Chapter 13 - Standing Tall
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The eight Marines instantly followed their gunnery sergeant's lead, snapping to rigid attention in the pouring rain.
They stood in a crisp, disciplined line along the edge of the collapsed highway, their salutes held perfectly still.
Paramedics rushed past them to evaluate the children and elderly passengers, while local news vans pulled onto the scene.
Spotlights and camera flashes cut through the gloomy downpour, capturing the incredible aftermath of the miracle rescue.
I struggled slowly to my feet, pressing one hand against my aching ribs to stabilize the fracture.
I looked at the eight young Marines and their battered, bleeding gunnery sergeant.
I returned their salute with sharp, quiet dignity, holding it until every man had dropped his hand.
"Stand at ease, gentlemen," I said, my voice steady despite the pain thrumming through my body.
A female news reporter sprinted toward us with a cameraman in tow, her microphone thrust forward toward Bull Crawford.
"Sergeant! Sergeant!" she yelled over the dying wind.
"Can you tell us what happened here?"
"The sheriff says this was an impossible rescue!"
"Are you the heroes who saved this bus?"
Bull looked directly into the camera lens, his face hardened with a dignity that had been absent an hour earlier at the bar.
"We are Marines, ma'am, but we are not the heroes tonight," Bull stated with profound conviction on live television.
"An hour ago, I was a broken man who forgot what it meant to serve this country."
"I was arrogant, bitter, and angry at the world."
"I insulted an officer who sacrificed her youth and her body to defend our nation's freedom."
Bull turned slightly and pointed his massive, bandaged hand toward me.
"This is Captain Alexis Kaine," Bull announced, ensuring his voice reached every microphone on that road.
"She didn't ask who was on that bus."
"She didn't ask if the water was too cold or the current was too fast."
"She led from the front, walked directly into the jaws of death, and showed all of us what real valor looks like."
"If you want to write a story about an American hero, you put her name on the front page."
The reporter looked at me in stunned silence, her eyes drifting to the faded trident patch stitched onto my soaked leather jacket.
Sheriff Miller stepped forward, extending his hand toward me with immense reverence.
"Captain, you saved five citizens of this county tonight," the sheriff said, his voice thick with emotion.
"We will never be able to repay you for what you did."
"You don't owe me anything, Sheriff," I replied, shaking his hand firmly.
"Just make sure Arthur and those children get warm, dry clothes and a hot meal."
I turned toward Pete Whitman, who was leaning against his flatbed with a wide, knowing grin spread across his face.
"Pete," I said, wincing slightly as I stepped over a fallen branch.
"Does your tavern still have that pot of hot coffee?"
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"Captain," Pete answered with a chuckle, opening the passenger door for me.
"For you and these boys, the coffee is fresh, and the bar is open until sunrise."
