Then he thought of his stake president’s blessing for the first time that day, the words repeating themselves almost automatically in the back of his mind. “This is one of the purposes for which you were brought into this world. This is part of the work that He wants you to do.”
The general sighed, then finished his OJ and straightened his uniform. “Hey, guys,” he said, “if you’re going to go climbing, I don’t think that sugar crap is going to be good enough. Hang on a minute and I’ll make you some eggs.” He pulled out a large skillet and placed it on the stove.
“No time, Dad,” Luke said to him quickly. “And you’ve got to get to work too.”
“It will take me three minutes. Put some bread in the toaster. You’ll be glad you did.”
Luke hesitated, then walked to the toaster and dropped in four slices of bread. Brighton pulled out an egg carton and scrambled six eggs, dumped in some bacon bits as the skillet grew warm, then poured the eggs and stirred them while watching his sons.
Ammon sat at the table, reading the sports page while grumbling about his Wizards, who had started 1 and 10 (a full game worse than last year!), while Luke grabbed his calculus textbook and started cramming his way through some problems that, no doubt, should have been done the day before. How Luke managed to keep his grades up, Brighton would never know, for he and Ammon took such different approaches to life. While Brighton believed that preparation was 90 percent of the battle, Luke seemed to think that true inspiration came only under great stress, and self-induced stress was the most inspiring kind.
Although they were twins, his sons were as different as any two brothers could be, and though there was a family resemblance, they hardly looked like brothers, let alone twins. Both were eighteen, their birthdays just a few months away, and freshmen at Georgetown University; but Ammon was tall—a little more than six feet, two inches—with broad shoulders and long legs, while Luke was shorter and stockier, with thick arms and thick legs. Ammon had his mother’s blonde hair and fine eyes, while Luke had his father’s dark hair and Roman nose. Ammon was smooth as Georgia cream; he could talk himself out of any situation, manipulate any teacher, make any friend. He always knew what to say (even if it wasn’t always exactly the truth), and a successful career in politics was almost assured. Luke, on the other hand, was extremely straightforward; there was no pretense to him. He didn’t sugarcoat any situation; in fact, just the opposite: sometimes he made things seem worse just to liven things up. With Luke, what you saw was what you got, and if someone didn’t like that, that was okay with him. Love me or leave me was his attitude, though so far as his father could tell almost everyone ended up loving him—or were intimidated enough to stay out of his way. While Ammon played tailback in football, a position that required speed, brains, and skill, Luke’s favorite position was fullback. He was a vicious blocker, a let-me-knock-someone-on-his-butt kind of guy.
Parley Ammon (he hated being called Parley and hadn’t answered to the name since he was three) had been named after one of Brighton’s great-grandfathers, one of the original settlers of Abilene, Texas, a gunslinger and gambler who had found religion soon after meeting a young Alabama blonde and taking her out to the wild west. After going straight, Grandpa Parley Ammon went on to become one of the most feared lawmen in West Texas, a sheriff who was known for getting his man—whether dead or alive apparently didn’t matter a whole lot to him. Luke, on the other hand, was named after the missionary who had baptized his father, a soft-spoken but powerful young man who was led enough by the Spirit to see the goodness in Neil Brighton and who had enough faith to see some hope for the cynical and disbelieving fighter jock whose ambition and ego was larger than either his head or his heart.
Watching his sons, Brighton knew he had probably mixed up their names. Luke was the gunslinger, the fearless lawman with the get ’em or kill ’em attitude. Ammon, on the other hand, was the ambassador, the smooth-talking ladies’ man. But he was equally proud of them both and loved them as only a father could love his sons. If they had any faults, and both of them did, he often found the same faults in himself, and knew that was where most of their weaknesses came from. Still, like many of his generation, he stood in awe of his children—they were better than he was in almost every way. And when he considered what he had been like at their age—driving drunk around West Texas, shooting up stop signs, and spending Sundays at the lake with his friends—he wondered how such a tainted man could raise such untainted sons.
Brighton looked down to see the eggs were ready, and he spooned them onto two plates, buttered the toast, and set the plates on the table. Ammon offered a morning prayer, and
the two sons dug in, eating as if they hadn’t eaten in days, their stomachs apparently forgetting the multiple bowls of cold cereal. Ammon scooped his eggs onto a piece of toast, took a large bite, and turned to his dad. “Sam called last night,” he said suddenly.
Brighton perked up instantly. “You’re kidding!” he said.
“Yeah. He’s in Germany this week.”
“He’s out of Afghanistan?”
“For a while, anyway. He has two weeks in Europe for R&R.”
Brighton stared as he thought. Sam, his other son, his foster son, the lost sheep of his fold, the young man he loved as much as he loved his natural sons, was off on his own now, having joined the army right out of high school. No mission, no college, just a jump into life. But ever since joining the army, his relationship with his adopted father had become strained, and it seemed they heard less and less from him now. “Did he say anything?” Brighton prodded.
“Not really. We didn’t talk much. He was in kind of a hurry.”
“How is he?” Brighton asked anxiously, trying to keep the strain from his voice.
“Seemed to be happy. I told him you were on your way to Saudi this week. He wanted to know if you were stopping in Germany to refuel. If you are, he wants to hook up.”
Brighton thought and smiled. It might actually work. And he would love to see Samuel, even if for only a few hours.
“How’s his unit in Afghanistan?” Brighton asked, anxious to hear Sam’s report. He kept a very close eye on the status reports from the army units in Afghanistan, but word from the theatre was hard to come by, especially from the Ranger units who were working with the CIA.
Luke smiled. “He sounds really happy. He was glad to get a hot shower and sleep in a bed, but you could tell he was really satisfied. He said he’s making a difference. It sounds really cool!”
Brighton eyed his son. “It’s not as cool as you think, trust me, Luke. Sleeping in tents. Every meal a cold MRE—soup and spaghetti out of warmed-up plastic bags. It’s muddy and cold and extremely hard work. Don’t even think of enlisting! You’ve got to be an officer. So do what I say, Luke: enroll in an ROTC program. And for heaven’s sakes, Luke, don’t be a grunt. Learn to fly! Don’t join the army when you could learn to fly jets. You talk about cool, but what could be cooler than that?”
Luke didn’t answer. They had had this conversation before, and Brighton knew how Luke felt. Flying? Yeah, Luke thought it would be okay. But he had seen his dad suffer through too many nonflying duties, and he knew the air force took their best pilots and jerked them out of the cockpit and into staff positions long before they were ready. And besides, there was something else, something greater, a feeling Luke had that real men fought their wars in the blood and mud, not from some sterile cockpit at forty-thousand feet.
Brighton sighed and moved to the hallway and returned with his flight cap and briefcase. “Where in Germany is Sam taking his R&R?” he asked.
Ammon and Luke were gathering their climbing gear. Ammon hesitated, then shook his head. “He didn’t say. But he said he could meet you at Ramstein if you lay over there.”
Brighton nodded. That might work out. “Did he talk to your mother?” he asked.
“No,” Ammon answered. “He called while you were at the embassy reception. And he was in kind of a hurry; he wanted to
call his old man. He hasn’t seen him in a couple of years and apparently the old bag isn’t feeling too well.”
Brighton shook his head. “Don’t call him that,” he said.
Ammon hesitated. “He doesn’t deserve any better. After what he did to Samuel, he deserves a lot worse . . .”
“Doesn’t matter!” Brighton answered, his voice growing sharp. “It doesn’t help Sam when you call his father that.”
“You should hear what he calls him!” Ammon replied.
Brighton looked stern, and Ammon shut up.
The three men were silent; then Luke headed for the door. “Come on, Ammon,” he shouted. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago.”
Ammon stopped at the built-in locker in the back hallway of the old Victorian and pulled out a pair of gum-soled climbing shoes.
“See you tonight, Dad,” his sons called as they walked out the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Luke and Ammon stood at the bottom of the rock, staring up, the sun shining behind them and warming their shoulders with its early morning light, while a thousand birds sang around them: sparrows, mockingbirds, and robins calling to each other from the trees that lined the riverbed. The air was crisp and smelled of dead leaves and wet sand. The Potomac River ran low as it always did in the fall and swirled behind them, the water twenty feet from the shoreline where the sand and brush met the rocky cliffs. Above them, a sheer wall of sandstone rose up from the river, the remnant of some geological aberration that had piled the sand and sediment, then crushed it into stone before a million years of running water cut the softer sediment away.
Luke reached out and touched the cold wall. It was wet and slimy from a small spring that wept from the underground aquifer, the water running clear and forming a mossy trail that ran down the stone. He pressed his finger into the moss, then touched his mouth as he looked around the falls.
The Great Falls of the Potomac is one of the most spectacular natural landmarks on the entire east coast. Above the falls, the Potomac narrows from a wide and meandering river to a powerful ribbon of water that cuts through Mather Gorge with incredible force. The river drops nearly eighty feet in a little less than a mile, crashing over a series of twenty-foot waterfalls and cascading rapids before splitting into multiple frothing fingers that run through the rocky channels that make up the lower part of the gorge. For the past ten thousand years, the Potomac has cut through the bedrock, eroding the falls and the riverbank into a moon-like terrain, while leaving rock formations that are sheer and jagged and perfect for climbing.
Luke pressed the mossy trail again, then moved a few feet to his right to where the stone was dry and bare. Ammon glanced at the trail that led from the riverbed up the side of the steep bank. “Where are they?” he muttered as he looked at his watch. The two brothers were alone, their California climbing partners having not yet shown up.
“Probably lost,” Luke answered as he waved away to the east. “You know those California boys. Get them off the freeway and they pretty much freeze up. They’re probably to Gettysburg by now, or somewhere in West Virginia.”
“Think they’ll stop when they hit the Mississippi?”
“Only if they run out of gas.”
“You know what I think? I don’t think they’re lost. I think they’re just smarter than we are. They’re lying in bed and laughing at us for getting up so early.”
Luke shook his head and smiled, then swept his hand through the air. “That’s okay. This is worth it. Is there anything in the world that is better than this?”
“Ahh . . . let me think. Girls . . . ?”
Luke shook his head again. “I mean other than that.”
“Ahh . . . steak. Yeah. Both steak and lobster are better than this.”
“Okay. Two things.”
“Yeah. And sleep. Sleep is much better!”
“Be quiet, okay. This is great. Winter’s coming. This might be our last time to climb before we leave on our missions.”
“Wait, I’m not finished. . . . TV’s better . . . yeah, I think I’d rather watch TV than get up at five in the morning just to climb rocks.”
Luke looked dismayed. “Okay, I’m sorry I dragged you out here, all right!”
Ammon smiled and cracked his brother on the back. “Just kidding, bro. You know I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else in the world.”
Luke looked at him. “A little early for sarcasm.”
“Just trying to get things going, you know, lighten things up a bit.” Ammon smiled again and picked up the rope and his climbing harness.
Luke studied the wall, lifting his head to study the top of the cliff almost fifty feet above them. Overhead, a six-foot ledge jutted outward from the wall at a 60-degree angle. He studied the cliff for handholds, then pointed to a trail of tiny cracks leading up to the overhang. “I could climb up to that ledge,” he said, pointing to where the rock jutted outward from the sheer wall.
“Yeah. And then what?” Ammon asked.
Luke studied the overhang. “It looks like there might be a few holds . . .” He shifted his weight and leaned back. “There . . .” he pointed with his right arm, extending it high, using it to guide Ammon’s eyes toward a tiny crack in the rock. “If I could reach behind me for two feet or so, I could jam my hands in that crack.”
“Yeah. Then all you’d have to do is hold on to that ledge with your teeth . . .”
Luke glanced at his brother. “You don’t think I can do it, do you!”
“No, Luke, I don’t think anyone can do it. It’s too far. You’ll be reaching out a full arm’s length above and behind you while hanging on with only one hand. No, let me correct that: you’ll be hanging on with only your fingers. I don’t care how strong you are—no one could reach that far behind them and get their hand into that crack. Not while hanging on the wall anyway.”
“But I could if . . .”
“Even if you do reach the crevasse, Luke, what are you going to do then? It’s a vertical fissure, it runs up and down the rock, not across. You’d have to jam your fist in there and let go of the wall and pull yourself up by only one hand. No one could do it, not even you.”
Luke looked up and nodded. “You’re probably right,” he said in disappointment.
“Bloody straight, good buddy.”
“Probably no one could do it.”
“It’ll probably never be done.”
“Certainly no one’s ever done it before now.”
“Certainly not.”
Luke continued staring above him. The outcropping was a little more than forty feet up the wall. Forty feet. Four stories. A long way to fall. He lowered his eyes from the ledge and surveyed the scattered pile of boulders and rocks that had been strewn by the river at the base of the wall. Some were as big as his fist, some the size of small tables. All would hurt equally if he were to fall.
Ammon nudged his brother and pointed twenty feet to their right. “There’s our spot,” he said. “See that—there’s a good crevasse we could jam our feet into. And plenty of handholds. We could climb the first forty feet there, then move to our left, come in above the overhang, and go up from there.” He took a step back. “Once we’re above that ledge, it’s easy climbing.”
Luke looked up and saw where his brother was pointing. “Yeah, that’s a pretty good plan. But you know, Ammon, I’d really like to try climbing up here.”
Ammon grumbled. He knew what his brother was thinking. “Luke,” he said, “let’s not waste our time. There’s no way you’re going to get over that ledge. Look at it! It juts out at least six feet. And there’s nothing to hold onto. So you’re going to make me climb up the back side of the cliff to secure the rope, you’ll spend twenty minutes climbing the rock and who knows how long trying to get over that ledge, then you’ll have to give up and come down. By then, you’ll be too exhausted to try anything else. So we’ll waste an hour for nothing. Come on, man, let’s just climb over there. You can climb first; then I’ll take a
shot. We’ll both get in a good climb before we have to go.”
Luke was studying his path up the rock to the overhang. “If I can get a good grip on the crevasse, I could pull myself to the edge of the overhang. Then I could hold onto the lip, swing my legs up, and pull myself over the top.”
“No, Luke, come on. You don’t have to do this, okay?”
“I know I don’t have to. But I want to try.”
“Let’s just . . .”
“I know what you’re going to say: Let’s just climb over there. But you know what I was thinking, Ammon?”
Ammon grunted and didn’t answer. Luke pulled on his thin leather gloves.
“I was thinking about Samuel. If he were here, you know what he would do? He’d want to see if he could climb over that ledge. And if he didn’t make it today, he’d come back tomorrow, and again the next day, and the next day after that. He’d figure a way to get up and over that ledge! You know he would. He’d try a thousand times if he had to, but he’d figure a way to get over that outcropping up there.”
Ammon shook his head. “Sam’s a stubborn fool.”
“Stubborn? Maybe. I guess. But is stubborn a bad thing? Because when I watch Sam put his mind to something and never give up, it doesn’t seem like a bad thing, you know.”
Ammon shook his head. “I just want a nice, normal gut-wrenching climb. I want to get a good workout, then get back to school. You, on the other hand, want to prove something to yourself. You want to prove something to Sam, and he’s not even here.”
“I don’t have to prove anything.”
“Then let’s climb over there!”
But Luke was already moving toward the rock and strapping his climbing harness on. “I’m going to try it here, Ammon. Now will you go up the back side and secure the rope, or do you want me to do it?”
The Great and Terrible Page 30