Chapter 30 - Scars of the Republic
Three days later, the rain had cleared, leaving the sky over Arlington National Cemetery a brilliant, piercing blue.
Four hundred sailors, soldiers, and Marines stood at rigid attention across the rolling green hills, their dress uniforms pristine, their white gloves resting along the seams of their trousers. The only sound was the solemn clip-clop of the caisson horses drawing a flag-draped casket toward Section 60.
It was not a casket for Derek or Evelyn. It was the re-interment of my father, Captain Arthur Vance Sr., whose remains had been removed from the dishonored, unkempt grave where Evelyn had buried him in disgrace twenty years ago, now laid to rest with full military honors among the heroes of the Republic.
A seven-man rifle detail fired three crisp volleys of blanks into the morning air. The sharp cracks echoed across the Potomac toward the Lincoln Memorial.
A young bugler played "Taps," the mournful notes hanging in the crisp autumn air like crystal tears.
When the music faded, Master Chief Hayes took the crisply folded American flag from the honor guard, marched six paces to where I stood, and knelt on one knee before Julian.
The eight-year-old boy, dressed in a small black suit Arthur had bought for him, looked down at the flag with solemn reverence.
"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation," Hayes said, his rough voice softening with paternal warmth, "please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your grandfather’s honorable and faithful service."
Julian took the flag, hugging it tightly against his chest, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. He looked up at me, and I placed my white-gloved hand on his small shoulder.
Behind us stood four hundred veterans—the same men who had stood up in that country club ballroom, the men who had answered the call when family had turned into poison and brotherhood had been betrayed.
Senator Holbrook and the Secretary of the Navy stood thirty yards back, waiting patiently to speak with me. The political storm in Washington was raging; Bradley had begun singing to the Department of Justice, naming senators, defense contractors, and foreign dignitaries who had funded his shadow empire. The Vance family name had been dragged through every headline on the planet, but for the first time in twenty years, the truth was out in the blinding light.
Arthur, sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket over his lap, looked up at me with a tired smile. "Your dad would have been proud, Ethan. Not because of the stars on your shoulder. But because you never let the mud they threw at you stick to your soul."
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"I learned it from him, Arthur," I said quietly, looking down at the freshly placed white marble headstone bearing my father's name: *A True Sailor. A Faithful Father. At Peace.*
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