Knights of Aurora

"The Knights of Aurora" is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

I enjoy hearing from readers and try to answer all e-mails. If you have a comment or a question please contact me at paradegi@rogers.com

Thanks to Peter, my sterling editor. Sometimes without him I would merely be sending along pap!

At the urging of one of my readers I have set up a Yahoo Group, called Aurora Roundtable. I am going to, hopefully, post all the Aurora Stories, which have been edited for publication on this site. The set up is such that it is an open forum so anyone posting a comment sends it to all members. It is a little bare at the moment as I simply have not had the time to devote to it that I would have liked. I will expand my comments in Chapter 19, which will follow tomorrow or Thursday.

Chapter 18

The Hospital of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Arnprior, Present Day

"Poor Ned," said Jergen as he and Jeremie Cher walked toward the Chapter House where the Investiture would take place. The wind blowing from the Ottawa Valley had quickened, and was filled with snow.

"He was the author of his own fate," returned Jeremie Cher. "He was overconfident and he paid the price." He gathered the collar of his overcoat closer. "Jesus, Jergen, we aren't really going to walk in this shit, are we?"

"It's traditional," replied Jergen with a shiver. "It's cold, and my balls are shrivelled into little peas! Gott verdamnt!"

"The cold, or your balls?" Jeremie Cher asked with a salacious grin.

Grimacing, Jergen replied, "Both! And don't feel sorry for Ned. He paid for the mistakes he made in the wilderness and has come up in the world."

"He has?" asked Jeremie Cher. He had spent so long away from the Order, and its affairs, that it seemed that every time he turned around something new had happened.

"He has," confirmed Jergen. "When Pete Sheppard came east Ned took over the Priory in Vancouver. He's done quite well, I understand, and the Order has grown strong out there." He pulled the toque he was wearing further down his head. "It would seem that the little walk in the woods back in 1976 did wonders for more than a few careers!"

Jeremie Cher thought a moment. "Sort of like the sailing trip, where the original Band of Brothers formed, or the sea training we did with that lumbering Gate Vessel, where The Phantom in many ways became our leader - I told you about the fire on Yochim Island?"

"Yes." Jergen looked reflective a moment. "I don't know what happened that day in the woods, but from what I can understand, Ned had some sort of an epiphany. He certainly became a pillar of the Order."

"Is he here?" asked Jeremie Cher. "I would like to see him, to see all of the men who helped back then." He grinned. "They can't have enjoyed looking after a herd of rambunctious Sea Cadets!"

"They still laugh about it," Jergen responded. "Last year the ones who stayed, or joined the Order, took over the Masters' Dining Room at the Hospital and had a hell of party. The housekeeper told me that she was picking empty beer and whisky bottles out from under the most unlikely places for a week!"

Laughing, Jeremie Cher asked, "Some of them did well, then?"

"Oh yes," replied Jergen. "When Andy Berg set up the new priory in the south The Gunner, who was the Grand Master at the time, sent him Bill Estes, Austin Peck and Rusty Jones. And of course, Kyle St. Vincent is still very much a part of Andy's life. They have a very nice townhouse in Georgetown - Andy bitches about the commute to the Pentagon all the time.

"The Southern Priory is flourishing as well. Bill Estes is the Prior and he and Austin are very happy. Rusty - of all people - is the Proctor for the Southern Priory and says he is much too busy to scratch his ass, let alone find a mate! They all live in the priory, which is a huge house on the Battery in Charleston."

As they approached the door to the Chapter House, Jergen added, "They do try to get up here for the Investiture, and I know that Flagstaff House is filled to bursting."

Jergen hesitated before entering the building. The door to the Chapter House opened and a footman, resplendent in a red, gold-piped tailcoat, bowed his head and motioned for the two men to enter.

"Nervous?" asked Jeremie Cher. He placed his hand on Jergen's arm. "It's really just a formality, you know. I've been through three of them. They're all basically the same, although I do think that Phantom hasn't included what happened in Vancouver in the ceremony."

"Pardon?"

"Well, after we played in the woods we all went back to the house, had some lunch, napped, and then changed and went down for the ceremony that Michael Chan had arranged - where he handed out all the titles. We were having drinks and snacks and then Major Meinertzhagen announced that the ceremony would begin."

"The same thing happens now," said Jergen. "Only Alex Grinchsten does the announcing now."

"Does he wear black satin moire knickers and a lace jabot?"

"Alex? No! God, he looks grim enough most of the time!" returned Jergen as he tried to picture Alex Grinchsten in satin moire knickers. Then he sniggered. "Alex in knickers?" asked Jeremie Cher.

"No, well, yes, but I was just thinking how Alex seems to . . . glow is the only word I can think of . . . when he's with Jake Guildenhall.

"Jake!" exclaimed Jeremie Cher. "I remember him at the reception before the Investiture in Vancouver. He wasn't grim at all!"

"He wasn't?" Jergen walked up the steps and into the Chapter House. As they removed their overcoats he turned to Jeremie Cher. "While we are at the reception you must tell me what happened!"

Laughing, Jeremie Cher shook his head. "Well, it started with one hellacious crash!"

The manor house of the Grand Master of the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, British Pacific Properties, August 1976

"Asshole!" whispered Ned to his drink. Then, realizing that he was being an idiot in addition to being an asshole, pretended to study the portrait of what looked to be a Jewish gentleman that hung over the mantle in what had been Michael's dining room. All around him the laughter, the clink of ice against crystal, the muted chatting filled the beautiful room - there was no other room in the house big enough to hold the pre-Investiture reception.

Ned's eyes scanned the large room. He was in charge of security and he constantly checked to see that nothing was amiss. His men - there were only three - were where they should be, Bill Estes near the door, Austin Peck on the far side of the room, near the windows, and Avram Stein near the door that led to the Butler's Pantry. Each of them were dressed as Ned was, in formal attire, striped trousers, black tailcoats, and, matching waistcoats. The outfits had been supplied so that the protection officers could unobtrusively blend with the other guests, which they did quite well. The adult military guests all wore uniform: starched white, high-neck tunics with gongs and decorations on their chests, and swords at their sides. The civilians were all formally attired, as was Blake Ashby Putnam, who was in full Seaforth regalia, all silver, green and tartan.

A small smile crossed Ned's lips. Damn, his men looked good, and they did blend in well. Had he not known, he would never have suspected that the minders were not guests, but guards. He noticed that there were also two men mixed in with the catering staff: Jake Guildenhall and Rusty Smith, wearing footman livery. Ned nodded. Pete Sheppard was a very careful man and knew his job well. With the men at the front of the house, and Jake and Rusty in the back, the room was secure as it could be.

There should have been a fourth man on duty in the room, but Pete had sent Alex Grinchsten to check on what was happening with the medical examinations, and Alex would be along as soon as he reported back to Pete, and to Michael Chan.

Turning, Ned saw Mabell Airlie, dressed in shades of lavender - she was a widow of many years standing - chatting with Arden, who seemed for some reason to be quite taken with the old lady. Near the windows that overlooked the garden, Mrs. Randolph, another widow, and dressed in shades of grey, stood nodding, the ptarmigan feather on her toque hat floating up and down as she talked with Mrs. Arundel and her husband.

Nearby yet another Arundel, Louis if Ned remembered the introductions correctly, was standing with a good-looking young man and a craggy-faced stranger, who Ned thought was named MacReady. The young knights were enjoying themselves immensely, although how they could all but inhale the plates of food that the footmen, who were passing effortlessly through the crowd, Ned couldn't understand. Especially after the lunch the young men had packed away! But then, Ned thought, a morning in the open air, strenuous exercise, and making a fool of him, stimulated the appetite.

Ned had not eaten. He was so consumed with self-pity, although he would not admit it to himself, and his stomach was in knots. He had strutted and sauntered and boasted and bragged and paid the price for his foolish behaviour. He had made a huge mistake and he wished with all his heart that he could turn back the clock, but he couldn't, and he would have to live with the idea that somehow he had blown a wonderful opportunity.

Sighing, Ned looked around the room. Never in his wildest imaginings, not back home in West Virginia, when he had lain at night in the bed with the saggy mattress and three brothers, when he had dreamed of leaving the poverty, the hills and hollows of home, trying to forget the undigested lump of supper - fatback, peas from his momma's garden, and homemade bread - and trying to imagine a world without dust and dirt and leaky roofs, a world where he went to bed alone, in a room of his own, wearing fresh-washed boxers, and not one-piece white BVDs handed out by the welfare lady twice a year, a world where he slept on crisp, starched sheets, a world where breakfast was bacon, and ham, and eggs, and not a thick slab of bread spread with lard.

As he looked around the room, watching the well dressed men and women, Ned's eyes clouded. He thought of Lucas, his friend, his lover. Lucas had lived in the world Ned could only dream of. A tinkling of music came to Ned's ears and he looked up to see Cory sitting at the piano - which had been moved in here because there was no other place for it - playing something, something classical Ned thought.

He also thought of those lazy afternoons so very long ago when he had visited Lucas. They would make slow, wonderful love, shower, and then, after dressing, descend the wide, curving staircase and go into the front room, a room filled with flowers and fine furniture. Lucas, a romantic, would sit at the piano and play, his hands dancing across the ivory keys as Cory's hands danced now, the notes soaring upward to fill the room with melodic rhapsody as Lucas stared into Ned's eyes, playing only for him, only for him.

A tear rolled slowly down Ned's close-shaven cheek. He had dreamed, in those far away days, of rooms such as this, rooms filled with handsomely dressed men and women, chatting, laughing, while Lucas' eyes swam with love.

Quickly drawing the back of his hand across his face to wipe away his tear, Ned wondered if Lucas was happy, living in New York. Was he still playing the piano, was he still smiling, were his eyes still filled with love?

Was Lucas sitting in a room such as this now? Ned hoped he was. Lucas deserved to be happy, after the way the other boys, and his own father, had treated him. Was he sitting at the piano now? Ned hoped he was.

Ned's eyes took in how wonderful they all looked, the young knights in their white, starched uniforms, the older men dressed, as he was, in a well cut, morning coat. Of course, the older gentlemen, Mr. Bertie, Mr. Louis and the man called MacReady, wore a bar of ribbons and silver and bronze medals on their left shoulders - inadequate tokens of a country's gratitude for service. Unconsciously, Ned's hand moved to the empty shoulder of his coat. He had medals, somewhere. He may have left them back in the hills, in the old trunk with his dress uniform. Somehow, seeing the other men in all their finery, he felt naked.

Cory's fingers segued into something brighter, a march Ned thought, and he saw several heads jerk up and MacReady break into a wide smile. Several of the older knights, Tyler and Harry, clapped lightly, and Cory grinned at Sean, who was leaning against the piano, smiling a soft, tiny smile that Ned knew meant love.

He should have stayed home! He should have stayed and leaned against the piano and turned the pages of the music folio and watched the soft, tiny smile form on Lucas' lips, seen the gleam of love form in Lucas' eyes, felt the glow of love course through him and . . .

That had not been an option. The one-street, dusty, disintegrating town was dying. The mines were closed, the seams of coal long since played out. There was nothing to hold Ned in the little town he'd been born in. The mines were dead; the people were dying, too washed out and too dispirited to go on. There was no future in that little town, nothing but a life of drabness, maybe clerking in the store owned by Lucas' father, or pumping gas at the station down to the highway, or joining the State Highway Patrol, clipping passing tourists for speeding. There was nothing to look forward to, really, except life in a dying town, living in a shack with a sagging front porch where you sat at night because you couldn't afford a television, listening to the cawing of the crows and a harpy of a wife, washed out before her time through hard work and too many babies too close together.

Ned has seen it, had lived it, and had never wanted to live such a life. The small, wonderful peek at a better world was ending, for Lucas was off to the university soon. With Lucas gone, there was no point in staying, and Ned had hitched down to Charleston and enlisted.

Life in the Marines had been better. He'd had clean clothes, a bed with clean sheets, and the food was better than he had ever eaten at home. He'd had friends, but he had never found a friend such as he had had in Lucas.

In Vietnam, Ned knew that many of the men he served with formed attachments with other men - the term was "foxhole buddies". The term meant much more than two guys sharing a hole in the ground. It meant holding each other, comforting each other, never leaving each other when the VC came screaming toward the wire, when sappers with satchel charges were behind the wire, blowing everything to rat shit; it meant sharing your poncho, your rations, your extra socks, whatever. You were his buddy, he was yours. If, sometimes, the sharing, the comforting, took on a new meaning, nobody cared. They were all young, they were all afraid of dying, and they were all too filled with life to turn away when a buddy held them close. For many young men, Vietnam had brought the first true inkling of the love that only a man could have for another man.

A love that Ned had left behind in West Virginia.

Ned had never felt the way about another man as he felt about Lucas. He'd had offers - he wasn't bad to look at, he was hung, and he didn't smell too much, except after two or three weeks in the field, when everybody smelled. Once, on R & R at Vung Tau, where anything went, and more, when he'd been wearing a pair of skimpy trunks, he'd felt the eyes on him, assaying his butt, assessing his impressive basket. Ned could have got laid a hundred times over, but . . .

Although he had had offers, and had felt the eyes on his tanned, muscular body, still Ned hung back. He was not all that afraid of discovery. The beach at Vung Tau, the cabanas and hotel rooms, were off limits to the MPs, unless drugs were involved, or there was a fight, or one of the guys took to beating his Vietnamese "companion".

As he thought of Vung Tau, Ned smiled ruefully. In the end there was no such thing as "anything goes". There were limits in everything, sooner or later.

Ned supposed it was his upbringing that made him pause. He was Mountain Born, and in the hills and "hollers" people had certain ways, certain prohibitions. It was one thing for guys to experiment, or fool around a bit, and Ned knew that everybody did it, ignoring the hell fire and brimstone that the Reverend down to the old, sagging, clapboard church his mother dragged her family to every Sunday, spewed forth.

So disgusted on hearing people such as Lucas excoriated and condemned to eternal damnation, of hearing the love he felt for Lucas vilified as unnatural and blasphemous that once Ned had shucked the dust of his hometown from his heels he never set foot in a church again. So far as Ned was concerned no one, especially some Bible-thumping old fuck, had the right to question his feelings for Lucas! God might hate queers, but Ned still loved Lucas, and if God couldn't understand that, then to hell with Him!

Still, Mountain born meant that you never had a thought about sleeping with another man. Mountain born meant that you married young - usually right out of high school to a girl you had known all of your life - and made babies. A man, a true man, hunted, fished, worked hard, looked after his family, took his boys to the Little League games, and every Saturday night sat in the bleachers and cheered for the high school football team.

The more he thought of it, the more Ned had come to realize that being Mountain born was to be boring and predictable. Being with Lucas had been . . . exciting and intoxicating, the more so because of the danger involved, and because he opened Ned's eyes to a world he had only dreamed about.

The world that Ned dreamed to be a part of existed everywhere. He had seen the officers, with their well dressed wives and well scrubbed children. He had seen the starched napery on the tables of the Officers' Mess, the gleaming silver. He had wanted to be a part of that world, but the war had ended and the field commission he had yearned for had never come.

Going home had not been an option. Ned had bummed around and ended up in New York where a chance encounter with a former buddy had led him to a small, out of the way office recruiting "security officers". Ned had listened to the recruiter's spiel, and signed on the dotted line. He had not expected to end up in a paramilitary organization, working for a Chinese man of mystery. Nor had he expected to be housed in comparative luxury, with a room of his own, and free access to a palace.

Ned had hoped that his new position would be his passport to the world he craved. Pete Sheppard had trusted him with arranging the personal security for the young knights. Before that, when the plot against Michael Chan had been discovered, Pete had trusted Ned enough to have him drive the motorcar that carried Captain K'ang to the Tsang compound downtown, to his certain fate.

At first, before the K'ang plot had been put down and the Chinese guards sent home, Frank "The Horse" Campbell had been the Golden Boy, trusted, well liked, and experienced. Then Frank, who actually was hung like a horse, had let his little head rule his big head and had been found - by Michael Chan and the Major - with his pants down and one of the young Chinese guards bouncing on his lap, and Frank lost all his credibility.

It was not being found "in flagrante" that had brought Frank down. Michael Chan and the Major were notoriously straight-laced about "public display of affection", as it was called. Michael prized loyalty above all, and was prepared to make allowances. Ned knew, and he was sure that Michael knew that more than one member of the Security Force was in a relationship with another. It happened, it had happened in Vietnam, it was happening here in Vancouver. All Michael asked was discretion, which was why Bill Estes and Austin Peck maintained the polite fiction of rooming together in a two-bedroom cabin, yet sleeping in one bed.

What had brought Frank down was that while he was playing hide the sausage, Laurence Howard and his protege, Logan Hartsfield, had decided to infiltrate the compound and scatter smoke grenades all over the undercroft, frightening the hell out of the domestic staff. Michael had not been pleased to find Frank boffing one of the Chinese guards when he should have been monitoring the CCTVs that covered the perimeter!

As Frank's sun had set, Ned's had risen, and the fiasco in the woods when Laurence and Logan had bushwhacked them had been forgiven. Forgiven, but not forgotten. Avram Stein still talked about it and Hank Peabody told and retold the story of them all tied to a tree, naked, and swearing that he'd seen what had now, thanks to Bill Estes, become known as Ned's "uncut jib", twitch!

Frowning, Ned consoled himself with the thought that his jib had not twitched, not for Hank, or for anybody else - yet.

Frank Campbell had been derelict in his duty, had placed the whole compound in danger, and was paying the price. Ned, determined to never let such a thing happen to him, had been very careful. And then he had gone and made a complete fool of himself. He had underestimated the young knights, and their abilities. He had patronized them, looked down on them, and tried to impress them with his superior knowledge and training.

Snagging yet another Scotch from a passing footman, Ned looked around the room. He had at last come to realize that the young men in this room were destined for something he did not yet quite understand, something special and something he had been allowed to have small part of. The young men were the future of Michael's Order, and in the scheme of things, Ned's own future. They had offered their hands in friendship, and Ned had turned aside. He saw the easy camaraderie, the knowing laughter of good friends together, the finely cut and worn uniforms, the bond that existed between the knights, and his heart became leaden. He could have been a part of them, one of them, and instead he had been . . . an asshole!

Downing his drink in one gulp, Ned placed the empty glass on one of the side tables and quickly exited the room.

"I wonder what that's all about," observed Colin idly to The Phantom as he watched Ned leave.

"Haven't a clue," responded The Phantom. "Doesn't Cory play beautifully? I am beginning to regret rebelling and refusing to continue the lessons my mother made me take."

"You're never too old to learn," said Colin, "and don't change the subject."

"I didn't," returned The Phantom. "I was merely remarking that Cory plays very well and how I . . ."

"Bullshit," snapped Colin. "Something's bothering Ned and you've got that gleam in your eyes that says 'Action Stations'!"

"You could not be more wrong," responded The Phantom with a smile. "Not only was I listening to Cory, I was watching Matthew Chan putting the moves on Blake." He looked thoughtful - deliberately - and continued, "Not that I blame Matthew. Blake is quite good looking, don't you think?"

Colin regarded Blake, who was dressed in full regimentals, complete with sporran and high, blancoed gaiters, and nodded. "Well, yeah, I guess he is." He leaned down and enquired in a whisper, "Are you planning on arranging for Cory to be in the heads with Blake?"

Laughing, The Phantom shook his head. "Nope. I don't have to. Blake and Cory are very old friends, if you catch my meaning."

Colin regarded the handsome young corporal and nodded. "I gather he passed with flying colours?"

The Phantom giggled. "Won the Blue Ribbon for Best in Show, as I understand it."

"And Ned?"

"You want me to send Cory into the heads with Ned?" asked The Phantom, feigning innocence. He frowned theatrically. "If Bill Estes is to be believed, it would be a forlorn exercise, because you know that Cory . . ."

"Damn it, Phantom, are you going to sit there and pretend that you're not about to go outside and find out what's bugging Ned's ass, and then turn those green eyes of yours on him and save him from himself?"

"Nope," replied The Phantom. "Colin, I wonder if I should have one more glass of champagne."

The colour rose in Colin's pink and cream complexioned face. "You're just baiting me! You can't wait to stick your nose in . . ."

The Phantom held up his hand as he assumed a hurt air. "As it happens, while I am interested in what is bothering Ned, and I think I know what it is, I have no intention of sticking my nose in his business, or anywhere else for that matter."

Colin gasped in disbelief. "Come on, you mean you're not . . ."

"I am not," said The Phantom firmly. He nodded his head. "They are." The Phantom's green eyes sparkled as he watched Tyler, Harry and Sean Anders gather in a small circle, glance after the retreating Ned, and nod. He looked at Colin. "Michael gave me a great deal to think about," The Phantom said softly. "He has made me think, and in the thinking I realized that while I kept saying that I trusted the others, I never really let them do anything. I was the great hero, and I was wrong."

"You were?" asked Colin, surprised. "That must have been quite a talk that you had with Michael."

"It was," agreed The Phantom. "I need to, how can I put it, let the other guys start thinking for themselves and doing for themselves." He placed his hand lightly on Colin's arm. "Whether we like it or not we are all going to become involved in the rebirth of the Order." He snorted. "Hell and sheeit, we are already involved. That means that somewhere along the line each and every one of us is going to have to start making decisions. The guys come from all over the country. If a situation arises, Cory, or Todd, or Sean, Ray or Sandro, hell, any one of them might have to make the decision, make the call. They must learn to make those decisions. If I trust their intentions, their honour, then I must learn to trust their abilities!"

After a long pause, Colin said, "You are finally learning one of the secrets of leadership."

"So I gather," replied The Phantom flatly. "Michael started me to thinking." He sniggered. "Who knows what heights I might rise to?"

"Or what depths you might sink to!" retorted Colin with a grin. Then he added, "Michael was right, and you're right. You're not infallible, and you're not the be all and end all of the Order. Oh, you're going to be important, but there will be times when you can't interfere, when you will have to let your brothers make their own decisions, make their own mistakes."

The Phantom's eyes scanned the room. They came to rest on Blake and Michael Chan, who were whispering together. He nodded with his chin. "Like now?" he asked softly.

Colin saw where The Phantom was looking and shrugged diffidently. "I wonder how Michael will handle that little scenario?" he asked idly.

"Patiently and logically," replied The Phantom as he reached for another glass of champagne offered by one of the passing footmen. He looked up and into the footman's dark, smouldering eyes and . . .

"You're new," The Phantom said, his gaze never wavering, knowing that another thread was about to be added to the Tapestry.

Jake Guildenhall nodded slowly. He could not understand why he was drawn to this young man's deep, emerald eyes. "I, um, I just started today." As he straightened he blurted, "My name is Jake, Jake Guildenhall."

Colin looked at the young footman, and then at The Phantom. "Here we go again," he thought.

The Phantom noticed the slight bulge in the left side of Jake's tailcoat, and nodded. "I hope being a minder for us won't be too much of a bother," he said kindly. "We can be a little . . . rambunctious at times."

Jake returned the smile - he could not help it - and said, "I'm sure I'll cope." Then he made a small joke. "The young guys can't be any worse than the North Vietnamese."

"They didn't check out your upper deck fittings in the heads," muttered Colin under his breath.

Before Jake could fully assimilate Colin's words - he wondered if "upper deck fittings" meant what he thought they did - Michael Chan and the Major appeared in the doorway. Both men were as formally dressed as the other male guests, but their appearance was made magnificent by the stunning gold and jewelled collars draped over their shoulders, the gems sparkling, the gold gleaming in the light from the overhead chandeliers. Behind them, Laurence looked impossibly handsome in his Royal Marine uniform, while Pete Sheppard and Patrick Tsang, dressed in formal morning dress, seemed to have grown in stature.

The Phantom rose from his seat to greet the Grand Master, who motioned for the young man to sit. Ignoring Michael, The Phantom offered a formal neck bow as silence slowly cloaked the room. Michael's face broke into a rare smile as he watched his knights, and guests, offer their respects in the form of a neck bow from the gentlemen, and curtsies from the ladies.

Nodding his thanks, Michael turned to The Phantom and asked in a low voice, "Are you ready, my soon to be Prince of the Order? Not too nervous, I hope."

The Phantom smiled shyly, remembering the morning not so long ago, when he had acted as stand-in for the Lieutenant Governor at what he thought was a dress rehearsal of the Passing Out Parade. The Phantom had not expected what he thought was a dubious honour, and was even more surprised to learn that the parade was actually in his honour. This had made his nervousness worse and he had told Commander Stockman that he just might pee himself. The Commander, who had been around the Horn more than a few times, and accustomed to dealing with nervous, first time Inspecting Officers, had commiserated and asked only that if The Phantom were to pee himself, he not do it on his shoes, as they were new. The Commander's little joke had broken the pall of nervousness and The Phantom had acquitted himself every well.

"I'm nervous," admitted The Phantom with a shy bob of his head. "But I think I'll be fine."

"Good, I know you will," responded Michael as he gave the young man's shoulder a pat. He turned to the Major and asked, "We do have time for a drink first?"

The Major, who could see his carefully prepared agenda flying out the window, could hardly say no. "Of course," he replied tightly.

Jake, who had been standing to one side, offered the tray. As the Major reached for a flute of champagne, Jake suddenly went white, then red, and dropped the tray, which clattered on the parquet floor, scattering crystal flutes and champagne across polished wood.

Jake's mind reeled as he eyes widened and took in the slim, trim figure of . . . Alex Grinchsten. All the nights, those horrible nights when they had lain together, holding each other as the sounds of war assaulted their ears and the earth shook from the explosions as shell after shell fired from the VC guns in the hills threatened to destroy their ill-built, compact firebase.

Once again Jake could feel the heat of Alex, smell his scent, feel his lips, feel him gently make love to him. Khe Sahn, and Alex Grinchsten were never far from Jake's mind.

Jake stared and stared, and then breathed one word: "Alex . . .?"

Alex stared at the dark, smouldering eyes of Jake Guildenhall. Jake? Here?

A thousand questions rose in Alex's throat as he stared at Jake, his eyes brightening. The aroma of Jake returned, all but overwhelming Alex.

Once again the memories of that time began to form again, memories of the rat-infested bunker of Khe Sahn. He heard again the thump of exploding mortar rounds, heard the whump of foo-gas crisping black pyjama clad critters trapped on the razor wire that surrounded the perimeter of the firebase, felt the waves of thunder that rolled through the ground with each explosion.

The memories flooded forward and then . . . there were no explosions, no screams, nothing but Jake's arm around his chest, Jake's rough growth of beard rubbing against his shoulder, Jake's hard manhood pressing against him. Khe Sahn and Jake Guildenhall were never far from Alex's mind.

Alex stared and stared, and then breathed one word: "Jake . . .?"

The crash of the silver tray and the tinkling of shattered crystal brought all conversation to an immediate halt. Bill Estes, who had not seen Jake drop the tray, reached into his inside jacket pocket, his hand grasping the grip of his pistol, and crouched, ready to protect the young knights from a perceived danger. Austin Peck, who had seen Jake's act, quickly moved to Bill's side and whispered that it was just a dropped tray. Avram Stein, who had also seen the tray dropping, moved quickly toward where Michael Chan was standing, to see if he had been cut by glass, and just in time, as Ned, who had stopped off in the bathroom, had heard the crash, drawn his pistol and within seconds was standing in the doorway, not knowing what the crash meant, but prepared to redeem his honour and reputation.

The Major, seeing Ned's drawn pistol, quickly motioned for the protection officer to put the weapon away. As Ned re-holstered his pistol the Major gave him an approving nod. He then turned, and was about to tell everybody that it was a domestic accident, nothing to worry about at all, when Mrs. Arundel's crystal voice came floating across the room. "Cory, dear, do play something other than that dreadful dirge! Something light, some Mozart!"

Cory, who had been playing a rather spirited march, gave his mother a dirty look, and began to play some Mozart.

The conversations resumed, the footmen hurried to clean up the shattered glass and wipe away the spilled champagne, and Michael moved forward. He placed his hand in the small of Alex's back. "An old comrade?" he asked quietly.

Alex, who had not taken his eyes from Jake, nodded. "From Vietnam," he whispered.

Michael gave Alex a slight shove. "Well, go and greet him!"

The guests were treated to the typical male greeting of a short, quick hug, rapid pounding on backs, and then a withdrawal. They had not exchanged a word, but their eyes told the tale.

The Phantom, snickering, sidled up to Alex. "Now go someplace private and do it properly."

Alex, in a daze, asked, "What, um, huh?"

The Phantom reached out and grasped Jake's arm. He pushed both men gently and murmured softly, "You mean Khe Sahn. Now go and . . ." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Blake moving toward the door. He also saw Matthew Chan watch Blake, carefully place his half finished drink on a table, and follow.

"Go somewhere and get reacquainted!" The Phantom ordered. "Only don't use the heads down the hall!" he giggled quietly. "It's busy!"

Alex barely heard a word of what The Phantom said, merely nodding his head as he walked with Jake toward the pantry. He suddenly stopped, turned and beamed at The Phantom. "Is it all right, I mean . . .?"

Michael sensed that Alex and Jake were more than just old comrades. He interjected, "The security is well in hand, the ceremony does not start for a half hour. Do go and do what Phantom has said, get reacquainted!" He reached for a drink and winked at the Major. "And if they're a little late, don't be too hard on them."

The Major choked on his drink, not quite knowing if Michael's words contained a double entendre or not.

Matthew Chan slowly opened the door to the bathroom and saw Blake standing over the sink, ostensibly washing his hands. At the sound of the door opening, Blake looked into the mirror, and smiled.

Locking the door behind him, Matthew crossed the few, short steps between Blake and him. Blake turned and their arms reached out.

They kissed passionately and as their lips parted Matthew whispered, "I couldn't sleep last night thinking about you! All I could think about was us in the library and . . . fuck man, I beat off three times!"

Blake giggled. "I was some pissed when I had to drive my aunt home!" He looked into Matthew's dark eyes. "I, um, I sorta really like you, Matthew."

Matthew smiled. "Yeah?"

"Um, I'm not a virgin," Blake blurted suddenly. "I, um, I like guys, a lot!"

"And I like one guy a lot!" declared Matthew as he slowly slipped his hand up Blake's kilt. "I want . . ."

Groaning softly as he felt Matthew's fingers tweaking the head of his penis, Blake nodded his head slowly. "I'm feeling things for you I never felt about another guy and . . ." His fingers began fiddling with the zipper on Matthew's striped trousers. He reached in and found . . . naked flesh. "Matthew, you're not wearing underwear!" he gasped.

"Neither are you," returned Matthew. He moaned as he felt Blake's hand envelop his manhood. He looked at Blake. "I locked the door."

Wordlessly, Blake removed his hand from Matthew's trousers and slowly began to undo the leather belt that held up his kilt. "I know," he whispered. "I know."

Sipping his drink, Michael regarded the room filled with people, and smiled. The Order was about to be reborn and the seeds that The Gunner had planted were blossoming into fine young men. Michael felt in his soul that great things would come soon. He would rebuild a strong, vibrant Order. The succession was secure, and he knew in his heart that he had chosen well. His plans were slowly coming together and soon he could rest. There was still one very important plan that he hoped was going to work. He glanced at his watch and turned to the Major.

"Any news from downtown?" he asked pointedly.

The Major shook his head. "Not yet. When Minh, or Diem, make their move, Cousin Tommy will call."

Michael nodded. It was as he expected. The doctor had returned, and it would take time for Diem to make his arrangements. "The moment he calls," Michael replied cryptically.

The Major bobbed his head and motioned toward the door. "It is time, I think, for the Investiture."

Li Hung Chang, the proprietor of the Jade Doll restaurant, sat as he always sat, behind the cash register, near the double glass doors that led to Stewart Street. To his front and left the large room, filled with tables, bustled with activity, every table was occupied with men eating, drinking beer, smoking, arguing quietly in the way men do. Waiters, trays laden with steaming plates of food, or glasses and jugs of beer, hustled smoothly between the tables, their movements almost a ballet as they served, cleared, cleaned, and served again. The door from the kitchen opened as a waiter carried out a tray full of food and Chang heard the strident Cantonese tones of the cooks and kitchen staff as they worked and bickered happily. Chang smiled. Business was good.

All of the patrons were white. They were large men, strong men, rough men, stevedores and longshoremen without whom the docks could not operate. They worked long, backbreaking hours, unloading the ocean-going ships that at times seemed to fill every pier, with others anchored in Burrard Inlet, waiting their turn, although the anchorage was empty at the moment, as were many of the piers.

Chang didn't have to see the ships. He could not, in any case. The long line of brick and stone warehouses, and the dock entrances obscured his view beyond Stewart Street. He did, however, read the shipping news in the local papers. More ships meant more business, especially for his restaurant.

The old man knew without looking that there was an oil tanker taking on gasoline and other POL products at the Shell Oil Pier, which was far down Hastings, to the east. Chang was not interested in this pier at all. The men who serviced the ships loading and unloading there never came into his restaurant. He was far more interested in the two vessels alongside the piers across the road. One was a Panamanian-flagged general cargo ship. She was almost finished loading, and would sail with the evening tide, which would maker her owners happy. She had had a quick turnaround, which meant less docking fees. Owners, Chang knew, hated dockage fees, which ate greedily into profits. The longer a ship lay alongside, the more the fees and the less money the owners banked in Hong Kong, or Singapore.

On the other side of the pier, hidden behind the bulk of the British Pacific Trading warehouse, was a Greek tramp, scruffy, her black-painted hull streaked with rust, loading huge crates of machinery, her shipboard cranes moving overhead like skeletal birds of prey. She was behind schedule, which meant that the crowd of men in the room would be in a very happy mood. Delays in loading, especially on a Friday, meant overtime. Overtime meant more profits would pour into the main room, and into the back room, where Chang made more in a week than he did in a month out front.

The Jade Doll had become what amounted to a tradition. The place never closed and offered an eclectic menu, a mixture of Chinese and western-style dishes, all in man size portions, with plenty of "free" side dishes to keep even the stingiest of stevedores happy. The restaurant was licensed for beer, which was the staple drink of most of the men who worked the docks, and had an off premises license, which increased the popularity of the restaurant. A man who did not wish to linger could buy as many cases of beer over the bar as he wished, and drink them in the more comfortable confines of his home, or room, for many of the men who ate here lived lonely, solitary existences in one of the boarding houses that dotted the docklands.

As he took cash, made change, watched the main room and the waiters, Chang also kept an eye on the steady line of trucks of all makes and models, from enclosed semis 40-feet long, to flatbeds and small enclosed vans that moved in and out of the pier. Friday was always a busy day, and Chang was interrupted by the arrival of the beer deliveryman. He turned over his perch to his youngest grandson, inappropriately named Trevor - Chang disapproved of his countrymen's insistence on assimilating and giving their children Western names - and went out back to accept delivery of the kegs and crates of beer.

After paying off the deliveryman, Chang went through the kitchens and into the back room. This room was larger, and more finely appointed than the room out front, but then, in this room were generated the real profits. Most of the tables were empty, but that would change when the shifts changed across the road. He glanced at one of the dealers, who nodded slightly. The table was winning, but then the table almost always did. The odds were always with the house, as many a man had learned to his regret.

The back room of the Jade Doll was a casino. Here the longshoremen and stevedores could gamble in relative peace and quiet, and in the knowledge that the dice were not loaded, that the cards were not marked. Chang, who believed in an honest portion of food for a hard earned dollar, also believed in complete honesty in the gaming room. He offered black jack, craps, and poker. The dealers were expert, and never skimmed. A card turned was turned from the top of the deck, and never the bottom. It was Chang's way, and Michael Chan's way, and both profited thereby.

As he passed the bar, two ladies greeted Chang demurely. They were well dressed, and well behaved, or they would not have been sitting at Chang's bar. Their livelihood depended on Chang's goodwill. They were not streetwalkers, and while they plied the world's oldest profession, they gave the appearance of two very pretty young secretaries, obviously in well-paid jobs by their clothing, spare use of makeup, and manners. They were never drunk, because they drank only weak tea "shooters", or non-alcoholic drinks, and always took their customers out through the back entrance, and across the courtyard where they kept an apartment.

Chang tolerated the ladies because they were good for business. The patrons enjoyed their presence, bought them drinks, and those so inclined would take a break from their gaming to enjoy the pleasure the ladies offered - and endured the mostly good-natured ribbing that followed them out of the casino, for everyone knew that underneath the wigs and makeup and designer frocks were two young, quite handsome and, if rumour was to be believed, very experienced and well-endowed . . . males!

As it happened, the ladies were not one of the services the restaurant offered. Michael Chan, the true owner of the establishment, would never have allowed it. Chang had at first been reluctant to allow the two into his establishment, but had been persuaded by their assurances of good-conduct and by their elegant deportment. They also assured him that they would cause no trouble, and that they did not have a pimp. They were "working girls", independently so, and had no need for a man, except as a client, thank you.

At first Chang had hesitated at mentioning the ladies to Michael Chan, who was notoriously straight-laced in such matters, and never, under any circumstances, involved himself in prostitution. Chang had let the ladies work the room, so to speak, and when profits rose marginally, used this as leverage. He liked the two young men, although he did not avail himself of their services. He was very happy with his wife of 43 years.

Michael had at first frowned, but when he was reminded that a winner liked to celebrate his temporary wealth with a handsome woman on one arm, a good cigar in his mouth, and a bottle of the house's best champagne, he had relented. He had also laid down strict rules: no sex in the casino building, no minors, no cat fights over clients, and no token "fees" paid to Chang. Michael believed in giving his customers what they wanted, up to a point, and if two beautiful transvestites were what they wanted, so be it. Any trouble and they would be out, and Chang's eldest son would be sitting behind the cash register.

Duly warned, Chang had taken precautions, speaking to the ladies and, since everything worked out well, treated them with respect. The ladies in turn greeted Chang as an old and valued uncle, and never embarrassed him. They also obeyed the unspoken rule that the Chinese cooks, waiters and house staff were off limits, well, except for Chang's middle son, Hubie, whose serene, bespectacled demeanour hid a lustiness that surprised both ladies, not to mention the genitals of a Percheron. Hubie, and the ladies, gave lip service to Chang's restrictions, were always very discreet, and Hubie only crossed the courtyard when he thought his father wasn't looking. The ladies were equally discreet. Hubie was very gentle, and very generous, and never quibbled or argued about their fees.

In one corner of the casino, Hubie was counting cash. The day's take had been very satisfying, as had his visit with the ladies before his father came around. Hubie was the bookkeeper, and handled all the money. When his father stopped by Hubie showed him the figures and then carried on with making up the weekly donation to the "Police Benevolent Fund". The patrol car always arrived promptly at 3:00 every Friday afternoon, and Hubie liked to be ready for them.

After reviewing the day's take with Hubie, Chang returned to the restaurant, and asked Trevor, in Cantonese, "Anything?"

Shaking his head, Trevor replied, "No one."

Both men knew what they were looking for. Cousin Tommy's instructions had been very clear.

"Go into the back and prepare," ordered Chang softly. "Let no one see you," he emphasized.

Trevor nodded and left. Chang resumed his seat, watching the street, and watching the customers as they came in or left. Chang expected no trouble, for few knew of his relationship with Michael Chan. Of course, that did not mean that he did not take precautions. He was prudent man and for 40 years he had sat on his stool, secure in the knowledge that behind the large mural of Singapore that decorated the wall, was a small room, where a man sat, watching always, a shotgun in his hands, and that just outside the main room, in a smaller room, Trevor was preparing the small arsenal of weapons that guaranteed the serenity of the Jade Doll.

Chang watched a young man enter and look nervously around. The boy, for he seemed very young, was dressed in the nondescript garb of a merchant sailor: dark, greasy trousers, a soiled shirt, once white, a pea coat, with a watch cap pulled low over his dark, black, curly hair. In one hand he carried a large, black carryall. He looked like a sailor just off one of the ships looking for a room.

As Logan Hartsfield approached the till, Chang rose. He gave no indication that he knew the young man - one never knew who was watching after all. To anyone looking, Logan was just another sailor off one of the ships in search of a room, or a meal. He had, however, been told to expect the young man.

Logan, feeling slightly silly in the fancy dress outfit that Eddy Tsang had insisted he wear, returned Chang's indifference and asked if a room was available. He raised the heavy carryall to emphasize his need to "store his gear."

Chang pressed a button hidden under the ledge that held the cash register and Trevor appeared. Chang nodded toward his grandson and Logan followed the boy through a side door and up a steep flight of stairs. At the landing they turned and entered a large, sunny room overlooking the street.

Logan quickly pushed aside the net curtains covering the windows and peered out. The street was busy, and looked normal. "Any strangers?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Not yet," replied Trevor, nodding approvingly. The man knew what he was doing. Always check out the place first.

Logan placed the carryall on the garish carpet and opened it, revealing a hard plastic, metal banded carrying case. "Where do you want this?" Logan asked Trevor.

"Right there for now," replied Trevor. He knelt on one knee, quickly opened the case, and smiled as his hand stroked the hardwood stock of the weapon. "Beautiful," he breathed. He looked up to see Logan looking back at him. "A beautiful weapon," he told Logan. "Do you know it?"

Logan shook his head. "Haven't a clue. I was told to deliver it to the marksman. Where is he?"

Trevor chuckled. He gently, as if lifting a baby from its cradle, took this weapon in his arms. "This, my friend," he said in English, is the XM21 Sniper Rifle. "It is accurate to 750 yards and fires a 7.62mm cartridge." He paused and looked into the carry. "There should be a scope."

"It's there, under the rifle padding," replied Logan. He looked carefully at Trevor. "You know the weapon?"

"Fuck yeah!" exclaimed Trevor. He grinned. "The only weapon I know better is my dick!" he pulled up the black foam divider of the weapons case. "Good." He held up the scope. "A Leatherwood 3x-9x Adjustable Ranging Telescope. A good, solid scope."

"I wouldn't know," said Logan as he watched Trevor open the breach of the weapon and squint down the barrel. "It's clean, in more ways than one," he advised with a grin.

"First time out of the Aberdeen Arsenal, unless I'm mistaken," replied Trevor as he continued to examine his new toy. "Ammunition?" he asked casually.

Logan reached into the inner pocket of his pea coat, unconsciously revealing the butt end of an automatic pistol in a leather holster. He pulled out a packet of ammunition. "Eddy Tsang says there's more if you need it."

Placing the rifle back in its case, Trevor shook his head. He began ranging the ART through the open window. "I only need one shot."

Logan's eyes widened in surprise. "You're the marksman?"

Trevor nodded. "I get by," he said, not wishing to reveal the true extent of his expertise.

"Eddy Tsang says that the weapon has been sighted and adjusted and it's ready," replied Logan.

"We'll see," returned Trevor. He could not very well fire some ranging shots across Stewart Street but he could, and would, test the balance of the rifle and calibrate the scope to his satisfaction, not Eddy Tsang's. He glanced at Logan. His enthusiasm over the superb weapon had made Trevor forget his manners. "You hungry? I can have a tray sent up."

"More tired than anything else," said Logan. "I've been on the go since before dawn."

Trevor nodded toward a closed door. "There's a bedroom in there. You won't be disturbed. My grandmother is away with friends."

"I could use a lie down," agreed Logan. "But I can't." He looked around. "Is there another way out?"

"Back stairs," replied Trevor. "It goes through the kitchens and into the courtyard. Where's your car?"

"Around the corner on Woodland. A black Buick."

"Give me your keys," said Trevor as he held out his hand. "I'll bring it around to the back. No point in drawing any more attention than you have to."

"Strangers around?" Logan asked again pointedly.

"Not yet."

"That will change."

Trevor saw them first. They walked slowly past the plate glass windows, their dark eyes studying the busy traffic of the pier across Steward Street. They were young, and since they made no effort to hide their interest in the pier, inexperienced. They were also, by their dress and swaggering, transplanted Saigon Cowboys, Vietnamese punks, gang members, and very much out of place in the area.

Smiling, Trevor nodded his head and spoke to his Grandfather. "It looks like we have company."

Chang's eyes lowered as he saw the two young men stroll nonchalantly past the windows. He said nothing, his eyes taking in the swagger, the short, close-cropped, black hair, the trousers slung low on their hips, the wild, multi-patterned shirts, and the sports coats each wore, the better to hide . . . what?

"They will be armed. And they will have transportation," observed Chang as he checked the latest receipts for errors. He nodded to two longshoreman who had just finished their lunch and were returning to their work across the crowded roadway.

"I'll take a look around," replied Trevor as he left the counter area and walked toward the kitchens. "You gonna be okay, Gramps?"

Pleased at his grandson's concern, for there was no guarantee that the two strangers had been sent by Minh, he nodded and reached under the cash register shelf to touch the butt of a .45 calibre pistol. "If they are gang bangers, come to steal, I am ready." He raised his eyes at the mural that dominated the far side of the large chamber. "Who is in position?"

"Gary," said Trevor as he walked through the door leading to the kitchen.

Chang nodded. Gary Wang was a very reliable young man, the son of a good friend.

The door opened and the two Vietnamese youths entered. Their eyes darted around the room, looking for obvious guards. They saw none, for there were none. A waiter hurried forward. "A table?" he asked.

"Yeah, near the window," replied Van Trang, his dark eyes feral and threatening. "You sell beer?"

"Of course," replied the waiter as led the two men to a table directly in front of one of the windows.

Trang gave their order and looked through the plate glass. "This is perfect and these dumb Chinks don't have a clue."

Billy Ng gave a "What do you expect? They're Chinks" shrug. "No security, I see."

"Here or across the road," replied Trang contemptuously. "Except for the old fuck."

Ng followed Trang's gaze and watched an elderly Commissionaire as he checked the paperwork on an arriving transport truck. He said nothing, however. Van was the boss on this operation.

Chang watched the two Vietnamese for a while. They were here not to rob, but to observe. That meant that whatever plans Minh had were now afoot. Trevor returned and muttered in Hakka, "Around the corner."

"You know what to do," replied Chang, his benign expression never changing.

Trevor returned to the kitchen and picked up the wall phone. He dialled he number and was not surprised when the telephone on the other end was answered after one ring.

"They are here," he said into the handset, and then hung up the telephone.

They were in a small linen closet. Jake was weeping quietly, his face buried in the valley of Alex's shoulder as he held his friend as close as he could. "I thought . . . I thought I'd lost you!" Jake declared passionately. "I . . . fuck!"

"I know, I know," sympathised Alex. He reached up, cupped Jake's chin in his hand and lifted his friend's face. He kissed Jake on the lips, a gentle kiss filled with emotion. "I wanted you, I never wanted to leave you," he whispered.

"I called," replied Jake earnestly. "I called but your daddy said you'd left. I didn't know what to do!"

"I wanted to write, but I couldn't," said Alex. He kissed Jake again, and then just lowered his head to take in Jake's aroma. "I used to lie in bed at night, and just, just wish that we were together again. I remember everything. I pictured you every night, every part of you!" whispered Alex. "I . . ." His voice trailed off and then he spoke. "I fell in love with you back in 'Nam," he finished simply.

Jake drew back and leaned against the long cabinet that filled one wall of the small room. "When we mustered out, and I saw you for the last time, I . . ." He paused and took a deep breath. "I just stood there in that fucking bus terminal and watched you leave! I should have grabbed you and held you and . . . Damn it, Alex, why? Why didn't we just say 'fuck it' and find someplace? Why?"

Alex took a deep breath as well. "Jake, I wanted to be with you as much as you wanted to be with me. I remember our nights together, and I remember how good it felt, how wonderful it felt, how right it felt! As to why, well, let's face it, Jake, two guys together? I know, you know, what it's like back home. I know what my folks would do if I told them I was in love with another man! Hell, I'd be lucky if my daddy didn't shoot me!"

"Alex . . ." began Jake as he raised his hand to stroke Alex's smooth cheek. "We loved each other!"

"And we still do!" exclaimed Alex firmly. "But we had to consider what would happen if our love became known! Jake, you have a wife, and a kid! I had to consider that, and I had to consider what would happen to you! I couldn't bear the thought of you being hurt! Maybe I loved you too much! Please try to understand."

"I do understand," replied Jake with a slight nod. His dark eyes grew darker. "Fag, queer, homo, I can hear it all now." He sighed and looked toward the tiled ceiling. "We were afraid, Alex!" he stated without anger. "We were both afraid of what people would say about us, and to us!" He glanced at Alex. "Remember what they used to say in the Marines . . . better dead than queer?"

"Yeah, I remember," grunted Alex. "I also remember that we weren't alone." His rueful laugh disturbed the silence of the room. "Half the guys in the platoon were getting their rocks off with the other half, but that was just two buddies helping each other out. That was okay because that's all it was . . . two guys getting their rocks off. They weren't in love - but we were."

"Yeah," said Jake glumly. "It was all right for them, but not for us! Beatin' your buddy off was okay. Getting beat off was okay. Sucking your buddy's dick was pushin' it but okay if he sucked yours!" Again he looked at Alex. "I was there. I know what went on."

"And so long as they didn't cross the line, didn't go all the way, nobody was queer!" growled Alex. "It was hypocritical, it wasn't right, but that was the way it was! We crossed the line, Jake. We didn't fuck, we made love." He reached out and once again took Jake in his arms.

"I love you more than life itself. I went home and thought and thought about what we'd done, what we'd been to each other and then I'd think that I couldn't, wouldn't be your fuck buddy. I wanted you Jake, I wanted you all the way." He embraced Jake tightly. "I used to get up in the morning and go down to the milking barn and set up those stupid cows, and sit back and think."

"If you ask me, you think too much!" groused Jake, but he smiled when he said it.

"I also used to, well, um, you know," said Alex, embarrassed.

"The cows weren't the only things gettin' milked?" ventured Jake. His eyes sparkled as he thought about what Alex had done in the milking barn.

"Well, yeah," admitted Alex with a grin. "Damn, I sure am glad my daddy, or one of my dopey brothers, didn't catch me!" He ran his hand down Jake's strong back. "I used to pretend it was your hand on my dick again. Somehow that made it all the better."

"Alex, you never, you never found another guy?" asked Jake, surprised. Alex was a handsome, virile man.

"Nope. But then, look where I lived! Buttfuck, Nowhere! Just me, my family, and the cows!"

Jake couldn't help laughing. "Same with me. I used to take long showers. Sometimes I went riding and found me a quiet place and just sat there and yeah, more than once I slimed the grass. Can't say it did the grass any good, but it sure made me feel better!"

Alex joined in Jake's laughter. "Anyway, I got tired of the cows, and milking, if you catch my drift. It was nice at home, but I couldn't get you out of my mind. A couple of times I packed my bag and damn, Jake I was gonna head north to find you."

"But you didn't" accused Jake. "Why? Okay, you were afraid of what other folks would say, afraid of what your daddy would do, but you . . . damn it Alex!"

"Jake, your wife?" prompted Alex gently.

Drawing back, Jake looked at Alex intensely. "I never touched her after I got back. Part of it was because of you, and I can't deny that. The first night I got home I figured okay, you, and that part of my life was over. It was time to get back to the real world. I was lyin' in bed, wearin' nothin' but my birthday suit, thinkin', okay, gotta do what a man's gotta do. She's expectin' me to restake my claim. Only two things wrong: I wasn't interested, and she wasn't either!"

"What?"

"Alex, I come to realize, lying there, as soft as a wet noodle, that I just wasn't interested! I also come to realize that I never was!"

"Now you've lost me," said Alex with a shake of his head.

"It was like this," began Jake. "I married Emmy right before I left for Basic. I'd been keepin' company with her since I was ten! Hell, we lived next door, and folks expected us to be together, to get married. I liked her, sure, and I'll admit that I fucked her silly every chance I got."

"But you weren't in love with her?" questioned Alex.

"Nope!" replied Jake with a firm nod. "We was doin' what everybody expected us to do. I was a boy, and a boy fucks girls. Emmy was a girl, and a girl fucks boys." He shrugged expressively. "She was a wild fuck, Alex. She wanted it all the time, and I obliged. Her daddy looked the other way, and my daddy, all he said was I should be careful, but if I did knock her up it was all right, 'cause we were goin' to wed anyway."

"Did you, is that why you got married?" asked Alex.

"No. God knows how or why, but she never got pregnant before we were married," replied Jake with a grin. "Mebe I was shootin' blanks. Anyway, she told me she was pregnant right before I shipped out to 'Nam." He laughed ruefully at the thought of what had happened on his leave before shipping out. He and Emmy had fucked like minks for a week! "Anyway, I didn't have a shotgun wedding.

Alex started. "But if you weren't in love with her, why did marry her?" he asked softly.

Jake shrugged. "It was the expected thing to do. I was goin' off to war, and she was willin' 'cause she'd been my girl. Folks expected us to get married, so we did. And then the baby came along after that."

"And then I came along, I suppose?" muttered Alex.

"Don't!" snapped Jake. "In the first place, like I said, I only fucked her, and married her, because it was expected of me. There was something else."

"What?"

"Deep down I was never really happy," said Jake. "I'd get off, yeah, but it was just gettin' off! It used to bug the shit out of me because all the guys said it was great, wonderful, earth shakin' to fuck a girl!"

"It wasn't?" asked Alex, incredulous.

"It was just gettin' off, and I never . . . well, we'd sneak off and do it, and it was nice, but there was always somethin' missin'." Jake scratched his chin reflectively. "When we were waitin' at Ton San Nhut for transport in country some of the boys finagled a pass to go downtown and get their ashes hauled. I stayed back."

"You did?" Alex asked, again surprised. Jake seemed to be a normally sexed young man.

"Don't sound so surprised," sniffed Jake. "I used the excuse that hey, I was married, and I just come off my honeymoon! It worked."

"You didn't have the urge?"

"Nope. After basic I went home on leave and Emmy and me, we fucked every which way but up! Until Khe Sahn I never made love with any one." He impulsively kissed Alex. "And you know what?"

"What?" asked Alex as he returned Jake's kiss.

"It was like my honeymoon should have been! The earth shook, and not because Charlie was lobbin' 155s at us!"

Alex laughed quietly. "Me too! Damn, Jake, I got to 'Nam and the first thing I knew I was on a truck heading north! I didn't have a chance to get horny, much less laid!"

"Khe San was good for us, Alex," said Jake. "I made love for the first time, and for the first time when I finished it wasn't just a fuck! It was something deeper, something wonderful, Alex. I want those feelings again." He grasped Alex's arm tightly. "I want them again!" he repeated earnestly. "I'm a free man, you don't have to worry about my wife, or anything else!"

"What?" Alex drew back. "What . . . what happened?"

Jake's eyes grew dark. "When I got home everything seemed the same, 'cept they weren't. The house was there, Emmy was there, and my folks, everybody, and I still got the feelin' that something was wrong. I figured that the first thing Emmy would do would be to jump my bones. She didn't. My Momma had this pinched look she gets on her face when somethin's bothering her, and my Daddy, well, he just looked meaner than usual. There was a party, and all the folks from around came to the house but ya know, they were, well, it was like when we were in 'Nam and you got that feelin' at the back of your neck. Ya knew Charlie was around, but you couldn't see him you, couldn't hear him and fuck, ya knew something was wrong."

"The war?" asked Alex. "You know the way it was, when we got back. A lot of folks hated the war."

Jake shook his head. "Nope. It wasn't the war. Folks in my neck of the woods didn't take the coward's way out. And my daddy was right pleased with my Navy Cross."

"So what was it?"

"Well, I should have figured it out when we got into bed. I gotta admit, Alex, that sex with Emmy wasn't bad, and she sure loved doin' it." He shrugged. "I stripped down, figurin' that she was expectin' to get back in the saddle and she just rolled away. She told me it was that time of the month!"

"Well, that happens!" said Alex. "What's so strange about that?"

"Nothing. It was what she offered to do after she told me she couldn't fuck me!"

"Which was?"

"She offered to suck my dick!" Jake shuddered slightly. "Alex, from the day I first started seein' her, until the day I left for 'Nam, Emmy never offered to suck me. She'd beat me off, but puttin' my dick in her mouth was 'nasty' and she wouldn't do it. 'Course, once we started fuckin' it didn't matter. Why, I asked myself, did she all of sudden want to suck me off? Another question, and another thing that wasn't right at all."

"So, what happened?"

"She went down on me, and Alex, she was good - not as good as when you did it 'cause a woman can't know all the right spots to hit - and I warned her when I was close and damned if she didn't take my load . . . and swallow it! God damn, God damn, now I knew somethin' wasn't right."

"So what happened?"

"Well, I was surprised, naturally, but I didn't say anything. That went on for about four, five days. Then I went into town to do some shoppin' and stuff, and I got finished sooner that I figured and drove out to the ranch. My momma was off somewhere, doin' church things, and daddy was on the range. I saw my brother's truck parked in the yard, but I didn't think too much of it. He was always poppin' in to see momma, and I just went into the house expectin' to see him and say hey. I went into the kitchen, which is where we always sat, but it was empty. Then I heard some gruntin' and groanin' from the bedroom and . . ."

"Your brother?" gasped Alex.

"Yep, and doin' her doggy style. Emmy saw me and started yellin' to wake the dead! My brother, he pulled out and dove through the window and took off, buck assed nekkid! I didn't know whether to stop laughin' or shoot 'em both."

"You didn't . . .?"

"Shoot 'em?" finished Jake. "Naw. But I did get the whole story. It seems that when I was at Parris Island, Emmy got lonely and took up with my brother. He's the one who taught her how to suck cock, the little dicked bastard! He's also the one who knocked her up! He's Little Emmy's daddy, not me. That's why the baby came along only seven months after I left. "

Jake clenched his fist, the knuckles of his fingers growing white at the memory of his wife's frantic confession of infidelity.

"With me away again in Vietnam, and her liking dick as much as she did, she went back to my brother. She couldn't deny what was going on, just as she couldn't deny that she was pregnant again - about four months gone, she figger'd." He sighed phlegmatically. "Now I ain't exactly the sharpest tack in the box, and I admit I gotta drop my drawers to count to 21, but even I saw clear that my marriage wasn't goin' to work and wasn't worth a pinch o' coon shit."

"Oh, Jake," commiserated Alex. "You deserved better!"

"I wasn't too upset," said Jake flatly. "Like I said, I wasn't interested anymore. I just packed my stuff and drove off. I guess I'm divorced now, or close to it. Anyway, the first night I stopped at a motel and tried to call you, but you'd already left, so I just drove on. I finally ended up in Chicago. I knew a guy from our battery that lived there - Charlie Browning - and he let me have the couch until I got my act together. I've been driftin' around ever since, and then I got a letter from another buddy, Jack Phillips, tellin' me about workin' up here. Jack's letter said that there was good money in it, and since I didn't have anything better to do, I drove over to New York and signed up."

Alex smiled slightly. "It's a good job, Jake, and Michael Chan is a good boss." Then Alex added daringly, "He understands about . . . about people." Swallowing, Alex said, "I have a room of my own, in a cottage in South Village, and . . ."

Jake caught Alex's meaning. "I'd like to see it, Alex, and maybe stay a while with you."

Alex nodded. "Soon. But there are things going on that I have to attend to." He reached out to stroke Jake's face. "I'm a protection officer, and my principal is leaving for Quebec City early tomorrow morning. I'm going with him."

"He that young kid with the green eyes?" asked Jake as his hand drifted down to Alex's crotch. "Hmm, seems like somebody is glad to see me!" he whispered as he felt the swelling under Alex's striped trousers.

"More that you know," groaned Alex in reply. He reciprocated. "And Little Jake sure feels happy."

"He is." Jake suddenly pulled away. "I want to be with you, Alex. I want to feel me in you, and to feel you in me. I want to wake up in the morning and feel you warm against me. I want to be with you, make a life with you."

Alex's eyes softened. "Jake, it's all I want, all I've thought about since we left 'Nam. Now that you've come back into my life I never want you to leave."

"There's a 'but' comin', isn't there?" asked Jake.

"I'm afraid so," replied Alex softly. "That 'kid with the green eyes' is my responsibility - and don't ever underestimate him. He's a kid, but he's not a kid, if you can understand that. I don't know the whole story, but he's the leader, he's the reason we're here, all duded up."

"Things are happening, Jake. As I said, we're off to Quebec City, and then, well, I don't know." He regarded Jake a moment. "Michael Chan, well he's got a lot of different business interests, and a lot of enemies. Then you're a security officer, you're going to be asked to do things, things that might go against the grain . . ."

Jake frowned. "Look, Alex, I'm not stupid," he began, dropping the simple country boy act. "I've seen the patrols, and they're armed to the teeth, and not with hunting rifles. Those boys in the dining room, Bill and Avram?"

Alex nodded.

"They're carrying," Jake observed needlessly. "So is Captain Sheppard. So are you and so am I. It goes with the job, doesn't it?" he finished casually.

"Yes."

"So then, I expect I'll be told sooner or later what's going on."

"Sooner than you think," thought Alex. "Jake, Michael Chan is a gangster. He's also the Emperor of Chinatown, which means he controls Chinatown. He also has a lot of what he calls 'business interests', most of which are not exactly kosher."

Jake shrugged. "So?"

Alex waved his hand, indicating the linen closet, and more importantly, the house. "This place is a fortress. You're going to be one of the guards." Alex frowned in thought. "No, maybe more than that, because you and that red-headed kid are here, in the house."

"That means something?"

"It means a lot," answered Alex. "It means that if you're good, and I know you are, it's been noticed and you've become a part of Michael Chan's personal guard."

"And Rusty?" asked Jake, surprised.

"Yes, I think so," replied Alex. "And that means, well, you're going to see things, and be asked to do things, that you might think twice about doing."

"Michael Chan has enemies?" asked Jake carefully.

"Yes."

"Enemies who shoot first and don't ask questions?"

"Yes."

Jake shrugged. "Okay."

"That's all you have to say . . . okay?" Alex's eyes with were wide with his surprise at Jake's easy acceptance of the situation. "Jake, you do know that you will be armed, and be expected to use the weapons?" he asked.

"Figured," Jake replied easily. "Folks don't usually hand you an automatic and expect you not to use it. Alex, I ain't exactly been livin' the righteous life since comin' home from Vietnam. I've seen and done some things I thought I'd never do, some things I ain't exactly proud of doin'." He searchingly at Alex. "I'll do what I gotta do." He cocked his head and his dark eyes softened. "But this ain't about that now, is it?"

Alex took a deep breath. "Jake, I want to make a life with you, but you have to know that my life is bound up with Michael Chan, and with The Phantom."

"Who?"

"The 'green-eyed kid'," replied Alex. "He's called 'The Phantom', and he's, well, damn it, I can't explain it! I just know that he's a part of me, and I'm a part of him. He trusts me, and he loves me and don't get you're knickers in a twist because . . ."

"My knickers are not in a twist," returned Jake soberly. "I know you. You've never slept with anyone other than me, just like I've never slept with anyone other than you." He grinned sheepishly. "Except for Emmy, of course. You were the first guy, Alex. You were the only guy, and the only person I gave all of me to."

"And you were the only one I gave all of me to!" responded Alex. "What I feel for The Phantom isn't what I feel for you. It's not sexual at all! It's just that somehow I feel . . . damn it, he looks at me, and I feel as if I'm his brother, no, more than his brother, his brother, his lover, his friend, his . . . everything! I see him when he looks at the other guys, and I know that they're special to him, in the same way that I am special to him! I see warmth and love and trust in those green eyes, Jake. He's a part of me Jake, and you have to understand that!"

"I understand, Alex," Jake replied. His dark eyes brightened. "Just now, when I talked with him, I felt . . . something! It was like a bond was forming. That's the only way I can describe it! I felt, I don't know, like I wanted to be with him."

Alex laughed quietly. "Well, damn man, it looks like you're selected."

"For what?"

"The Band of Brothers, the Tapestry! You can't fight it, Jake!"

Jake squirmed. "Well, if I understood it, I might. But I don't so I'll just play the cards I have and see how it all works out."

"I can tell you how it will work out," responded Alex. "You're going to be one of The Phantom's knights. You're going to be one of The Phantom's brothers, and you're going to be a part of the Tapestry."

"Just like that?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Jake drawled. "So, what about us?"

"We can make a life together," replied Alex. "If you want."

"I want," said Jake with a grin. "As for The Phantom, I don't have a choice, I guess. As far as Michael Chan is concerned, I'm not going to walk away. If he wants me to be his guard, and if I have to shoot to protect him, I will. I'm a Marine, Alex, I'll do my duty."

"It's more than that, Jake," said Alex. "I just want you to understand that while you're my love, you're not my first love. You're in my heart, as you always have been . . ."

Jake nodded his understanding. "I know. It's like with the Marine Corps. You might have a wife, and kids, but first place was and is always with the Corps. You're still a Marine, Alex, but the Corps, and me, are secondary. I can live with that - as long as I have you."

"You've had me from the first night, Jake." Alex straightened his clothes and reached for the doorknob. "We have to go. As much as I want to throw you on the deck and have you, we have bigger things to consider."

Jake stopped Alex. "But we will be together?"

"Yes. I want to be with you, but not here. I want to take you into my arms, to make love to you, but not here, and not now." Alex's passion for Jake filled his words. "Ever since I left 'Nam you are all I've thought of. I want us to be together, Jake, but we'll do it right! Right! We'll be together, but we won't hide away in some cabin in the woods!" He smiled his thin smile. "No more disappointments, Jake, it's us, together, and to hell with what other people think."

Jake beamed. He leaned and kissed Alex lightly. "Fuck 'em all except six." He slipped his arm around Alex's waist. "Duty calls, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

Sighing, Jake nodded. "I'd better get used to it, I suppose." He reached out and opened the door. Turning, he looked at Alex. "This, this knight thing? Are you a part of it?"

"Not yet," replied Alex simply.

"And me?"

"When you were talking to The Phantom, and he looked at you, what did you see, what did you feel?"

Jake paused. "Um, I can't explain it. I felt . . . nice? Warm?" he asked tentatively, hoping that Alex could explain the feelings he had.

Laughing quietly, Alex indicated the door. "Jake, if that's what you felt then you are already a part of this 'knight thing'."

While Jake returned to the pantry, where Ginger ribbed him about dropping a tray, and playfully threatened to make him pay for the shattered glasses, Alex returned to the drawing room. Looking around, he noted the absence of Ned. "Where is he?" he asked Bill Estes.

Bill nodded toward the windows. "I saw him walking on the terrace a minute ago. Guess he's doing a walkaround."

"Do you want to talk about it?" Tyler asked as he settled down on the terrace steps beside Ned, who had been staring morosely out across the manicured lawns.

"Nothing to talk about," returned Ned. "I'm just . . . thinking, and you wouldn't be interested anyway!"

"Bullshit!" rumbled Harry as he settled himself down beside Tyler. "You look like a bear with a sore pecker - which ain't a pretty sight and . . ."

"Really, Harry, have you ever seen a bear with a sore pecker?" inquired Sean as he sat on the other side of Ned.

"Well, no," admitted Harry. "But Ned must have, 'cause he sure looks like what one would look like!"

Both Tyler and Sean laughed. Ned did not. "You guys want something?" he asked bluntly.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," returned Tyler easily, ignoring Ned's surliness. "It's just that something's bothering you and we would like to help if we can."

"Why? I'm nothing to you," snapped Ned.

Ned's words were answered with a chorus of "Ooohhhs". Harry shook his head. "You can't be more wrong!"

"Come on," replied Ned heatedly. "I'm just a . . . a glorified servant!" He hung his head and shook it. "And not a very good one!"

Tyler, Sean and Harry exchanged looks. Both Harry and Sean nodded to Tyler, who said slowly, "First of all you're a protection officer, which is a little higher on the food chain than a 'glorified servant'! Second of all, we like you, and we consider you to be our friend."

"But more importantly, when Phantom said that he liked the cut of your jib," continued Harry, "it meant more than you'll ever know."

"You are a part of us Ned," said Sean firmly. "You can't get away from it."

Shaking his head, Ned laughed grimly. "A part of you? I don't understand! And thanks to Bill Estes everyone knows my 'jib' isn't cut!"

"That's what refits are for," said Harry deadpan. "But Sean is right. For some reason Phantom sees something in you that we don't see." He shrugged. "Just as he saw something in us that we don't see. We're a part of his Tapestry, and so are you."

Tyler placed his hand on Ned's shoulder. "Look, Ned, whether you like it or not we're your brothers now. You might not understand the how and the why, and maybe we don't either. But we are your brothers, and we're here to help, if you'll let us!"

Even more confused, Ned stared at Tyler, Harry and Sean in turn. "But I . . . I tried to buy your friendship - I let you win at poker, I tried to play the big hunter, and I fucked that up! I wasn't very nice to any of you, and I looked down on you because I thought you were just a bunch of kids!"

"Spoken like a true officer," sniffed Harry. "They think were just a bunch of kids, too!"

"Harry, that is not true," snapped Sean. He turned to look at Ned. "To some we are just kids. To others, those who know us, know that we are much more that that!"

"Ned, you made a couple of mistakes. It doesn't matter," said Tyler sadly. "We've all made mistakes, Sean, Harry, me. We're the Senior Chiefs and we've fucked up ourselves so we're hardly in a position to fault you!"

"I'm not an officer, and never was!" protested Ned. "But I am an asshole!"

Taken aback by Ned's coldness and angry tone, Tyler thought a moment. "Well, I suppose we can all say that at one time or another we were assholes," he said presently. "And we're not officers, so that makes us even."

"So you're sometime assholes and senior NCOs," returned Ned. "Big deal! You made your mistakes someplace else. Me, I made my here, in front of my friends! I went out this morning thinking I would show you how a real soldier tracks his enemies. I was going to show you what a real soldier acts like! I deliberately went out to make fools out of you and your friends and . . ."

"Blew it big time," interposed Sean. He shook his head. "Look, Ned, you underestimated us. It was not so much that you were going to make fools out of us, as it was you thought that we were fools, little boys who didn't know their ass from their elbow. I also think that us being Sea Cadets - Navy, if you will, you assumed wrongly that we had no experience in the woods."

"And if I'd been smart enough, or experienced enough, I would have found that out before I went off chasing shadows!" growled Ned. His face softened and for a moment the others thought that he was going to cry.

"Guys, I appreciate what you're doing," Ned said, his voice not quite a whisper, "but, well, I had a dream, a foolish, childish dream! I come from trash and I thought that if I could show people how good I was, then I'd be on the road to something better!" He looked around. "You see this place?"

They nodded.

"I come from dirt! You guys, you can't know what I am! I lived in a shack! I slept in a bed with two of my brothers." His poverty weighing heavily on him, Ned continued, "You're quality folk. Me, I'm white trash. You never had to depend on the welfare for your clothes, even your drawers! Where I come from, the mines are clapped out, the dirt is clapped out, and the people are clapped out! You never had to get up in the mornin' and go out back to take a piss! You never had to set down for breakfast day after day and see nothin' but a plate o' grits! You never had to take a bath in an old corrugated tub that left your butt lookin' like the tail end of ring-tailed coon! And you sure as shit didn't have to do it in the kitchen, with your momma and brothers lookin' on!"

"Well, no," agreed Harry. "We had indoor plumbing." He looked seriously at Ned. "But I ain't gentry! I live on a farm, with my parents and brothers - I have six - and we work hard for what we have. We aren't rich by any stretch, and okay, we've been luckier than most, but don't look for a butler or a maid in my house, because we don't have any!"

"And while I admit that my parents are well off, I wouldn't call us special," Tyler said. "We have a nice house, and I have my own room, and yes, my own bathroom, but all that means is that my father works hard and pays the bills. That doesn't make me any better that you, Ned."

"And I would hardly call my family 'quality folk'," said Sean. "My dad makes a decent living, and like Tyler, I live in a nice house, in a nice neighbourhood, and I have my own room and bath, but at the end of the day, come time for me to go to university, I have to pay my own way! There just isn't the money!"

"But you are going to the university," snapped Ned. "I didn't have the chance! Hell, I had to sell my huntin' rifle to get the money for the bus to Charleston to join up." He stood up abruptly and walked down the steps, and turned to stare at the facade of Michael's house.

"When I was growin' up I had a friend. His daddy owned the local general store. He lived in a big house, with clean floors, and slept in a bed with clean sheets, alone! He had a piano in the front parlour and God, could he play! He loved me, and I loved him, and I thought that if I work hard, if I impress the right people, I could have what he had! It's what I wanted! And I blew it! I tried to impress people all right, and look what happened! I ended up hog-tied in the middle of a field, with guys I wanted to like me, trust me, throwin' money at me, takin' pity on me!"

"That is not true!" growled Tyler. He stood and faced Ned. "You were so anxious to impress us that you cheated at cards! You let us win, and that was wrong!"

Neither Harry nor Sean had ever seen Tyler so angry. "We did not take pity on you! We wanted you to understand that . . ." He looked piercingly at Ned. "When you were in Vietnam, you were in a platoon?"

"Yeah."

"You lived with your platoon mates, slept with them, ate with them, and when they were hungry, you shared your rations with them?"

"Yeah, um, yes."

"When they hurt, you hurt. You slept with them at night to keep them warm?"

"Yes."

"You were brothers!" It was a statement, not a question.

"Well, yes, I suppose we were, a Band of Brothers," replied Ned.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Tyler. "And because you were brothers you didn't cheat them at cards, you didn't lie to them. You held them close!"

"Yes," said Ned softly. "Yes."

"Well, that is exactly what we are!" growled Tyler. "We're brothers, and it may come as a surprise, or maybe a shock to you, but we want you to be one of us, a brother! Okay, you're not perfect, but then, fuck Ned!" Tyler forced himself to calm down.

"Ned, you made a mistake, a mistake in misjudging us. Okay. Learn by that mistake. As I learned by my mistake!" Tyler finished heavily.

Ned did not reply. His mind was reeling. Did these men really mean what they said? Was it possible that he had exchanged the brotherhood of arms for something he suspected to be greater?

"You worry about a small, insignificant event," Tyler said. "My mistake could have cost me my career in the Navy, could have jeopardized the lives of my friends! I made a misjudgement and it took The Phantom to save my ass, at least from myself."

"This . . . Phantom . . . he's very important to you?" asked Ned.

"Yes. He loves me, he trusts me, hell, just as he loves and trusts all of us. He's not afraid to show that love, to act on that love. He did something so . . . terrible, yet so wonderful, that I can never forget what he did."

Sean, who had only heard hints about what The Phantom had done, stared at Tyler, and wondered if he would ever know the true story.

Tyler seemed to read Sean's thoughts. He was speaking to Ned, but looking at Sean when he said, "I do not have the right to tell you what Phantom did. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you. I can only tell you that . . ."

Tyler looked wistful. "There was a cadet. He was evil. He was a racist and a bigot, and I knew it. He hated, Ned, hated like you would never believe. And I knew!" Tyler's pink face turned red with the anger he felt at what he considered his greatest misstep. "I thought that I could reason with him, show him the right way, use common sense and courtesy. I tried to be his friend, the nice guy looking after a wayward friend."

"Tyler," cautioned Harry softly.

"No! Let me finish!" snapped Tyler. "Ned has to understand that we all make mistakes, and that I am not any better than he is!!" He turned to Ned. "The cadet was and is a venal, selfish, uncaring boy. He didn't want my friendship - he wanted me, if not dead, at least punished for what he thought I was - gay. He believed in a world that didn't contain people like me, or Blacks, or Hispanics, or Jews. To him I was no more than a pile of dog shit on the pavement. He hated, oh God, how he hated! He didn't want to be my brother - he wanted to be my enemy! There's an old saying that evil flourishes when good men do nothing."

Tyler slammed his fist against his thigh. "I tried to use reason and common sense and even though I knew what the cadet was doing, writing letters, spying, fabricating lies about his shipmates, I did nothing! I told myself that what I was doing, trying to befriend him, was the right thing, the right way. I let idealism cloud my judgement."

Before Tyler could continue, Harry spoke up. "At least you tried. I didn't," he said. Sean and Tyler's heads swerved to look at Harry. He returned their quizzical looks and said, "I had a friend. I told him that I was his brother. In a way I used him to satisfy my own needs. That was wrong because I didn't tell him how I felt. I thought that we were just two brothers helping each other out. He thought he was in love with me and when I didn't return his love . . ." Harry's shoulders' sagged. "He found someone else, but he felt so guilty about what he was doing he took to the bottle! I knew that he was drinking himself into oblivion but I ignored it. The Phantom tried to make him see reason, but I didn't. He was my brother and I failed him."

"Life is making choices, Harry," said Sean pedantically, although his tone was sympathetic. "He made his choice."

Harry shook his head. "No, I should have been there for him, should have tried to help him see that there could never be anything between us, at least not the way he wanted things to be." Looking toward the gardens, Harry continued, "All I could think about was me, about what I wanted. I was selfish . . ."

Harry did not think it was the time to explain the end of his relationship with Todd. He had failed Greg, and he had failed Todd.

Harry's silence allowed Sean to speak. "Three years ago I made the mistake of misreading a friend. I assumed he was something he was not. I wasted three years of my life pursuing a what I thought was a lost dream with . . ." Sean paused, choosing his words carefully. Harry and Tyler knew of his relationship with Cory, but they did not know of what had happened in Kingston. Ned did not know anything and Sean was not one to air his private business to newfound friends. When the time was right, Ned would know and understand.

"Anyway, I was lucky. I had a second chance. I might not ever be able to forgive myself for what I did, but my friend has forgiven me." He shook his head. "I lived in my own little world, behind a wall of subterfuge and denial. I failed to recognize the signs of friendship, afraid to let my true self be known." He looked at Ned. "You might not understand, Ned, what we are saying, but I want you to know that you are our brother. You've made mistakes, yes. But . . ."

Sean looked thoughtful. "I am going to say to you the words that made me realize just how special I am, how special my brothers are. At first you might not understand them, but I want you to listen, and try to think about the words, not what they are, but what they say." Slowly Sean moved to stand in front of Ned. He took a deep breath, and then began . . .

"In Shakespeare's play, Henry V, Act 4, Scene 3, the character, Westmoreland says:

O that we now had here

But one ten thousand of those men in England

That do no work to day!"

Both Tyler and Harry smiled inwardly, hearing again the words that they had heard on the steps of the Mess Hall back in Aurora, words that in many ways had defined the true meaning of the "The Boys of Aurora".

Sean shook his head. "Henry needed his men to know that he was satisfied with the men who had gathered around him, the men he considered his brothers, and he replies:

"What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made

And crowns for convoy put into his purse:

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is called the feast of Crispian:

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tiptoe when the day is named,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours?

And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.

And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.

'Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember with advantages

What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words

Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter . . ."

Here Sean paused to reach out and place his hand first on Harry's shoulder, and then on Tyler's. He smiled at Ned as he then reached out. His hand never left Ned's shoulder as he continued on:

"Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,

Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he today that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whilst any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

Finished, Sean said quietly, "Remember those words, Ned, think of them, and you will understand."

"It is time," the Major said to the assembled guests as they sat in the bright, mid-afternoon sunlight, "to declare before you, my Lords and Ladies, both Spiritual and Temporal, the intentions of the Grand Master."

Additions had been made to the church-like atmosphere in the garden. Additional tables had been added on which rested more wooden boxes, closed, and a large Coromandel screen had been erected behind the Altar table. In addition, to one side a large carpet had been laid on which sat a carved, wooden chair, very ornate, and very old. Very few knew that the chair was one of the few artefacts remaining to the Order, or that it had come from the original priory in Acre.

Chef, as senior Knight, had been privy to Michael's plans. Chef heartily approved of Michael's return to the traditional ways, just as he approved of the way the garden had been prepared. The Order might not raise great temples, but nothing had ever been said about sprucing up the backyard!

Listening to the Major, Chef squirmed in his seat beside The Phantom. Chef could understand the Lords Temporal, but Spiritual? The Order had broken with the Roman Church hundreds of years before. The Order had received its autonomy, its authority, and no small measure of power, from the Church, true, but when the bishops became too venal, too greedy, too susceptible to the plotting of the Templars, too jealous of the wealth of the Templars, and betrayed them through falsehoods, the Order had broken away, refusing to bow to the dictates of Rome in any way, refusing to have anything approaching a "Prelate of the Order", as the other noble orders had, not refusing God, just His so-called Church.

Still, Chef considered, it was all just words. And there would be a lot of them today, for there were formal rites that needed to be conducted before Michael could do what he planned.

Patrick Tsang, holding a large, illuminated scroll, bowed to the Major, and then to the assembled guests. What the guests did not know, but the Major and Chef did, was that Michael's election had to be publicly proclaimed before the knights could acknowledge him.

Clearing his throat, Patrick began to read the proclamation announcing Michael's election and establishing his authority as Grand Master.

"Whereas it hath pleased Almighty God to call to his Mercy our late Sovereign Lord Robert The Third, of Blessed and Glorious Memory, by whose Decease the Crown of the Sovereign Grand Master is solely and rightfully come, through election in Conclave, to the High and Mighty Prince Michael Thomas Martin: We, therefore, the Lords Spiritual and Temporal of this Order, being here assisted by and with these of the late Grand Master's Grand Council, with numbers of other Principal Gentlemen of Quality, and with the Knights of the Order, do now hereby, with one Voice and Consent of Tongue and Heart, publish and proclaim, That the High and Mighty Prince Michael Thomas Martin, is now, by the Death of our late Sovereign Grand Master, of Happy Memory, become our only lawful and rightful Liege Lord Michael the Fifth Alexander, by the Grace of God, of the Sovereign and Noble Order of the Knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Grand Master, Hereditary Archduke of Austria, Hereditary Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Golden Fleece, Count Palatine, Defender of the Hospital at Jerusalem: To Whom we do acknowledge all Faith and constant Obedience, with all hearty and humble Affection: beseeching God, by whom Kings and Queens do Reign, to bless the Royal Prince Michael the Fifth Alexander, with long and happy years to reign over us.

Given at our Court of Vancouver, this eighth day of August, in this year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seventy-six."

Looking at the assembled guests, Patrick cried loudly, "Deus Vult - God Wills It!" He then turned, bowed to Michael, and presented the proclamation to the new Grand Master.

Chef wondered if God had been all that pleased to call the late Grand Master to his Mercy. The old bastard had suborned thievery and had betrayed his sacred vows by engaging in pederasty and paedophilia. God might have mercy on the old son of a bitch - Chef would not! And how poor Patrick must have gagged on the words "Of Happy Memory"!

Chef watched as Patrick took up the first in a series of proclamations, each of which would establish Michael's power, and views, of the Order and the shape of the Order to come.

Patrick's voice was steady as he read:

"Whereas it has been established in Law that the Grand Master of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, upon election in Conclave, deems it is expedient that the styles and titles at present appertaining to the Office of Grand Master be altered to reflect more clearly certain names, styles, titles, states, dignities and honours granted unto reigning The Grand Master in accordance with the Papal Bull Omne Datum Optimum issued in the Year of Grace 1152 by his Holiness Gregory VIII Pontifex Maximus, of Blessed and Glorious Memory, and: Whereas it has been established in Law that further certain styles and titles shall appertain to the Office of Grand Master to more clearly reflect the names, styles, titles, states, dignities and honours grant unto the Reigning Grand Master in accordance with the Papal Bull Milites Dei issued in the Year of Grace 1245 by His Holiness Innocent IV Pontifex Maximus, of Blessed and Glorious Memory and: Whereas it has been established in Law that further certain names, styles, titles, states, dignities and honours, and granting unto him all Authority to regularize those several knights of Magistral Grace, that is, without Noble Proofs, in accordance with Letters made Patent in the Year of Grace 1355 by His Imperial Majesty Charles V Holy Roman Emperor, of Blessed and Glorious Memory, We have thought it fit, and We do hereby appoint and declare, by and with the advice of Our Grand Council, that so far as conveniently may be, on all occasions and in all instruments wherein our titles are used in relation to all our Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and all others to whom We send greeting Our styles and titles shall henceforth be accepted, taken and used as the same are set forth in manner and form following, that is to say, the same shall be expressed in the English tongue by these words: Michael The Fifth Alexander, Grand Master of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Hereditary Archduke of Austria, Hereditary Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Golden Fleece, Count Palatine, Defender of the Hospital in Jerusalem.

Given at our Court at British Pacific Properties, this twenty-seventh day of August, in the year of Our Lord One thousand nine hundred and seventy-six, and in the first year of Our Reign.

God Save The Grand Master

Deus Vult!"

Smiling, Chef nodded. Michael was well and truly named! He was now officially the Grand Master and could do what he liked, when he liked. He was the Sovereign!

Patrick bowed again and took up another proclamation.

"By The Grand Master:

A Proclamation:

Whereas We, having taken into consideration the names, titles, styles, states and dignities of Our Sovereign and Noble Knights of the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre and, Whereas we have considered the provisions of the Rule of The Order with respect to the names, titles, states, styles and dignities appertaining to certain of our Knights and, Whereas we have considered the provisions of the Rule of The Order with respect to prohibitions as published in a Bull issued by His Holiness Pope Eugene IV, in Council at Florence, to whit: "Cantate Domino" A Bull of Union With the Copts proclaimed in the Year of Grace 1442 and, Whereas We have considered the provisions of the Rule of The Order with respect to the teachings with regard to 1 Corinthians 7:18, "Discorsi e messaggi radiodifusi" expressed by His Holiness Pius XII in the Year of Grace 1952, and, Whereas We have considered the provisions of the Articles of The Rule of The Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre now in effect: We have thought fit and We do hereby appoint and declare, by and with the advice of Our Grand Council, that the Rule shall be amended hereby:

One: We hereby establish, appoint and declare, by and with the advice of Our Grand Council, that the names, titles, styles and dignities of our Knights shall be as follows:

Of the First Degree: Professed Knight of Donat and Justice

Of the Second Degree: Professed Knight of Justice

Of the Third Degree: Professed Knight of Honour and Devotion

Of the Fourth Degree: Professed Knight of Magistral Grace of Honour and Devotion

Of the Fifth Degree: Professed Knight of Grace and Devotion

Of the Sixth Degree: Professed Knight of Magistral Grace and Devotion

Of the Seventh Degree: Professed Knight of Honour

Of the Eighth Degree: Professed Knight of Magistral Grace and Honour

Two: Having considered that the several candidates for membership in the Order will not be of the Universal Brotherhood, We have thought fit and we do hereby establish, appoint and declare, by and with the advice of Our Grand Council, that those candidates not of Our Universal Brotherhood, shall enjoy the name, style, title, state, dignity and honour of their peers, save they shall not bear the name, style, title, state dignity and honour of "Professed":

Three: Any man or youth no matter his Station or Faith, and who has attained the age of 14 years and three months, may make application to become, if a member of Our Universal Brotherhood, a Candidate Knight of Profess or, if not a member of our Universal Brotherhood, a Candidate Knight, provided he be of good Character and Conduct, free of paedophilia or other impediment, and have the written surety and Oath of not less than three Professed Knights of Honour, or Knights of Higher Degree:

Four: Having considered that there must and should be a Covenant between all Our Knights, except as noted hereunder We reaffirm the provisions of Article 24 of the Rule of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, thereby reaffirming the solemn Covenant between Our Brother Knights and we hereby establish, appoint and declare, by and with the advice of Our Grand Council, that the shameful and prejudicial several Bulls and Declarations issued by the several Bishops of Rome have no standing in Law, and that they have no recognition in the Articles of the Rule of The Sovereign Order of Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre:

Five: Having considered that several of Our Candidate Knights shall, through ignorance of conscience, or through conscience of religion, declare their reluctance to observe the provisions of Article 24 of the Rule of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, yet being of good character and conscience, and suitable for acceptance, We do hereby establish, appoint and declare that all such candidates shall be accepted as Companions of Honour, to enjoy the name, style, title, state, dignity and honour of said Companionship.

Six: Having considered the provisions of Article Five of this Proclamation, and desirous to reaffirm and establish the Covenant of Knights, We do hereby establish, appoint and declare that the provisions of Article 25 of the Rule of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre remain in effect, that is, 'Any Applicant who is unwilling to obtain the mark of Nobility and Covenant, no matter his Station or Religion, shall be denied the honour of Knighthood.

Given at our Court at British Pacific Properties, this twenty-seventh day of August, in the year of Our Lord One thousand nine hundred and seventy-six, and in the first year of Our Reign.

God Save The Grand Master

Deus Vult!"

God Wills It! Chef repeated the phrase silently. More importantly, Michael wills it! Both he and Chef had long thought that the Rule of the Order needed revising. As originally written, the Rule had not recognized that there would be men of honour who bore no ill will against homosexuals. As the centuries passed, and the rulings of the Church were questioned, this became even more evident. The Americans, with their Revolution, had recognized the rights of each individual (at least on paper), and men were thinking and demanding that the old shibboleths be put aside - they had no place in the modern world. Michael's proclamation had recognized, finally, the rights of the individual. A candidate was no longer forced to accept something that went against his conscience.

Both Michael and Chef had realized that the Rule had been written for a purpose. It was to join men together, and certain parts of the Rule could not, and would not be changed. Knighthood, so far as Michael was concerned, and Chef echoed his sentiments, was more than a "Band of Brothers". It was a Covenant between men, a Covenant so strong that it could never be affected by public opinion, a "Big Lie" or a little lie. The old traditions would be kept and if a man could not accept them, he could depart. Deus Vult!

Chef, who had attended an Investiture or six in his time as a knight, decided that now would be an ideal time for a short nap. He expected that Michael would make a speech, proclaim The Phantom a prince, and then they could all break for tea. Glancing at his watch, Chef nodded, settled back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He was the master of the catnap and ten minutes ought to be about right. He missed the sight of two footmen carrying the kneeling bench into the area and placing it before Michael, who was standing in front of the table designated as the Altar, and on which rested the battered, wooden casket containing the Order's most sacred relic, a piece of the True Cross.

What happened next sent titters through the assembled guests. The Major, full of himself as usual, walked the few steps that separated Chef and Michael, cleared his throat, and bowed. He held out his arm, indicating that Chef should rise and present himself to the Grand Master. Glowering, Chef struggled erect and walked to kneel before Michael.

When Chef was settled before Michael, Patrick began reading again, and Chef heard the usual stream of titles as Michael sent greetings to . . .

Patrick did not stumble as he read the formal greeting to the Most High, Most Mighty and illustrious Prince . . . but his almond-shaped eyes widened as he read out Chef's Christian names.

They were perfectly good, and honourable, names from Chef's past and family. But really, why would any mother name her son . . .

In the audience the ladies, because they were ladies, raised their fingers to their lips to hide their smiles. Bertie Arundel bit down on the knuckle of one finger to stop from giggling. Colin looked around, focusing on the magnificence of the flowerbeds. Joey, Randy, Calvin and Simon snickered aloud, which earned them a sharp wrap on the head from Phil Thornton, and the Twins, whose blue eyes danced with hidden laughter.

"Can you believe . . .?" Colin whispered out of the side of his mouth to The Phantom.

The Phantom, whose lips were twitching, forced himself to remain as stoic as Michael Chan. But his eyes were bright and his shoulders shook slightly as he struggled to maintain his composure.

"And I thought Bill Estes' crack about Ned's jib was funny," The Phantom whispered back. "But be nice, Colin! Some mother's do have 'em!"

As Patrick read the words, which Chef now knew to be the formal declarations required in Letters of Nobility, he heard himself being named a "Knight of Grace and Devotion". The absence of the caveat "Magistral Grace" meant only one thing, and Patrick's words confirmed it. The Letters elevated Chef, the son of a Newfoundland fisherman who had managed to acquire a small fleet of fishing boats, to nobility. Chef was now "Duke of Lorraine and Styria", with the status of minor Royalty and the honorific of "Serene Highness"! Chef was so stunned that he barely heard himself being confirmed as Hospitaller of the Order, or acknowledged the actions of the footmen who had been waiting behind the screen.

Each footman, who was dressed in formal livery, the red coats brushed, the gold buttons on their coats and black, gold-trimmed waistcoats gleaming brightly in the sun, had a very important role to fill. Each man carried a different accoutrement of raising Chef to the nobility Michael thought the old man deserved.

First Chef was "girded" with a sword - Michael presented the Court Sword to Chef as nobody was sure that the belt would fit around the Chef's waist. Next a "Princely Coronet" was placed on Chef's head, although it was not actually a real princely coronet - as the Order had none. Michael had prevailed on the Maestro, who had rung a friend who had all the costumes for "Iolanthe" and hired what he needed.

Next came a gold rod, also hired, and then a ring, a very real gold ring with a huge ruby. As he placed the ring on Chef's finger, Michael sternly admonished the old man not to sell the damned thing as it had been around for something like three centuries!

Chef was then asked to rise, which he did, and two footmen draped a purple mantle over his shoulders. Michael turned and opened one of the large wooden boxes resting on the side table, and draped the contents, a jewelled Collar, around Chef's shoulders. Two footmen ceremoniously secured the collar with white, silk ribbons that were sewn onto the mantle. The Collar proclaimed Chef's status as Hospitaller of the Order.

After stumbling through the Oath he was required to give, and barely capable of movement from the effect of the honours confirmed on him, Chef allowed the Major to lead him to a new seat, on Michael's right, the seat symbolizing Chef's status as a member of the Grand Council.

Patrick picked up another parchment and the Major presented himself to Bertie Arundel, who heard himself being addressed as "the Most Noble and Potent Prince Albert Edward George", and ennobled as "Margrave of Istria". More importantly, Michael had added a Special Remainder granting co-rights of inheritance to Bertie's sons. The Twins were now "Lord Leveson-Arundel!"

Chef groaned at this. All he needed was the Twins running around with titles! But then, he thought as he tested the weight and heft of his gold staff, perhaps he had found a decent substitute for a cleaver!

Louis Arundel was called next, and found himself being addressed as Michael's "Right Trusty and Well-Beloved Cousin". He also heard himself being granted Letters as "Count of Bregenz" and wept openly when the Special Remainder granting right of inheritance to Gabriel Izard was read out. Louis' adoption of Gabe as his son was formally recognized.

For Michael, a long-owed debt had been paid.

As they listened, somewhat in awe of the awards, and still not quite believing what had happened not only to their father, but themselves, the Twins frowned as the Major's name was read out. The Major, whom the Twins thought of as a stuffy old poop, was now "The Most High, Potent and Noble Prince Richard Thomas William" and not only was he ennobled as "Duke of Anhalt and Dessau", with the honorific of "Serene Highness", he was confirmed as Keeper of the Common Treasure.

"I wonder - does Ex-Lax hold the Royal Warrant?" Todd asked Cory.

"Don't know," Cory responded. "If they don't, we'll think of something else."

Todd grinned evilly. "We always do!"

More honours followed. Laurence, who had never expected it, was raised, as a special mark of Michael's affection and gratitude, to the rank of "Professed Knight of Honour and Devotion", in itself a signal honour, but there was more. He was now "The Most Noble and Potent Prince Laurence Albert Edward, Margrave of Carpathia", with the added honorific of Serene Highness!

Patrick Tsang, Laurence's lover and dearest friend, fairly beamed when he read the Letters aloud.

When he had lunched with Michael, The Phantom had been informed of what was to happen at the investiture. Michael's granting of titles had been to reward those individuals who had worked hard for the Order, and to ensure the succession. Michael frankly admitted that he was padding the books. Under the Rule only men of noble birth, or those knights raised to the peerage, could aspire to the higher grades of knighthood. By raising Chef, Bertie, Louis and Laurence to the peerage Michael assured them noble birth, and candidacy for the position of Grand Master.

Michael had also advised that he was padding the books further. However, as it was customary to publish honours in a "Gazette", an official newspaper as it were, and as the Order did not have such a thing, any and all honours would only be announced and given at an Investiture. Thus, while The Gunner and Rick Maslen knew of their Letters, they would not receive them formally until they were present at an Investiture. When The Phantom suggested that a Gazette be established, Michael had demurred. Quite frankly he did not know which of the knights - others than those gathered in the house, and Doc Reynolds and Commander Hazleton - could be trusted. The Order had been suborned by the creatures of the old Grand Master, and brought near to bankruptcy by supposedly trusted knights, and Michael would not allow any information to come to the attention of these people! People, he confidentially informed The Phantom he would soon declare anathema and strip of their knighthoods.

Michael's reasoning for insisting on enforcing Articles 24 and 25 of the Rule The Phantom also approved of. Far too often tradition was thrown aside - witness what had happened when the Canadian Armed Services had been "Unified". Old customs, old traditions, which had held generations of sailors, soldiers and airmen together, were swept away and replaced with . . . nothing. Michael had seen the devastation wrought by the so-called "Unification" and was determined that such a thing would not happen to the Order. There would be no flight of discouraged knights if he could help it. He also wanted to reinforce the special nature of the Order. The Order had remained strong for eight hundred years by never deviating from the Rule. So far as Michael was concerned a very real Covenant existed between the knights, and he would keep that Covenant alive.

The Phantom had expressed his confirmation of Michael's words and thoughts. There would be those who would refuse to join the Covenant. In The Phantom's opinion these would be men who were not committed, not truly aware of the sacrifices that needed to be made. The Order, in the main, asked little, merely commitment to each brother knight, and if one was willing, why not all? Each candidate was given a choice, to make a sacrifice, or not. Let them make the choice, and let them be responsible for their choice. The Phantom agreed. Deus Vult!

When The Phantom had told Colin of the coming honours, Colin had grumbled a bit. He did agree about Articles 24 and 25. He also wondered - somewhat loudly - what all the fuss was about when it came to handing out titles! After all, they had no recognition outside of the Order!

The Phantom agreed. The titles had no recognition anywhere outside of the Order, but men did like to be recognized for what they had done. Would Colin rather hand out a medal, or a decoration? Didn't "Lieutenant Sir Colin Arnott, KSt+J, RCNR" sound better than plain old "Lieutenant Colin Arnott, CAF"? And besides, the Order was Sovereign and it didn't matter a damn what people outside of the Order thought. What was important was what went on inside the Order. The Pope, The Phantom had sniffed audibly, handed out titles of nobility, and knighthoods and if it was sauce for the goose, it was sauce for the gander. Then The Phantom had muttered something about certain people changing their tunes, and terminated their spat.

"My Lord?"

Colin looked up to see the Major standing beside his chair. "Wh . . . what?" he asked blankly.

"Great things await you, my lord knight," responded the Major. "You have been chosen and it is now come time to announce the favour that is yours."

Bewildered, for The Phantom had not muttered so much as word that he would be given anything, other than tea, Colin knelt before Michael. Michael reached out his hands and Colin grasped them lightly.

"You have been given a great treasure, my lord," said Michael quietly. "It is a treasure that is dear to my heart and as a sign of our trust in you, and the richness of the treasure you hold for us, we wish to announce your importance, and our trust in you." He nodded to Patrick.

" . . . Michael the Fifth Alexander, Sovereign of the Sovereign and Noble Order of the Knights of Saint John of the Cross of Acre to The Most High, Potent and Noble Prince, Colin Charles Edward Thomas . . ." and before he knew what was happening, before he could absorb what was happening, Colin found himself being invested with a sword - his own, and the one that The Phantom had purchased in Mr. Schoenmann's shop only days before - a coronet, a gold rod, a heavy gold and ruby ring, and a mantle. Colin was also a Professed Knight of Grace and Devotion and "Duke of Lausanne and Aquitania."

Colin had barely finished making his oath when one of the footmen presented Michael with a large box. He withdrew a gold and enamelled Collar embellished with emeralds. As this was draped over his shoulders Colin heard himself proclaimed "Defensor Princeps", the Defender of Princes, and Hereditary Earl Marshal of the Order.

As he rose unsteadily to his feet, Colin heard Michael saying quietly, "It is much to absorb, I know, and much is expected of you. Later, we will talk, you and I."

Nodding, Colin, still in a daze, returned to his seat where The Phantom, secretly pleased as he could be at the honours given his lover, pretended to be miffed at Colin's earlier doubts.

"Don't hear your gums flappin' now!" he muttered.

Before Colin could respond the Major appeared. He looked at The Phantom and, after a neck bow, asked, "Will your Royal Highness accompany me?"

"My Royal what?" asked The Phantom, wide-eyed. He looked at Colin, whose eyes were as wide as his own. Colin, who knew nothing about what was to happen, could not reply.

"It is your due," responded the Major, his face blank. He indicated the kneeling stand. "The Grand master is waiting, my lord prince."

Michael rose from his seat and waited until The Phantom was settled on the kneeling bench. Then he nodded to Patrick who held out a magnificently illuminated scroll of parchment. On the upper left hand corner was a rich, double-helmeted and plumed Coat of Arms - The Phantom's Coat of Arms.

Patrick, not wishing to make any errors, drew in a breath and presently his crystal clear, well modulated tones floated over the garden.

Michael The Fifth Alexander, Sovereign Grand Master of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Hereditary Archduke of Austria, Hereditary Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Golden Fleece, Count Palatine, Defender of the Hospital at Jerusalem to All Lords Spiritual and Temporal and all other Our Subjects whatsoever to whom these presents shall come, Greeting: Know Ye that We have made and created and by these Our Letters do make and create Our most dear Brother PHILIP ANDREW THOMAS Prince of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Prince and Apostolic Archduke of Austria, Count of Lorraine and Baron Lascelles of Milford Haven. And to the same Our most dear Brother PHILIP ANDREW THOMAS Have given and granted and by this Our present Charter Do give, grant and confirm the name, style, title, state, dignity and honour of the same Principality, Archduchy, County and Barony by girding him with a Sword, by putting a Coronet on his head, and a Gold Ring on his finger, and also by delivering a Gold Rod into his hand that he may preside there and may direct and defend these parts, To be held by him and his heirs forever. Wherefore We Will and strictly Command for Us, and Our Heirs and Successors, that Our most dear Brother PHILIP ANDREW THOMAS may have the name, style, title, state, dignity and honour of the Principality of the Sovereign and Noble Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre, Principality and Apostolic Archduchy of Austria, County of Lorraine and Barony of Milford Haven aforesaid made unto him and his heirs as is above mentioned. In Witness whereof We have caused these Letters to be made Patent. Witness Ourself at Vancouver the Twenty-seventh day of August in the first year of Our Reign.

By Warrant Under the Grand Master's Sign Manual

Meinertzhagen.

As Patrick read out the symbols of The Phantom's new dignity, the actual objects were placed on his head and hand. Two footmen came forward with a mantle, and then helped Michael drape the Collar around The Phantom's shoulder. This Collar, alternating plaques of gold and enamel, was set with rubies and pearls. It had been made for an Austrian Archduke, and had not been seen publicly in over two hundred years.

Once he was dressed, The Phantom made his oath to Michael Chan, Grand Master:

"I, Philip Andrew Thomas, Prince and Apostolic Archduke, do become your liege man of life and limb and of earthly worship and faith and truth I will bear unto you to live and die against all manner of folks."

The Phantom, at Michael's smiling nod, rose carefully. The mantle of black velvet was very heavy and when he turned he discovered that unlike the other mantles, which reach barely to the ankles of the wearers, his had a train!

Michael came out from behind the kneeling bench and stood beside The Phantom. He took the young man's hand in his and raised it, bowing to the assemblage.

"My Lords, Ladies, and Knights, I present to you our Prince! Deus Vult!"

The Twins began it. They started to applaud and Randy and Joey, after pumping the air with their fists, took up the clapping, which continued while the procession back to the house was formed. First came Laurence and Louis Arundel, then Bertie and Chef, followed by the Major who had somehow acquired a Black Rod and was walking backward in front of Michael and The Phantom. Two footmen, who looked embarrassed but carried gamely on, held The Phantom's mantle.

As they acknowledged the applause, Michael murmured, "I should have found you some pages!"

"Some what?"

"Four young men to carry your train," said Michael.

Michael said this as The Phantom was passing Joey, Randy, Calvin and Simon and a vision formed in his head. He began to giggle.

"What is so funny?" asked Michael as he smiled at Mrs. Arundel.

"I am just picturing Randy and Joey, and Simon and Calvin in red or blue velvet frock coats, white knickers and patent leather shoes with silver buckles!"

Michael laughed quietly as they ascended the steps to the terrace. "While the idea intrigues me, from what I have seen," answered Michael, "they would wear black underpants to get even with you!"

Michael sat on the back terrace with the Arundels, and the Twins. He was smiling at their reaction to his "gifts", as he called them. The Twins were glowering, as Michael had just informed them that he had decided to make them his Pages of Honour.

Mrs. Arundel was waxing on about how wonderful her sons would look in their livery: a single breasted frock coat, scarlet in colour and edged with gold lace, white Kerseymere breeches, a long white satin waistcoat, also edged in gold, and white silk hose, a lace cravat and ruffles and patent leather shoes with silver buckles.

"Why Cory, you shall look positively magnificent!" she enthused.

Cory's look told his mother that he did not share her enthusiasm. Todd's glower confirmed his brother's look.

"But Cory dear," continued Mrs. Arundel, "the livery is . . ." she paused and looked past Michael. "Oh, Michael, it would seem you're wanted."

Michael followed Mrs. Arundel's gaze and saw Frank "The Horse" Campbell standing in the in the doorway. He smiled and asked, "Excuse me?"

Frank held out a small piece of paper as Michael approached. "From Cousin Tommy."

Michael read the words written on the paper. "Did Cousin Tommy say anything else?"

Frank shook his head. "Only that 'they' had arrived."

Frowning, Michael scratched his chin. "They will be armed," he said reflectively. "I wonder if they are experienced men, or just street toughs sent to reconnoitre."

Frank shrugged. "Tommy didn't say."

"I would like to know the measure of the men Minh is sending against us," said Michael. He leaned forward and murmured in Frank's ear. "Tommy is to take their measure. If they are armed, as I think they will be, what kind of weapons are they carrying?" He shook his head. "Tommy is to find out as much as he can about them."

With that, Michael returned to his guests.

Cousin Tommy hung up the phone and looked at Trevor. They were in the privacy of a booth in the casino, which was empty except for the "ladies", who were sitting morosely at the bar. "He wants to know if they're armed and if they're just a couple of scouts, come to snoop."

"They're Saigon Cowboys," sniffed Trevor disparagingly. "Muscle."

"Still, we should know," countered Cousin Tommy. He frowned slightly. "But how we'll find out I don't know."

"Frisking them might be an option, although they'd probably object to that!" countered Trevor. He looked around the room, as if seeking inspiration. His eyes fell on the ladies and he smiled.

"They can't know that we're on to them," returned Cousin Tommy.

"I have an idea," said Trevor. He called out, "Oh, Christine?"

Christine, who had been born Christopher, had been complaining to her business partner, Isabel, born Izador, about the lack of business. Of course, it was the afternoon, and while the docks were busy, they could not hope to see a customer until the shifts changed across the road.

" . . . And there's this absolutely stunning set of Gucci luggage I saw downtown," Christine was saying, "and we do have that trip to Mexico coming up and . . ." when Trevor called her.

"What does he want?" asked Isabel. "He can't be complaining again."

"Of course not," replied Christine with a sniff. "All we've done is sit here drinking this fucking tea and if I don't pee soon I'll bust."

Isabel saw Trevor gesturing. "Well, either go pee or go see what he wants."

"Oh, well, I suppose I'd better." Christine adjusted her silk, ruffled blouse and smoothed here dark silk skirt. "Do you see the hunk he's sitting with?" she asked Isabel. "Maybe it's a customer."

"If he is see if he wants a two for one deal - a threesome," returned Isabel as she made a face and returned to her glass of tea.

When Christine had settled herself in the booth, Trevor said, "How would you like to do Michael Chan a favour?"

Christine started. She knew who Michael Chan was. "Why, I suppose so. What do I have to do?" She glanced at Cousin Tommy, wondering if Michael Chan wanted her, or Isabel, to make this young man happy. Christine was not about to argue, however.

"Not him," rumbled Trevor. He leaned forward. "Out front there are two young Vietnamese men. They're at the window table. Find out if they're carrying."

Once again Christine looked startled. "And just how am I, or we to do that?" she demanded.

Trevor knew how to get on Christine's good side, ran his finger down her bare arm. "Why just do what you would do to reel in any customer."

Glancing at Cousin Tommy, whose demeanour had not changed, Christine felt a shiver run down her spine. She didn't know the man, but his face telegraphed one word: danger.

"Well, of course, if you want us to. But Trevor, your grandfather doesn't want us to work the front."

Cousin Tommy spoke for the first time. "Michael Chan does."

The heavy emphasis of Cousin Tommy's of Michael Chan's name was not lost on Christine. "Give us half an hour," she said.

Cousin Tommy watched Christine slip from the booth, tap Isabel on the shoulder, and nodded to Trevor as the two transvestites went out the back door.

"If I didn't know better I'd swear they were women," muttered Cousin Tommy with a shake of his head.

"Unless you slip your hand up their skirts," agreed Trevor. He sniggered, "but man, you should see them in a bathing suit! How they hide their . . ." Trevor's words trailed off.

"I am only interested in what those cowboys are hiding," retorted Cousin Tommy.

"How long are we supposed to sit here?" Billy Ng complained.

"Until we see what we have to see," returned Van Trang. He pushed some noodles around on his plate and looked out of the window.

"We haven't seen anything," observed Billy. "There are no guards, no extra muscle, and all the men I've seen are white. Chan doesn't use white men in his business."

"True," Trang replied. He looked at his watch. "Give it another hour."

"We're barking up the wrong tree," replied Billy. "We haven't seen anything unusual at all. Diem is nuts! The Chink isn't up to anything and if you ask me he doesn't suspect a thing."

"Nobody did," snapped Trang. He saw Billy's brows lowering. Not a good sign! Billy was a thug, pure and simple - and good with a knife. "Tell you what," he said hastily, "Let's have a beer and then I'll phone Diem." He turned to the waiter who was idling nearby. "Two Exports," he called out and held up two fingers of his right hand.

The waiter nodded and left, to quickly return with the beer and two glasses. "You want more to eat?" he asked.

Trang shook his head and the waiter left. Trang gestured for Billy to drink and was in the process of pouring his own beer when from the corner of his eye he caught sight of two of the most beautiful white girls he had ever seen, just outside the window. Instinctively his free hand dropped to his crotch. Squeezing himself he muttered, "Jesus! Look at the jugs on the blonde!"

Billy looked and his eyes bulged. "Fuck, and the brunette isn't bad."

They watched as the two "girls", burdened with shopping bags, looked around nervously, seemingly lost.

Christine and Isabel had hurriedly changed into what they thought were "shopping" clothes, just two college girls out on a spree. Christine's blond hair was loose, and flowed gently in the sea breeze that always seemed to blow on the docklands. She was wearing a loose-fitting blouse, showing enough cleavage, and shorts, long shorts that accentuated her legs. Isabel, her brunette hair as loose and flowing as Christine's, wore a man's shirt, short-sleeved and tied tightly under her ample bosom - the implants had cost a packet, but they were now what she thought were her best assets. She had chosen a pair of culottes, dark green, and very fetching, or so she thought.

Both girls had dressed carefully, as they always did. They were professional ladies, not two street hookers after all! After dressing, and combing out their hair, they had thrown some empty boxes - which they save, for Christmas because you never had enough boxes at Christmas - into some Woodward's bags, and hurried around the corner where they began their stroll.

As Billy and Trang watched the girls engaged in some sort of a conversation - actually Isabel was bitching that she'd tied her shirt too tight - looked into the window of the restaurant, looked across the road, looked into the windows again, and then, having decided, entered.

Christine went to where Chung was sitting, pretending to read his newspaper. "Is there a telephone?" Christine asked in her best convent school voice. "We seem to be lost. We took a wrong turn and the car's overheated."

Chung nodded toward the back of the restaurant. "Payphone back there. You need number for tow truck?"

"Oh, I know it," responded Christine with a coquettish smile. She turned to Isabel. "Why don't you sit down? We'll have a wait."

Isabel deliberately looked around and chose a table close, but not too close to the two young Vietnamese men. "I could use an iced tea," she announced as she walked to the table, her every move sensuous. She did not need to see the looks that Billy and Trang were giving her. "Hook, line and sinker," she thought as she ordered iced tea.

When Christine returned from making her telephone call - she had actually called her bookie and placed a bet on a horse in the final race that Cousin Tommy had said couldn't lose - she sat down, crossing her legs delicately, and sipped the iced tea that the waiter placed in front of her. From the corner of her eye she could see the two men Cousin Tommy had told her about giving her the eye. She leaned forward to whisper with Isabel, telling her partner that they weren't that bad, and perhaps they could have some fun.

Isabel, well skilled in her trade, looked casually at Billy Ng, dropped her eyes, and smiled languidly. She quickly looked back at Christine, feigning embarrassment at being caught looking.

"Did you see that?" Billy asked excitedly. "Christ, she looked at me."

Trang shrugged. "Hookers?"

"Naw, you heard 'em, they got lost. Probably took a wrong turn off of Hastings." Billy leaned forward and whispered, "They ain't no hookers! They're prime gash and . . . shit, she looked again! Come on, Van, they're hot!" Billy reached down to feel his crotch. "Really hot!" he whispered, barely able to contain his excitement.

Trang thought a moment. The girls were hot. And they seemed interested. "Probably two college girls out slumming, looking for a little diversion," he thought. And he was a little horny. "Okay," he said. He gestured to the waiter and sent a round of iced tea to the girls' table. "Let's see what happens," he murmured to Billy. "If they come over it will help with our cover."

Billy nodded idiotically. "Yeah, and maybe we can cop a feel!" He winked at Trang. "Or something better!"

Trang nodded. Real women would make a welcome change from his usual source of release. The boys Diem kept in the cathouse were good, but they weren't women!

Christine and Isabel looked surprised when the waiter placed the two new glasses of iced tea in front of them. Trang and Billy watched as the waiter explained that the gentlemen at the next table had sent the drinks over. They saw the girls raise their glasses, bend forward, seemingly in deep conversation, and then watched as they stood up.

"Why, thank you," said Christine without preamble as she settled herself in the chair beside Trang's.

"Yes, it's not often that we meet such gentlemen," added Isabel as she sat beside Billy. "One has to be so careful these days."

Billy, who had been called a lot of things in his young life, but never a gentleman, puffed out his chest. "We just thought that we might make the time pass a little quicker," he said. Then he added, "You're waiting for the CAA and they'll take forever, this being a Friday afternoon and all."

"Yes," breathed Isabel deliberately. "We were shopping and the car overheated. It's so nice of you to be concerned." She let her hand drop on Billy's leg. "And you seem to be nice boys. UVic?" She smiled prettily. "I'm Isabel."

Billy didn't understand what the girl was asking. Trang, who was longer off the boat, did. "I'm Trang, and that's Billy, and ah, no, Simon Fraser," he lied as Christine's hand fell onto his leg. "Seniors."

"And I'm Christine and really?" replied Christine, acknowledging the introductions and thinking that it had been a long time since either the two men had seen the inside of a schoolroom of any description. "We're UVic. Isabel is taking a post-grad course in sociology." She slowly moved her hand up Trang's inner leg. "For some reason you look like a UVic boy."

Trang, squirming at the warmth of the girl's hand so close to his jewels, managed, "Nope, Simon Fraser."

"Have you been in the country long?" Isabel asked as she moved her hand upward until it came to rest with the tips of her fingers resting gently against Billy's balls. "You speak English quite well."

"Did you learn English back home" Christine asked Trang as she placed one arm around his shoulders. "My brother was over there with the UN and he says that many Vietnamese spoke English." This was a blatant lie. Christine's brother was an accountant in Niagara Falls and the closet thing military he'd ever been in was the Sea Scouts.

"Ah, yeah, I mean yes," mumbled Trang, wondering what the girl was up to. He could hardly believe that a girl as beautiful as the one sitting next to him could find him attractive.

Sensing Trang's nervousness, Christine hastened to reassure him. "You must think me awfully forward," she said, lowering her voice. "It's just that we meet so few nice boys - college boys are so . . . shall we say determined and enthusiastic . . ."

"We're not like that," Billy spoke up. "We know how to treat ladies."

Laughing inwardly, Isabel cooed, "Oh, how very nice! A girl gets tired of fending off . . . Well, never mind, it's just that all the boys we know seem to be interested in only one thing, and we're not that type."

When Christine heard that she almost fainted. Of course all the boys they met were interested in one thing! Still, the goofy man Isabel was feeling up believed her!

"Oh, I am so glad to hear that. We're liberated of course, but one does like to be asked, if you know what I mean, and it is nice to meet nice young men for a change," Christine said. Her hand moved again and she gently squeezed Trang's crotch. "My, you are quite the young man, aren't you?"

Trang groaned and spread his legs slightly. "Yeah, we're nice guys," he sputtered as he felt Christine's hand slowly manipulating his zipper down. "Um, I . . ."

"I told you that we're liberated," said Christine seductively. "We like what we like and we usually get what we like." She had Trang's zipper down and reached into the fly of his trousers. "And I like what I've found."

Behind his cash register Chang could hear every word and tried not to look. It was a good thing that the place was empty except for the two Vietnamese and the girls. He looked quickly around and jerked his head at the two waiters hovering near the kitchen door. They took the hint and quickly went into the kitchen. Chang returned to his paper and pretended to nod.

Trang could feel Christine's hand slip through the slit in his boxer underpants and begin to tease the short tassel of his foreskin. He squirmed and shuddered and groaned, "The old man."

Christine leaned forward and licked Trang's ear. "He's sleeping," she whispered. "And my word, you're not!"

Across the table Billy was squirming and humping, and breathing harshly as Isabel's hand enveloped his dick, which was harder than it had ever been. He could feel her fingers slowly drawing down his foreskin and teasing the plump head of his dick.

Trang scrunched his eyes shut. His dick was now out of his pants and Christine was squeezing it rhythmically. His breathing became a pant of ecstasy. Across the table Billy was in heaven.

Christine slowly moved her hand down Trang's back, feeling for the strap of a shoulder holster. Feeling none, she continued downward. Trang, too lost in lust, and feeling things he'd not felt before, slid forward in his chair, the better to offer his dick to the masturbating hand, and began to grunt.

Isabel looked at Christine, who winked, and then whispered in Billy's ear. "I don't what's come over me," she breathed, "but I . . ." She quickly ducked under the floor length cloth that covered the table and knelt between Billy's legs. "I hope this fucker's clean," she said to herself as she lowered her head.

Billy jerked forward suddenly and then flopped back in his chair. He was so lost in euphoric lust that he did not feel Isabel's hands as they explored his body, from the back of his waist down to his ankles. He began thrusting upward, pushing his hard dick into the warm, accepting mouth.

Christine's hands also worked their magic. Trang had never had a girl give him a hand job before and if what Christine was doing to him was any indication, he'd never go back to one of Diem's boys again! He felt her fingers tickling the narrow head of his penis while squeezing the thin shaft. "God," he groaned softly. "God, I'm gonna . . ."

Christine knew what Trang was "gonna" do and gently pushed his dick down toward the floor. She continued to lick Trang's neck and masturbate him. Across the table Billy was clutching the edge of the table, trying not to thrash about and moaning softly.

Trang suddenly squeaked unintelligibly and ejaculated, a long stream of semen squirting outward from his dick and onto the floor. He jerked three times more and then tried to pull back. "Oh fuck," he whispered as Christine's fingers rubbed the magnificently sensitive head of his dick. "No more," he grunted, reaching down to push the girl's hand away.

Across the table. Billy yelped loud enough for Chang to jerk up his head. Billy bucked like a bronco and then collapsed in his chair. Chang pretended to go back to sleep, too awed at what had just happened to even think!

Isabel popped up from under the tablecloth and smiled at Billy. She licked her lips and murmured, "So nice, such a nice change from the boys we usually meet."

Christine, not to be outdone, delicately ran her tongue over the fingers of her hand, licking away the semen that had spilled onto them. "Very nice," she simpered.

Neither Trang nor Billy knew what to say. They were sitting there, with their soft dicks hanging out, trying to catch their breath. Billy was the first to recover. He stuffed his dick back into his pants and looked at Isabel. "Gosh, that was . . ."

Isabel, ever the coquette, quickly placed her fingers against Billy's lips. "You were so nice and so gentlemanly, it was the least I could do."

Trang winced as Christine gave his dick a last squeeze and said, "Isabel is right. We rarely meet such nice boys." She leaned forward and gave Trang a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Are you boys here often?"

"Uh, no," mumbled Trang. "Our first time."

"Oh, what a shame," said Christine. "We thought we might like to come back."

"Um, we have to go soon," replied Trang as he reached down to pack away his goods. "But we'll be back tomorrow, maybe around six?"

"Oh?" Christine pretended surprise. "Well, in that case, perhaps we might meet again?"

"Uh, yeah, we, I, we'd really like to see you both again," exclaimed Billy. "And uh, we're not, uh, we won't . . ."

Isabel saved the stumbling Billy. "But Billy, perhaps we'd like to get to know you and Trang better! Wouldn't you like that?"

Trang's head bobbed rapidly. White girls rarely took up with Vietnamese boys and he wasn't about to let Christine get away. Shit, if she made him feel so wonderful with a hand job, just what would she do if he fucked her? "Uh, yeah," he blurted. "We can be back tomorrow."

"How wonderful," said Christine as she slid from her seat. Isabel followed her, and they gathered up their bags. "We really must be going," she said. She smiled winningly at Trang. "Tomorrow then?"

Both Trang and Billy nodded.

Christine and Isabel walked from the restaurant, making sure that they swung their hips seductively, as if giving promise of things to come. Outside they turned right and Isabel giggled.

"What?" asked Christine.

"Amateurs!" Isabel exclaimed, the word tinged with disgust. "Rank amateurs!"

"Amateurs, Saigon cowboys!" Cousin Tommy spat into the telephone. "The pair of them haven't a clue."

Michael Chan was not surprised. Diem, and Minh, were using street thugs rather than seasoned men, which was not surprising. The word from Vietnam was that while many criminals had managed to find a way out, the Viet Cong had from almost the moment the tank pushed down the gates of the Presidential Palace begun cleaning up the city of Saigon.

"One has a handgun stuck down the back of his pants . . ." Cousin Tommy said with a look to Christine for confirmation. She nodded. "And the other has a gun in an ankle holster on his right leg, and what felt like a switchblade in his back pocket." Christine sniffed knowledgably. "The guns are small calibre - .38's, probably."

Sitting in his office, Michael nodded. Either Diem was playing it very smart, sending in the scrub team for a look see, and saving the heavy muscle for tomorrow, or he was short of experienced men. Michael doubted the latter, but did it really matter?

"Scouts," he said aloud, "Scouts to see what security we were putting in place."

"They said they'd be back tomorrow, around six," advised Cousin Tommy.

Michael thought a moment. "They will bring more experienced men then, I think. Are we ready?"

Cousin Tommy nodded. "The men are in place. Eddy Tsang sent in his best. Paulie and Andy are with them. Logan did well. He's been and gone and Trevor is ready. Chang is bringing in some nephews to back us up."

"Good," replied Michael, satisfied. "The ruse worked."

"Yeah. There were so many trucks going in and out, hiding some men in the back of one of them was a piece of cake. It also helped that we did it so quickly. According to Chang the two mooks that came in were hours late."

"Good. Keep watch, report anything out of the ordinary." He thought a moment. "While I am curious as to how you obtained the information on the 'mooks', I will not ask. Please ensure that those who accomplished the deed are amply compensated."

"Already done," replied Cousin Tommy as he watched Isabel stuff the thick wad of bank notes he'd given her down her bra.

"Very good." Michael hung up the telephone and looked at the Major. "Everything is in place. Eddy Tsang has done well."

The Major nodded. "Speaking of which . . ."

Michael held up his hand. "In due time."

"He's just returned from the examinations. Why wait?"

"He will want to report to Diem," replied Michael. "After he is finished. Not before."

To Be Continued in Chapter 19

Author's Notes

From the document, "Cantate Domino" (A.D. 1442), signed by Pope Eugene IV, from the 11th session of the Council of Florence (A.D. 1439, a continuation of the Council of Basle, A.D. 1431, and the Council of Ferrara, A.D. 1438):

[The Holy Roman Church] firmly believes, professes and teaches that the legal prescriptions of the Old Testament or the Mosaic law, which are divided into ceremonies, holy sacrifices and sacraments, because they were instituted to signify something in the future, although they were adequate for the divine cult of that age, once our Lord Jesus Christ who was signified by them had come, came to an end and the sacraments of the new Testament had their beginning. Whoever, after the Passion, places his hope in the legal prescriptions and submits himself to them as necessary for salvation and as if faith in Christ without them could not save, sins mortally. It does not deny that from Christ's passion until the promulgation of the Gospel they could have been retained, provided they were in no way believed to be necessary for salvation. But it asserts that after the promulgation of the gospel they cannot be observed without loss of eternal salvation. Therefore it denounces all who after that time observe circumcision, the [Jewish] sabbath and other legal prescriptions as strangers to the faith of Christ and unable to share in eternal salvation, unless they recoil at some time from these errors. Therefore it strictly orders all who glory in the name of Christian, not to practise circumcision either before or after baptism, since whether or not they place their hope in it, it cannot possibly be observed without loss of eternal salvation.

1 Corinthians 7:18

Is any man called uncircumcised? Let him not procure uncircumcision. Is any man called in uncircumcision? Let him not be circumcised.

Papal Bulls

The privileges granted to the Order of Saint John of the Cross of Acre are based on the following Papal Documents:

Omne Datum Optimum 1139 A Papal Bull that initially endorsed the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon (Knights Templar), in which the Templar Rule was officially approved, and papal protection given. Additionally, Omne Datum Optimum promised all spoils from Muslim conquest to the Order, and made the Order exempt from tithes and taxes.

Although Omne Datum Optimum was an unusual bull in and of itself, it was followed by Pope Celestine II's Milites Templi in 1144 and Pope Eugenius III's Militia Dei in 1145, which together gave the Templars an extraordinary range of rights and privileges. Among other things, the Order was permitted to build its own churches, bury their dead in those church grounds and collect taxes on Templar properties once a year. The Templar's unique cemeteries proved to be extremely controversial.

How or why the Templars were granted the latter two Bulls, which essentially granted them Sovereignty, is not known and to the author's knowledge the Vatican has not to date made public any explanation nor made public related documents that may be held in the Secret Archives of the Vatican.

From The Catechism of the Catholic Church (1994), Paragraph 2297:

"Except when performed for strictly therapeutic medical reasons, directly intended amputations, mutilations, and sterilizations performed on innocent persons are against moral law."