Chapter 19 - GIDEON
Jamison's office was usually spotless. It was one of the things I admired about him: tight ship, tight uniform, tight rules. The kind of man who kept his pencils in a straight line and his boots polished even when Berlin was falling apart outside.
But today?
It looked like hell.
Two overstuffed inboxes sagged under classified folders.
A cold cup of coffee sat forgotten near the edge of the desk, and a greasy ring stained the blotter.
Three maps of Berlin were pinned to the wall, one with so many red X's it looked like a battlefield.
Another had colored pins marking air corridors.
A third had hastily drawn arrows, scribbles, and notes in thick black marker.
The window behind him was cracked open to let out the cigarette smoke, but all it let in was gray light and the distant grinding of jackhammers as Trümmerfrauen smashed at rubble piles down the street.
Jamison looked worse than the office.
His uniform was impeccable, yes, but there were deep lines carved under his eyes. His face was pale, a shade lighter than his collar, from too many days locked inside, and there was just the faintest tremor in his hands as he sorted through a stack of papers.
He didn't look like an officer. He looked like a man holding back a landslide with his bare hands. When he finally noticed me, he waved me inside without looking up. "Griffin. Close the door. Sit."
I did. A moment passed—him reading, me waiting—before he glanced up over the file.
"So," he said dryly, "any more incidents that never happened?"
I huffed a humorless laugh. "Not since the last ones."
He raised a brow. "Clarify."
I leaned back in the chair. "Two Soviet fighters stalked me on approach this morning."
His jaw tightened. "How close?"
"Close enough to see the pilot's cigarette dangling out his window."
Jamison muttered something vicious under his breath. "Did they cross the corridor boundary?"
"No. They stayed just outside. Watching."
"Harassment," he said. "Deliberate. They want a reaction."
I nodded. "They won't get one."
Jamison gave me a weary look. "They'll get something eventually. This city is a damn mousetrap, and Stalin's shaking it to see who flicks the cheese."
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say. Silence stretched a moment; the only sound was the distant jackhammer rhythm outside.
"Alright," he sighed finally. "What do you need, Griffin?"
I swallowed. "I want to get married."
Jamison blinked. Once. Twice.
"Married," he repeated, as if I'd spoken in Russian.
"Yes, sir."
He exhaled, not annoyed, just stunned. Then he opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of forms so thick it could stop a bullet. "Fiancée visa. Sponsorship. Background checks. Double background checks. Civilian affidavits. Moral conduct certificate. Sector clearance."
He stacked the pages like a house of cards. "And you'll need a chaplain willing to sign."
I blinked. "That's… a lot."
"This," he said, tapping the mountain of forms, "is a lot. But you asked."
I stared down at the pages, heart pounding with something halfway between terror and anticipation.
"How long?" I asked.
"If everything goes right? Two weeks."
It didn't take him long to realize my disappointment. He didn't know why I was in such a haste, didn't know how much I wanted to get Inga and the kids out of those ruins. Still, he threw me a breadcrumb. "If everything goes very right? One."
One week. My stomach did a strange, swooping thing. Jamison watched me carefully. "This girl—she must be something."
"She is," I said, voice rougher than intended.
Jamison exhaled and leaned back in his chair. The springs groaned under the weight of a man carrying too many secrets. "Then don't screw it up, Captain. Berlin eats good things first."
I hesitated at the door. "Sir," I asked, "if I don't see more… incidents—"
"You tell me," he said immediately. "No one else. Not Carter, not your squadron, not the press. Me."
Even if you have to pretend it never happened, his eyes seemed to say.
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He waved me off, already reaching for another crisis folder. "Now get out of my office before something explodes in the British sector and ruins my hour."
As I stepped into the hallway, the floor trembled faintly. Somewhere far away, a dud bomb had gone off, another reminder that Berlin still burned beneath the rubble. As if it had been summoned by Jamison's words.
I clutched the paperwork to my chest.
For the first time in months, I felt like I was moving toward something good.
Suddenly, Berlin glittered in a way I hadn't noticed before. It was still broken, still gray, still coughing dust into the sky… but it felt different. Lighter. Hopeful. Because I had a future now. A direction. A plan.
I stopped by the bank and withdrew a large amount of money.
I wasn't going to go cheap on this ring.
Then I spent thirty minutes hunting down a jeweler in the American sector, a store with glass so clean it looked like magic and chrome fittings that caught the sunlight in sharp, white flares.
I pushed open the door, and a bell chimed with a soft, polite note that felt strangely out of place in Berlin.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of polish and lemon, and the display cases glowed under warm electric lamps.
For a moment, I forgot the rubble outside. The hunger. The tension. The Russians.
In here, the world was intact.
The jeweler appeared from the back room like he'd been conjured, gray hair slicked, mustache neatly trimmed, suit pressed to perfection. He looked old enough to have lived through three wars and stubborn enough to survive a fourth.
"Guten Tag," he said. "How may I assist you, Captain?"
"I'm looking for an engagement ring," I said, feeling the words strike somewhere deep in my chest. "A good one."
His eyes sharpened. "For a German girl?"
"Yes."
He studied me for a moment, as if measuring not just my rank, but my intentions. Then he nodded once and motioned me toward the far counter.
"You will want something… traditional. Not ostentatious." He lowered his voice. "But meaningful."
I followed him to a case separate from the others, its contents hidden beneath a velvet drape. When he lifted the cloth, light struck gold. There were rings, dozens of them. But my gaze went to one immediately.
A ring that didn't shine, it glowed.
The jeweler noticed. "Ah," he murmured, "that one is… special."
It was gold, warm and soft in color, shaped into delicate vines and leaves that curled protectively around a round-cut diamond. The design wasn't modern; it was timeless. Almost mythic. Like something a forest spirit might wear.
Two tiny diamonds flanked the center stone like droplets of morning dew. I swallowed.
"That center stone," the jeweler said quietly, "is just over one carat. Very rare these days."
I reached out, barely letting my fingertips brush the band. Heat sparked from the metal straight into my ribcage, settling somewhere dangerously close to my heart.
"It's perfect," I said.
"It is exquisite," he replied. "A piece like this... it speaks of devotion. Of choosing someone fully."
Exactly how I felt. I lifted the ring carefully, feeling its weight, not heavy, just enough to mean something. Would she even believe this was for her? Would she accept it? Would she cry? Would she smile?
God, I hoped so.
"Is this the one you want, Captain?" the jeweler asked gently.
"If it doesn't fit," I swallowed. It had to fit; it just had to. It was her. Perfect.
"Then bring it back here, and I'll resize it, for free." The man smiled warmly.
I nodded, determined. "Yes. That's the one."
He closed the box gently and slid it toward me on the counter. "The price is… ah." He hesitated. "Let us say it is not inexpensive. One thousand dollars, Captain."
I didn't blink. If he was watching my face for shock, I didn't give him any. I had been prepared to pay a lot more for the ring. I pulled my billfold from my inner pocket and placed crisp bills—American bills—on the counter.
The jeweler's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. No German civilian had seen that much money in one place since the war began. Most Americans hadn't either.
He cleared his throat. "You… pay in full?"
"Yes," I said. "In full."
He stared at me a moment longer, as if trying to place me, rank, family, origins, anything that could explain a pilot in dusty boots casually dropping more than most Berliners made in a year.
But he didn't ask.
Instead, he bowed his head. "Take good care of her, Captain."
"I will," I murmured.
It wasn't a promise. It was a vow. "Then let me polish it for you."
As he worked, I imagined sliding it onto her hand. Inga, who had nothing.
Inga, who had survived everything. Inga, whose eyes had been empty until she looked at me. She deserved something beautiful. She deserved something permanent. She deserved something that felt like hope.
And this ring… felt like a promise carved into gold.
When the jeweler was done, he placed it in a velvet-lined box and folded the lid shut with reverence.
I slipped the box into my jacket pocket, feeling its warmth settle over my heart.
Then I stepped back into Berlin—into dust, ruins, danger—into the world that looked so different now.
Because in my pocket was the future I wanted. And I was going to give it to her.
I bought toys next: a carved wooden horse for Klaus, a set of bright tin cars for Axel, a cloth doll with yellow yarn hair for Hilde.
Candy too. Chocolate, licorice, gum.
I felt ridiculous, like Santa Claus in July, but I didn't care. I wanted to give them everything.
Outside, Berlin throbbed with rebuilding energy: Jackhammers rattled like bones shaking. Trümmerfrauen passed bricks down long chains of hands, faces streaked with dust and determination. Children darted between ruins like feral cats. Speaking of cats—