Date: Wed, 5 Apr 2006 21:04:06 -0400 (EDT)
From: John Ellison <paradegi@rogers.com>
Subject: The Knights of Aurora - Chapter 18

"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."