fourteenth and final time, compacting Old Glory into a perfect triangle. The last pallbearer turned with the flag tucked in the crook of his elbow and faced the squadron leader. With his right hand he gave a slow-motion salute, bringing his white glove to the bill of his cap.

The squadron leader, a Navy lieutenant, slowly returned the salute, reciprocating the slow-motion dignity with which it was rendered, and received the flag.

The squadron leader then did an about-face, took two steps toward Captain Guy, and commenced another slow, reverent salute, bringing his white glove to the black bill of his cap.

As Captain Guy slowly returned the lieutenant's salute, then received the flag, a tear rolled down Caroline's cheek.

The lieutenant did a slow about-face, took two steps toward the
casket, and came to attention, standing watch over it with the other pallbearers.

A warm breeze swept in, lasting about two seconds, then died down. A second later, Captain Guy walked alongside the casket, past the pallbearers, past the squadron leader, and approached P.J.'s mother.

He went down on one knee just inches in front of her, with the folded flag resting on his knee.

“On behalf of the president of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service.”

Lifting the folded flag in his white gloves, he handed it to her.

Caroline could see that she smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you,” although her voice could not be heard in the breeze.

Captain Guy stood, stepped away, and walked back to his position.

“Attention on deck!”

All military personnel snapped to sharp attention.

“Present . . . arms!”

Caroline and the others saluted.

“Ready . . . fire!”

The first rifle volley cracked the air with a stinging fury. Caroline winced.