The post was a hive of activity. Cars and trucks and uniformed soldiers were everywhere. Betsy read the instructions and guided them to a parking area, where they found a sign about the deployment ceremony to be held in the hangar.

The four of them were silent as they walked out to the hangar, which was a huge, open-sided building full of helicopters and cargo jets and smaller airplanes. One section had been cleared of aircraft, and rows of metal chairs had been placed in their space. Along the back wall, they’d set up a wooden dais. There was a giant TV screen to its left. A large banner hung from the rafters. It read: BE SAFE RAPTORS.

A pair of Black Hawk helicopters were in the center of the hangar; they were crawling with kids and parents. In front of them, a long, low table offered pamphlets on everything from PTSD to suicide prevention to summer camps for kids.

They took seats in the front row. Lulu sat curled on Michael’s lap, sucking her thumb—she no longer even pretended she’d given it up. In the next thirty minutes, the place filled up with people—mostly women and children and older men—who held posters and flowers. Over by the helicopters, a news crew gathered; a pretty woman in a blue suit talked into a microphone.

Then the side door opened and the crowd went still. Music started; five soldiers marched out single file, wearing camouflage fatigues tucked into lace-up sand-colored boots and jauntily slanted berets, playing instruments. At the end of the song, the band formed a line along the wall. They stood straight and tall, their shoulders broad, their chins high, at attention in front of a row of flags.

On the dais, a man in uniform approached the mic and welcomed everyone to this important day. Then he turned and gave an order, and the giant hangar doors began slowly, slowly to open. The rollers made a grinding, pinging sound that filled the room. The doors parted to reveal the uniformed soldiers, all seventy-six of them, who made up the Raptors flight unit.

They stood outside, stone-faced, looking ready to go. There was his wife, in the front row, so tall, so strong-looking amid her other family. Chief Warrant Officer 3 Zarkades. He hardly knew her. She was the officer in charge of a forty-million-dollar aircraft and countless lives.

A soldier stood in front of the troops, said something that ended in “present arms!” and the Raptors saluted and marched into the hangar.

“Ladies and gentlemen, will you please rise for the national anthem?”

Michael watched it all as if from some great distance. At the close of the national anthem, the unit members who were being deployed assembled and stood with their legs apart and their hands behind their backs as the base commander introduced the speaker. A couple of uniformed men conducted a ceremony with a flag—they rolled it into a case and put it away. It would not be brought out again until the troops returned from war.

The governor of Washington State stepped up to the podium. The hangar was quiet, except for the crying of babies in their mothers’ arms.

“The brave men and women standing in front of me are known to all of you,” he began. “They are our brothers, our sisters, our neighbors, our parents, our children, and our friends. They are our heroes. To the soldiers, and to the families, and to all of those who are supporting our troops, no words can adequately express the depth and breadth of our gratitude. We left at home, the protected, are acutely aware of and thankful for your courage and your sacrifice.” The governor looked up from his notes and leaned closer to the microphone. “Standing before me are the members of Charlie Company that are being deployed today. We can all be proud of their willingness to serve this great country of ours and take comfort from the certainty that each soldier is ready, is trained, is prepared to succeed in this endeavor. But we in this room know that there is more than courage being asked of these soldiers and of you, their families. I have been privileged to speak privately with many of our state’s brave soldiers, and the question I always ask them is, ‘What is your greatest concern with this deployment?’ You will not be surprised to hear that none has expressed concern for their personal safety. They worry about you. Saying good-bye to loved ones is the most difficult act for any soldier.” The governor paused. “There are no words that we, a grateful nation, can offer to Charlie Company except thank you.” He looked at the troops. “Your willingness to put yourselves in harm’s way to protect us here at home is humbling. We say thank you, and pray that you will be safe. God bless this unit and God bless America.”

A soldier called out: “First Sergeant. Release the warriors to their families.”

Whatever was said next was lost in the rush of applause. The audience was on their feet, clapping and crying, rushing in a herd toward the troops.

Michael couldn’t make himself move. He looked at the soldiers walking past him, going in search of their families; none looked afraid. They looked proud. Strong. Certain.

Up ahead, he saw Jolene and Tami come together. A news crew was talking to them. As he approached, he heard the reporter say, “Two best friends who are female and just happen to fly Black Hawks. That’s quite a story…”

Jolene said, “It’s not as unusual as you would think. Excuse me, ma’am.” She ducked out of camera range and headed toward Mila, who was pushing through the crowd.

Everywhere he looked, he saw heartbreak and courage. He saw a man in uniform, holding an infant who couldn’t be more than a month old. The soldier stared at his baby intently, his eyes moist, as if trying to imagine all the changes that would be made in that small face while he was gone. Beside him, a pregnant woman hugged her husband, sobbing, promising that she would be okay without him.

And there was Jolene, hugging his mother so tightly it looked like they’d fused together.

Lulu tightened her hold around Michael’s neck. “Hurry, Daddy. She might go.”

Michael walked toward his wife. He hadn’t expected any of this. How was that? He prided himself on his intelligence, but he’d been wrong, blinded by selfishness or politics or intellectualism. For years, he’d watched news reports about the global war on terrorism and followed images of soldiers in the desert and he’d thought about the politics of it all, about weapons of mass destruction and George W.’s declaration of war and the wisdom of arming and sending out troops. He’d argued with colleagues about it—while he sat safe and warm and protected in his country. He’d argued about the true cost of war.

He hadn’t known shit. The cost of war was here, in this room. It was families being torn apart and babies born without their parent at home and children forgetting their mother’s face. It was soldiers—some of them his age and others young enough to be his sons—who would come home wounded … or not come home at all.

His wife was going off to war. War. How was it he had missed the most important part of that? She could die.

“Breathe,” Jolene said gently.

Michael stared at her, his eyes bright with tears he was trying to hold back. “How can you do this? Any of you…”

Lulu leaned out of his arms, toward Jolene, her arms outstretched. “Don’t leave me, Mommy. I’ll be good. I won’t be inbisible anymore.”

Jolene pulled her youngest into her arms and held her fiercely. “You are the best girl in the world, Lucy Lou…” She pinned a small golden set of wings on Lulu’s costume. “When you look at these wings, you’ll know I’m thinking of you, Lulu. Okay?”

Michael reached out, took Jolene’s hand. He should have done that before, told her he’d be here for her. She grasped his hand so tightly it hurt. He wanted to wrap his arms around both of them, but he didn’t dare. If he got close enough to kiss her, he might fall apart and be the only man in the room who cried. His kids didn’t need to see that.

Betsy stood back, her arms crossed, one hip flung out, her mouth pulled into a tight frown.

“I’ll send videos and e-mails. I’ll call as much as I can,” Jolene promised them all.

“We’ll be fine,” Mila said to Jolene, hugging her, taking Lulu into her arms. “Don’t you worry about us.”

Jolene moved toward Betsy, caressed her cheek, forced her to look up. “I have my watch set. Do you?”

“Seven o’clock,” Betsy said firmly, looking away.

Jolene bent down, looked Betsy in the eyes. “I love you to the moon and back.” She paused. Michael knew she was waiting. He thought: say it back to her, Bets, but the silence just hung there, until Jolene straightened, looking unbearably sad.

Behind them, a voice came through the speakers, telling the soldiers to gather at the buses. The crowd started to move like a wave, swelling toward the doors.

And then they were outside, this crowd of straight-backed soldiers with duffle bags, amid their weeping families and reaching children. A row of buses waited on the tarmac.

“I’ll be good,” Lulu said, crying hard.

Jolene kissed her daughters and held them tightly and then … let them go.

Michael watched her move toward him. For a split second it was just the two of them in his mind—no kids, no soldiers, no crying babies. Everything around them was a blur of sound and fury.

He didn’t know what to do or say. He couldn’t repair a broken marriage with a kiss or a touch, but he was ashamed of what he’d done to get them here, and it was too late to fix it.

“Michael,” she said and he felt the sting of tears. “Take care of yourself.”

It was so little, that good-bye; more evidence of the shoals they’d wrecked on.

“You take care of yourself. Come home to…”

“Them?”

“Just make sure you come home.” He took her in his arms at last, holding her tightly. It wasn’t until she walked away that he realized she hadn’t hugged him back.

With one last agonizing look, Jolene disappeared into the crowd of soldiers and boarded the bus.

Betsy cried out, “MOM!” and ran the length of the bus, following her mother’s progress. Her voice was lost in the din.

Michael picked up a sobbing Lulu and tried to soothe her, but she was hysterical.

In the back row of the bus, Jolene put down her window. She gazed down at her family; the smile she gave them faltered as the bus drove away.

And then she was gone.

“I didn’t say ‘I love you,’” Betsy said, bursting into tears.

In the months before his wife left, Michael had slept on “his side” of the bed. He’d seen the river of rumpled white cotton between them as a no-man’s-land where passion had gone to die. Now, on this morning when he woke up truly alone, he saw how false that had been. In all those nights, he’d had a wife beside him, a partner with whom he’d shared his life. Alone was different from separate, infinitely different. Often last night he’d reached out for her and found only emptiness.

His first thought when he woke: she’s gone.

He sat up in bed. Beside him on the nightstand was her “bible,” the huge three-ring binder that housed the endless list of his new responsibilities. In it, she’d put everything she thought he might need—appliance warranties, recipes, lists of mechanics and housecleaners and babysitters. He reached for it and opened it to the “Daily Planner” section.