Woohoo, next part of the story. I belive this is part twelve. If you haven't read the first parts, you might be extremely confused when you read this diary entry. Anyway, the story begins here so read it if you want to. Um... yeah, that's it.

Love and all to you and yours. And, I think this story is winding down, so I should be back to writing soap-box entries and such in the very near future.

Love and all to you and yours, my friends.

Peace unto thy hearts.

Upon reaching the midway point of the tree, nearly 60 feet off the ground, Matthew settles back against the trunk, sitting comfortably on the plywood floor of his childhood treehouse. He looks up into the branches above him, knowing the supplies he and Michael had usually kept would be up there. A whisper of sadness enters his mind as the sun's last rays fade from the sky. I miss you, Mike. God I hope you're happy. Just be happy. Please.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael jerks upright, feeling a sense of panic so intense his blood cells nearly revert to detours. He strains to hear whatever sound had shoved him so forcefully from sleep. A sudden picture flashes through his mind; a picture of his childhood tree house. Michael tries to place the origin of the memory, yet all that makes itself clear in his mind is the knowledge that he must go to that tree.

Michael leans back against the oak headboard, rubbing his sleep-blurred eyes in the darkness of his room. Although every logical part of his psyche screams at him to think, Michael reaches for the phone, intent on calling Kyra. He whispers softly as his fingers just brush the ebony handset. "I'm not leaving her alone. If I'm going, she's going."

For the second time in five minutes, Michael jerks back, staring at the ringing phone as if it were a cobra ready to strike. "Damn it... Who the hell could it be at this hour?" Michael looks to the clock, growling about phone calls at 3 in the morning. His mumbling is silenced as soon as he hears the soft, whispered voice on the other end of the line.

"Michael?... I know it's really late and I have no reason to call you.... but I just got..." She falters, knowing what she has to say is going to sound really psychotic. Kyra swallows hard, then continues, a little more softly. "I don't know if you're going to believe me or not, but I just have the strangest feeling that I need to go up into the mountains." She pauses again, a frown creasing her brow.

A slow smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as Michael listens to Kyra's confession. With gentle reasurance in his voice he replies. "Kyra... can you be ready in half an hour? I"ll be there and take you up myself." He smiles again at her slight gasp of surprise, but the gesture widens into a slightly foolish grin when she accepts his offer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Admiral Bennet, good of you to join us" General Sanderson extends a hand to the Naval officer, then waves him to a chair at the small, round table occupied by other officers of equivilant rank. Bennet notes to himself that each branch of the military is represented twice with the single exception of the Navy. He files away that little tidbit of information, observing absently that his mind aught to be mass-marketed for its efficiency. Bennet nods, shaking hands with the Generals in attendance. "Interesting sidenote..." he mumbles to himself while taking his seat. "those of equal rank, never seem to salute one another."

Sanderson waits for Admiral Bennet to take his seat, then looks around to the six other men gathered around the table. He begins speaking quietly, tho there is a touch of haughty power in his commanding tone. "Welcome Gentlemen. We're here for a briefing then a demonstration of our new product." Sanderson looks to his compatriots, each in turn. There is a tone of giddy excitement to his voice, more fitting a child on his way to camp than a 55 year old Three-Star General in the Army. "I think you're really going to like this."

Sanderson takes his seat as the lights dim slightly. A figure, previously unseen, moves forward to the podium, his tall, awkward frame seemingly out of balance. He looks to each man in turn, the leather gloves concealing his slightly shaking fingers. Nearly opaque shades shield his eyes as his grating voice claws its way from his whithered throat.

"I am Hawkman, and I bring to you the next generation of special forces elite."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kyra paces from window to window, parting the curtains just enough to peek out into the early morning darkness. Her heart pounds regularly but quickly, sending a stacatto trill through her bloodstream every few seconds. Wolf watches his mistress with curious eyes. His expression seems to press forward reassurance.

Again Kyra looks to the watch on her wrist, feeling the glass face tho it is still too dark for her to see the numbers until she depresses the faint light. Only two minutes have passed since the last time she checked. Damn it... why half an hour... Couldn't you just be here now? For some reason Kyra seems to be more comfortable with the thought of Michael as her defender.

With a faint warning chuff from Wolf, Kyra freezes in place, even her own breathing having gone silent. For half a moment her heart beat silences itself so she can hear whatever sound tipped off the husky at her side. Another frown creases her forehead as only the faint electrical whir of the wall clock greets her ears.

Suddenly, almost jumping out of her skin, Kyra lurches toward the door as someone knocks. She places her hand on the door knob, ready to open it, when Wolf chuffs very softly and pushes between Kyra and the door. She tilts her head at the dog, confusion showing in her eyes, tho she remains silent.

Wolf presses his nose against the bottom crack of the doorway, sniffing quietly. A low, threatening growl falls from his jaws, hackles raised along the back of his neck, tail held out behind him and slightly down, almost as if the husky were on Point. Again he growls quietly, this time Kyra hearing a faint shuffling on the other side of the door.

A soft, hushed voice greets her ears, muffled slightly through the heavy oak door. "Kyra, I told you I"d be here. Let me in." Kyra frowns, looking to the dog as he spreads his forepaws slightly. She shakes her head just a little, deciding to say nothing. It sounded like Michael... but... Wolf doesn't do that... and I trust him. She frowns again, watching the door then Wolf then back to the door.

Suddenly, Wolf switches his attention from the door to the window. The large husky doesn't move from his place, but his ears prick forward and the growl is silenced for just a moment. Kyra watches her dog, becoming increasingly confused, yet feeling revelation taunting her conscious mind.

Wolf turns back to the door, releasing an angry bark, a single bark filled with rage, hatred and the intent to kill. As Kyra returns her eyes to the door, she hears a gasp quite clear, very obvious as the door knob is released from the outside. She brings her hands instantly to her mouth, stifling her own gasp at not having seen the supposed Michael attemting to enter.

Again Wolf releases a bark, this time the sound far lower, sending a chill of terror racing along Kyra's spine. She shakes her head slightly, her subconscious trying to tell her something. A muttered curse preceeds the sounds of running as a pair of headlights stab through the yard and into the windows. Kyra reaches out for the doorknob, but stops as she sees Wolf, again unsure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Colonel Marx looks at the man sitting across from him in the hallway outside the briefing room. His voice is quiet, but holds a touch of contempt. "So, you're the one who really got this thing started, hmmm?" Marx's expression leaves no room for doubt, the disgust obvious and nearly tangible.

"You could say that." The reply is spoken in a gruff and harsh voice. Something about him doesn't sit right with Marx. Maybe you're gettin too old for this shit, Bubba. You've been a 'good ole boy' long enough. Marx watches the man across from him a moment longer, then speaks again. "Well, Branson, Whatever you've got going with the General is your business. I'm just following orders."

Before either man can continue the discussion, the briefing room doors open wide, spilling a pool of uniforms into the waiting lobby. Marx immediately stands, snapping to perfect attention, his stance rock solid. With clear voice and before the superior can say anything, Marx introduces the only other civilian.

"General Sanderson." Marx pauses only long enough to draw in a breath. "This is Mr. Branson of the Branson Group." As Sanderson turns toward Marx, the General's brow raised slightly, Marx concludes. "As per your orders, Sir."

Sanderson closes his mouth quickly, nodding sharply before turning to the shorter man. "Come with us, Mr. Branson. We'll be demonstrating your pet project." Without another word, the General turns, moving briskly through the narrow hallway. As if it were an afterthought, Sanderson calls over his shoulder, "Dismissed Colonel."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~