Descending out of the night sky, navigation lights cutting the dark, was a matte-black UH-60 Black Hawk. It didn’t belong in the city. It belonged in a war zone.

And it was setting down on the hotel’s manicured lawn.

The downdraft hit the ground like a hurricane, tearing across the entrance, shredding the floral arrangements — lilies and orchids blasted into the air like confetti.

The guests shrieked, covering their faces as their careful hairstyles and designer gowns came apart in the raw power of the machine. My father was driven to his knees by the wind, shielding his face with his arms.

He looked tiny. A broken king in a storm he couldn’t control.

The side door slid open. My aide, Captain Lewis, stood there in full tactical gear and snapped a crisp salute.