August 31, 2003.
A US Air Force helicopter, approaching the South Shore of Long Island. A bright, sunny day. It's carrying two passengers, and eight armed security guards. One passenger is Mark Davies, 57 years old, the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force. The other is his aide, Colonel James Rivers.
"Are you sure you want to do this, General?" He looked at the man he'd served alongside and under since before the Exchange. Mark--he thought of him with his first name, not that he'd ever use it in uniform--looked as tired, haggard and beaten as he ever had seen him before.
"I have to. My father...my daughter, my little girl...they were there. I don't know if it's where they died...but they were there. I HAVE to go. I've wanted to ever since the war. I couldn't die in peace without trying, seeing if I can know what became of them."
"Approaching the coordinates, General. The waypoints you gave me are still there. Doesn't look to be anyone or anything around...coming in for a landing...there we are, sir. And General...good luck, Sir."
General Davies watched the security detail leave the helicopter and fan out in a small semicircle. They signaled him...and he stepped out. Back to his father's estate...back to Algonquin...what had once upon a time been home. He walked towards the spot where he knew there would be a heavy door into the ground...