War.

A simple word; only three letters and a single syllable.

Yet this word has caused more change than nearly all other words combined.

Except for perhaps one:

Love.

-6 June, 1961

He had been waiting an agonizing eleven and a half hours. He did not like waiting, not for a mission, not for an engagement, and especially not for this. He'd been waiting nine months for this day, and now was forced, by the person he waited to meet, to wait some more.

Sitting down, he looked at the stack of magazines on the table in the corner. He'd read them all already. For the first time in his life, he wished he had some paperwork to do. The cushion of the couch shifted while a calloused hand rested gently on his shoulder.

"I hate this."

The man sitting next to him smiled. "Well, I waited for fifteen hours for you. I guess it's no surprise that it'd happen to you." George laughed. It was not just a simple chuckle, but the hearty laugh that he saved for occasions like this. For a few moments, he wasn't the hard oil rig builder that his son often saw him as.

Simon smiled, finally. Like his father, he was a man of few words. Unlike George, Simon did not work in the oil industry. Even though he was guaranteed a job as the son of EOI's chief executive, Simon sought work elsewhere.

He found it in the Air Force. After two years of active duty, Simon had risen to command the 97th TFS, which was equipped with F-100s, a plane that was seen as adequate, but lacking in potential improvement.

His thoughts returning to the waiting room, Simon stood up and started pacing again.

"Shouldn't the doctor have come back out by now?"

"Not necessarily. Besides, if he came out too soon or too often, that might mean there is something wrong."

"I hadn't thought of that." Simon paused for a second, trying to collect his thoughts. "Do you think I'm ready?"

"No." The young man's shoulders slump visibly at the unexpected answer. "But then again, no one ever truly is. This is the most important thing you will ever do."

"I know."

George smiles. "Good. Turn around."

Confused, Simon does as he is told. To his relief, the doctor is there. And carrying something wrapped in a blanket.

"Captain," he hands him the something, "meet your son."

Simon looks down. Two tightly closed eyes, a squished nose and quivering lips are the first things he notices. The next is the grip his son's free hand has on Simon's pinky finger. For an eternal, silent moment, all is right in the world.

And Simon knows that this young life, his son, is his to protect; his to teach, his to love unconditionally. Finally, Captain Simon Barker smiles.

"Welcome to the world, William."