People applauded.
“Bryce understands loyalty. He understands family. Some people chase uniforms and headlines. Bryce built something real.”
A few guests laughed politely.
I watched the clip once.
Then I deleted it.
Across the operations center, Sergeant Kim looked up from a weather monitor.
“Captain Mercer, state police are requesting military support. Multi-car pileup on Route 17. Fuel tanker jackknifed. Civilian bus trapped behind it.”
I stood.
“How many on the bus?”
“Twenty-six children. Church choir returning from a pageant. Local county units are blocked by the same wreck.”
Everything around me suddenly sharpened.
“Put aviation on standby,” I said. “Call the gate. I want two Humvees, medics, thermal blankets, and emergency kits. Notify command that we’re supporting civil authorities under emergency protocol.”
For the next hour, Christmas stopped existing.
There was only wind hammering the building, radios firing off coordinates, and my own voice staying steady while the storm tried to turn a highway into a disaster.
At 2140, I rode out with the convoy.
Snow slammed against the windshield like handfuls of salt.
Red emergency lights blurred through the darkness.
When we reached the crash site, the bus leaned dangerously toward the shoulder.
Its windows were fogged.
Children inside were pressing their hands against the glass.
Thirty yards away, the damaged tanker hissed.
A state trooper grabbed my sleeve.
“Captain, if that fuel line ruptures—”
“I know.”
I pulled on my gloves.
“We move them now.”
We forced open the rear emergency door.
The first child who came out had no shoes.
Another little girl was crying because she couldn’t find her inhaler.
A boy with blood running from a small cut on his forehead looked up at me and asked whether Santa knew where he was.
“He knows,” I told him while wrapping him in my coat.
“But tonight, he sent us.”
A news van had become trapped behind the accident.
The crew started filming because that was their job.
I barely noticed.
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