12.
AMERICAN SON
*** The sequel to Captain America – The Last Campaign. It is seventeen years after the death of Steve Rogers. Young Grant Riley discovers he is not who the thought he was, but is in fact the son of the legendary hero, Captain America. Facing an enemy seeking world domination, Grant must learn to manage the extraordinary legacy of being the son of America's greatest hero, while carving a path of his own. ***
Chapter 1
Fortunate Son
Sharon Riley stepped from the porch of her sturdy farmhouse and walked onto the wide lawn, which sloped gracefully down to the lane. She looked up, seeing thin wisps of clouds drifting across the blue Oregon sky as the late-day sun hung like a golden gem over the land. To the west, the clouds were heavier, tinged with gray. Rain was coming, perhaps three or four hours away, she estimated. Walking across the gravel driveway, she came to a timber fence, and leaned against it, shielding her eyes against the afternoon dazzle. The rumble of a diesel engine sounded across the field, coming from behind a stand of pine trees. Inhaling the good smell of freshly tilled earth, Sharon waited for the tractor to appear.
She had been something of a mystery to her neighbors when she took up this farm seventeen years ago. There was talk at first, about a single woman—a single mother no less—taking on a five-hundred acre farm, but the talk lessened as the farm prospered. Sharon was a quiet woman, who kept mostly to herself, but she was hard working, and that counted for much in rural Oregon, where the pioneer spirit lived still. Six years ago, a flash flood tore through the town of Newburg, destroying much of downtown, and dozens of houses. Sharon worked day and night, side-by-side with the lifelong residents, saving those who could be saved, recovering those who were lost. In the following weeks, she helped rebuild the houses and business. After that, there was no more talk of her being an outsider. She was a private woman, a mystery still, but the people accepted her and her young son as part of the community.
Sharon pulled her flaxen hair into a ponytail, tying it off with a band. The few strands of silver-gray in her hair, along with the fine lines around her eyes, were her only signs of age. She was lean and fit, with the liquid grace of a dancer, but underlying it was a steely strength that seemed from more than farm work could account. She was attractive, beautiful even, but remote, and distant. That distance made her hard, formidable, and ultimately unapproachable. Many men in the community had attempted to breach that distance and get to know her, but none had succeeded. She was part of the community…but only to a point.
As the rumble of the engine grew louder, Sharon gazed across the field, seeing the tractor come into view some quarter of a mile away. Given the noise of the engine, and with the distance, her voice wouldn't carry far. It wouldn't need to. She waved, and called out.
"Grant!"
Her son looked up, and waved back. He cranked the handle, raising the plow from the ground, and steered the tractor forward. She watched as he approached, standing up from the seat, pulling his tee shirt over his broad, sun-bronzed shoulders. He had grown so much this past year. Always big for his age, he was now six-feet tall, and his frame was filling out. A boy only a year ago, he was becoming a man. Her mother's heart felt a small ache of pain. She was happy seeing him grow into manhood, but she wasn't ready to say goodbye to her little boy. It was more than that, of course. There were things she would have to tell him soon, secrets she had kept in the corner of her heart for seventeen years, out of sight, but never out of mind. When she finally told those secrets, would he understand? Could he forgive her for keeping the truth from him? She put those questions aside. The time for telling secrets was coming, but it was not yet here.
Grant shut the engine off, leapt to the soft turf and walked towards her, smiling. Another pang shot through Sharon's heart; he looked so much like his father, but never more so than when he smiled. Putting his hand on the top rail, he vaulted over the fence, landing lightly in front of her.
"I'm almost finished plowing," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He pulled his shirt on, and kissed her cheek. "I'll have the corn planted by the weekend."
"There's plenty of time for that. I need you to run into town, pick up some supplies."
Sharon held out a credit card, and a small list of groceries. Grant took them, and then looked at her, expectantly.
"Is the carburetor in?"
He glanced at the pole barn with a hopeful smile. A battered but sturdy old Ford pickup sat parked under the roof, its hood opened, waiting patiently to be brought back to life.
"Yes," Sharon said, to which her son whopped in joy. It made her feel good to see him happy; she hated what she had to say next. "I also need you to stop at the post office. Next year's lesson plans just came in."
Grant's joy evaporated. "Mom, we talked about this. I want to finish my senior year at the high school. You said I could."
"I said I'd think about it." Seeing the look on his face, she softened her tone. "I'm not saying no. We'll talk about it tonight, after dinner, okay?"
Grant's shoulders slumped. "We'll talk. That means you explaining why we should do it your way. This is my last year, mom, I want to go."
Sharon sighed. "Is this about Allison?"
"No," he snapped. He faltered under her probing stare. "Well…not only her. I need to be around kids my own age. I've been talking to coach Brennan. He want's me to go out for football."
Sharon's eyes flared angrily. "Football? Absolutely not, Grant!"
"You can't just make every decision for me! I want to be a normal kid, why is that so wrong? Why do you hate Allison?"
"Oh, Grant, I don't hate her, you know that. Allison's a sweet girl, and there's nothing wrong with wanting a normal life…but I can't let you put yourself at risk."
"What risk? I'm talking about going to high school! God, all my life, you've been telling me about risks, about enemies. Where are they, mom?"
Sharon's eyes hardened as she pointed to the horizon. "Out there, in the world. Oregon isn't the world, Grant. There are dangers that most people know nothing about, bad people with bad intent, just waiting for their moment to strike. Your father had enemies, and if they knew about you…"
Sharon took a breath, pulling in her emotions, making her voice quiet again. She softened her eyes, and looked at her son.
"You're safety is the most important thing in the world to me. I know I seem hard sometimes, unfair…but I'm only doing what I think is best."
Grant scuffed his work boot across the grass. "I can't live my entire life hiding away from the world. What good is being safe if I'm not happy?"
"Are you really so unhappy?" Sharon said quietly. "That's not what I want for you."
"I know that," Grant sighed. "But you have to let me breathe. I need to be normal, I need…I need to know about my father."
Sharon froze for a moment. "I've told you about him."
"I'm not talking about his name! A few photos, some medals in a box—that doesn't tell me who he was. You tell me he was a soldier, but who was he? Why did he have enemies who'd want to hurt us? Why won't you tell me who he was?"
"You deserve answers. I'll tell you about your father soon, I promise."
Grant looked at her, his pale blue eyes hooded with pain. "Soon. You've been telling me that my whole life." He walked away from her, speaking over his shoulder without looking back. "I'm going to school this fall."
Sharon watched Grant stalk over to the pole barn, and bury himself under the hood of the old pickup. He'd spent a lot of time there this past year, partly because he wanted to get the truck running, yes, but also to find distraction from loneliness and pain. That she was the cause of even a part of his loneliness and pain hurt her more than he would ever know. She had long ago mastered the art of concealing her own feelings, just as she had mastered the art of concealing the truth. The price that that skill had exacted from her was high. It had kept her son safe over the years…but it might end up costing her his love.
She watched as Grant worked on the old jalopy, his pain evident. Like his father, his emotions were always genuine, as was his character, shining like a beacon. Grant had not inherited her talent at deception, and for that, she was grateful. Her earlier thoughts came back to her, about how the time for telling secrets was not yet here. She nearly laughed at the bitter realization of how wrong she had been. Taking a deep breath, Sharon walked over to the barn. The time was here, now.
Grant was pulling on a chain lift, hoisting the motor from the pickup, a dozen feet in the air. Locking the chain in place, he wiped his hands on a rag and bent under the hood again. Sharon spoke, her voice quiet.
"You haven't eaten since breakfast, you must be starving. You're like your father that way, always hungry."
"I wouldn't know about that, would I?" he answered, still buried under the hood.
"We can change that. Come in, I'll fix us something to eat, and we can talk."
He looked up, closing the hood. The scowl on his face had softened.
"I want to talk, but you never listen. I love you, mom…but things have to change. It can't be just be your rules, with me having no say in my own life. I want to go to school. I want to go on dates, and play sports. I want to hang out without giving detailed reports on my every movement. I just want to be normal. Don't you want that for me? Don't you want me to be happy?"
Sharon started to answer, when a loud crack sounded overhead. She looked up. The huge wooden beam holding the chain lift splintered, and then fell, the chain hoist and the motor plummeting with it. Grant cried out, leaping forward, as Sharon dropped to the floor, knowing there was no chance to avoid the collision. She closed her eyes, waiting for the clattering chain and the splintered oak beam to crush her…
A second passed, and the noise ended. Sharon slowly opened her eyes. Grant was standing over her, with part of the beam leaning against his back. His left hand, raised above her, held the chain, with the motor dangling from the end, inches above her head. She stood, taking care to avoid the motor, and dusted the seat of her pants. "You can put it down, son," she said.
He slowly lowered the motor, which thumped heavily to the floor, the chain clinking as it fell. Sharon went to his side and wedged her shoulder against the beam leaning across his back. With a grunt, she pivoted it away from him. It fell to the floor with a reverberating bang. Sharon turned to him.
"Are you okay?"
"Just a little sore," he said, rotating his shoulder, flexing his back with a slight grimace.
"I don't doubt it—that beam must have weighed three hundred pounds, the motor twice as much. Looks like I'm not the only one who's been keeping secrets. How long have you been able to do things like this?"
"I…I don't know. You were in trouble, I had to do something. It was adrenaline."
"Adrenaline, I see. Last month in the north forty, when you lifted that fallen tree off the calf, was that adrenaline? Tree must have weighed a thousand pounds, not to mention you carried the calf half a mile back to the barn."
He stared at his mother, shocked, "Have you been spying on me?"
"I watch out for you, Grant. It's what I do."
Sharon reached out and brushed dust from his short blonde hair, and hugged him tightly. The embrace lasted several seconds. She knew she was saying goodbye to her little boy. She pulled back, and looked at him.
"I know you want to go to school, play sports, be…normal. I'm sorry, but you can't. You can be many things, Grant but not normal. You're very special, and it's time I told you the truth about who you are. Come on, I want to show you something."
They walked out of the pole barn, and headed up the hill that rose up behind the house. There was a small cluster of trees on the crest of the hill, and his mother walked toward them. Grant followed her to a huge oak tree, towering above the others. Its branches stretched high in the late afternoon sky, and its roots sank deep in the soil, very big, very strong, and very old. He had climbed this tree often as a young boy, and knew its branches well…yet he felt as if he were seeing it now for the first time.
His mother turned to him, and the look on her face shocked him. She always seemed so strong, so certain and confident, but now she looked venerable. He would almost think she was afraid, if that emotion wasn't impossible to associate with her. He watched as she laid her hand on the tree, gently, almost lovingly, her palm resting on an old carving cut deep into the bark.
"Grant…this is your father."
Grant walked closer and looked at the name carved in the tree. He'd seen it many times before, but never paid any great attention to it; it was just a name from the past, a boy from generations earlier, or so he had thought.
"Steve Rogers," He read. He turned to his mother, confused. "But our name is Riley…isn't it?"
"Riley was my mothers maiden name. I used it when you were born. I needed to disappear from my old life, so I had to lose my name. I was Sharon Carter…and your father's real name was Steven Grant Rogers. He lived here, on this farm, as a young man."
Grant moved her hand from the tree, and read the entire carving.
"Steve Rogers…1935."
"That was the year he started college," his mother said, her voice quiet, her thoughts far away. "He must have carved this right before he left."
"Mom, that was almost a hundred years ago. I don't understand."
Grant looked at his mother, shocked to see tears in her eyes. It was the first time he had seen his mother cry, and the sight cut into his heart, driving out his own feelings of confusion and anger. He wanted to put his arms around her, but he hesitated, and the moment passed. Sharon dried her eyes, and spoke.
"I'm sorry for keeping the truth from you. I'd like a chance to explain it…and when you know the whole story, maybe you'll even be able to forgive me. Let's go to the house, son. Let's talk."
Saying no more, his mother turned and headed down the hill. Slowly, Grant followed, walking towards the frame farmhouse that had been his home all his life. It seemed changed to him, now—everything seemed changed. The world was different, unknown…and so was he. Whatever it was his mother had to tell him, he knew it would change his life forever.
. . .
Nearly a mile distant, just beyond the freshly plowed field, the figure of a man lay silent and still in the tall grass, just on the edge of the deep woods. Dressed in tactical camouflage, he had his rifle trained on the woman and the boy, watching them through the high-powered scope. Slowly lifting his wrist to his mouth, he spoke into his communicator, his voice a whisper, lost on the wind.
"X-ray nine, calling command post. I have visual confirmation. It's him."
A voice came over the small device fitted in his ear.
"X-ray nine, this is command post. Are you positive? We've had two false leads already this month."
The figure smiled. "It's him, no doubt."
A pause. The voice retuned to his ear. "The strike team is approaching due south, they'll be at your coordinates in thirty minutes. The boy is to be taken alive and unharmed. Make sure your team knows."
"Affirmative. The woman?"
"Kill her."
The line went dead. The man trained his sight on the mother and her son, just now walking into the house. He set his watch, and waited. Twenty-nine minutes later, the nearly inaudible sound of helicopter blades cut the air, stealth aircraft, cloaked and silent. The aircraft hovered just above the tree line, as twenty agents rappelled to the field. The man stood, the others converging on him. He pointed forward, making the 'eyes on target' sign. The strike team nodded, drawing their weapons. As twilight tinged the country skyline, they moved toward the farmhouse, like silent shadows of death.
