It was the first time John had actually been to Ernie's house, located out on the edge of town above Ridgecrest. John could see that the well-concealed so-called Franklin Clan had built their mountain retreat with an eye toward security, though before the Day, to an untrained eye as it came into view, it would just appear to be yet another upscale mountain home built for its remarkable view of the Mount Mitchell range.

John was getting extremely weary of bouncing around in old open-air all-terrain vehicles, but today the journey was in Maury's World War II–era jeep. It was open air, but given the history of the vehicle, it was a pleasure to experience a ride without racing to some confrontation—or, as happened in the spring, dodging the choppers that Fredericks used against the town. Nevertheless, it would eat up a couple of more gallons of their ever-diminishing gas supply. Just the day before, he had learned that the fuel within one of their remaining storage tanks had gone bad in the extremely cold weather for lack of the proper preservative. It meant that come spring planting, the few remaining functional tractors would have to burn some sort of recycled oil. He did have hopes that a team of old hobbyists living in Morganton were making progress in actually getting a couple of steam-powered machines up and running.

They turned onto Ernie's steep driveway, Maury shifting into low four-gear drive, and ascended the short road with ease even though it was snow-covered. Ernie's house was solidly built, most of it poured concrete, and John noted what looked like small bunkers flanking the driveway, covered by snow for now but that regardless provided clear fields of fire. The bunkers were assets that had saved Ernie's home when the Posse had attempted to flank the town's defenses two years ago and found themselves confronting a well-fortified position.

They pulled up to the front of the house, Ernie opening a garage door and beckoning for them to pull in and get out of the lightly falling snow.

As they climbed out of the jeep, John looked around with envy. Ernie had a full workshop in the basement garage, and not just the workshop of a casual handyman. There was arc-welding equipment, tool-and-die-making equipment, and a hoist for pulling an engine block out of a vehicle, and lining one wall were boxes of unopened rations.

Ernie noticed John looking around and smiled. "Were you a Boy Scout?" he asked.

"Yes, made Eagle."

"Well, Boy Scout, remember, 'Be prepared.' My family and I took it seriously. If everyone had, we wouldn't be in this damn mess now."

Ernie led the way upstairs to a spacious two-story-high living room, a cheery fire roaring in the fireplace, radiating warmth. Ernie's wife, Linda, was in the kitchen in the vast open room, looking up, smiling, and coming around the counter—carrying two cups of coffee, no less.

John sighed. "Why is it everyone seems to have a stockpile of coffee stashed away except me?"

"Again, Boy Scouts: 'Be prepared.'"

John tried not to bristle. Ernie could be so darn annoying at times rubbing in these types of things, but on the other hand, whether the final incident with Fredericks had been a setup by Ernie or not, he had dropped the guy, and now he just might be on the verge of unlocking some deadly serious questions as a follow-up performance.

The rest of Ernie's extended family came out from the far side of the house to meet them—his sons, grandchildren, and daughter and her reclusive author husband, the daughter offering to help John and Maury shuck off their parkas, scarves, and gloves.

Ernie produced a bottle of fine brandy from under the kitchen sink and offered to put something extra into their coffee, and though tempted, John declined. This was not a social visit; the business was dead serious, and he wanted a clear mind to evaluate why Ernie had so urgently requested his visiting the "Franklin Enclave," as everyone now called it, a visit that few had been permitted to experience.

"Let's head upstairs," Linda announced without further ado and social small talk with the rest of the family. Linda had rarely attended community meetings, and John thought her to be somewhat standoffish, until Makala, after meeting her, told John she suspected Linda had Asperger's. Unlike most, John knew what it meant, and for him it carried no negative stereotypes. An "Aspie," John knew, might not be up to par on most social skills, especially the ability to wander a crowd, meet and greet, and engage in small talk hour after hour. They tended to be mono-focused at times to the point of absolute obsession. It might be something society might think inane—the history of pinball machines and how to repair them or nineteenth-century railroads and the hauling capability of every engine ever made back then. In fact, if he could find people with that knowledge, he would have embraced them and put them to work to actually make such a machine to use on the abandoned Norfolk and Southern rails.

For Linda, it was software design, and in a long-ago world she had been one of the first programmers for the guidance systems for Saturn V rockets. She was a lone woman in a sea of techno-geek males of the early 1960s, writing guidance software for computers that had yet to even be made, so intense was the space race back then to get it done within President Kennedy's timeline. He had learned that Linda's task was to write the software for the third stage of the Saturn V rocket, several years before it was even built and flown, for what was called TLI—trans-lunar injection. It was software that at a very precise moment would fire off the third-stage rocket to propel the Apollo spacecraft out of earth orbit and send it soaring toward the moon at nearly twenty-five thousand miles per hour.

The challenge: she was aiming at an imaginary place in space where the moon would be three days later in its orbit around the earth so that the Apollo spacecraft would skim past the edge of the moon at a precise angle just sixty miles above the lunar surface. It was compared to aiming a pistol shot at a piece of paper set edgewise at fifty yards. Miss by even a fraction and the command module would crash into the lunar surface; too far out and lunar gravity would not sufficiently grab the spacecraft and it would just go winging off into deep space with no hope of return.

She did all of that before she was twenty-three.

Reaching the second-floor landing, John paused for a moment to soak in the view of Mount Mitchell, hidden briefly by a snow shower and then standing out again, cloaked in deep snow. The heat from the fireplace radiated up from the living room below, and John took off his sweater and enjoyed the warm, comfortable feel.

"Good morning, sir."

Several of John's old students were sitting at a long table where half a dozen computer screens were set up, several of them old Apple II screens, the others a mix from a first-generation Macintosh with its terrible blue nine-inch cube screen and two PCs, one in full, vivid color. As always, John felt a touch of embarrassment with his inability to remember names, though he recognized the young faces who at one time had sat in his one hundred–and two hundred–level history classes but could usually be found across the hall from his classroom in the room set up as a lab for the college's cybersecurity program.

Linda motioned to a couple of chairs set up behind the three and then pulled up a chair herself in front of the color monitor. "Ernie just finished another calibration this morning on a geosynch sat comm device we think is of interest."

"Froze my ass off up on the roof in this damn weather," Ernie growled. "Samantha, that's your job from now on."

He tapped the shoulder of one of the girls sitting in front of an Apple screen. The young woman's hair was unruly, pulled back in a ponytail, and definitely needed a good washing. John remembered her as someone who had been quietly defined as 4-F for service with the college's militia due to asthma and a propensity for catching any bug floating around and had been down with pneumonia more than once. If not for the town's production of antibiotics, the last bout would have killed her. She had finally been tasked with helping to weave the wire for the generators being produced down in Anderson Hall and was doing a rather poor job even with that, but now she apparently had found her niche.

"Ernie, you keep this girl out of the cold," Linda said protectively. "She's needed more right here."

"So I freeze at my age, and she sits here snug and warm."

"Just shut up and leave her be."

Even as the two started to argue, Samantha pointed at the screen where an endless stream of numbers and letters without any semblance of order or reason were cascading down at a near-blinding rate at times. "There it is again, same pattern." Samantha hit a button on the keypad, which froze the image with an old-fashioned screen capture.

Ernie leaned over her shoulder to look.

"What is it?" John asked, curiosity filling him.

"Encrypting," Ernie announced, continuing to stare at the screen.

"Bluemont?"

"No way of knowing yet. If we were sitting on top of a hill looking down at the Bluemont facility, that would be easy enough. Aim a little eavesdropping antenna at one of theirs and start listening in. Most people just assumed everything on computers just flashed around on fiber optics or microwaves, but a lot was going up and down as well, especially government stuff, and of course it was encrypted. You have the right software on your computer, and what looks like gibberish in raw form becomes standard text.

"Do you remember Kindles? You buy a book, and thirty seconds later it's in your computer, but what was sent was not the actual real text and photos; it was all encrypted to keep hackers from snatching it and then torrenting it out on their own."

"Torrenting?"

"The bane of every author, for starters. Easy, actually. Some bum just scans the text of a book into his computer and then just put it out there as a PDF file. They make a buck or two, the author gets ripped off. Go downstairs and ask my daughter's husband about it, and he'll start raving like a crazy man about getting robbed of hundreds of thousands of dollars from torrenting."

Ernie continued to stare at the screen while talking. "All those Internet sources for books, music—like Kindle, Nook, iTunes—were dependent on encrypting, and they were damn good at it and were updating their codes almost daily. So that is what we've got to get around."

John looked at the other screens. The color one that Linda was sitting in front of was actually showing a wavering video image filled with static.

"And that?"

Linda smiled. "Raw feed from the BBC. Off-the-air stuff. A reporter somewhere up in Canada cursing about getting kicked out of the country. Stuff like that is going out all the time."

"Can we talk to him?" John asked hopefully.

Linda shook her head. "We don't have any kind of uplink here, just listening."

"Should we get our ham operator guys to try to establish contact with them?"

"Already doing that," Ernie replied.

"Remember one of them talked with us several days after we snatched that Black Hawk," Maury interjected. "Then nothing. We can only run the radio in the chopper for so long before we have to fire it up to recharge."

John looked around at the equipment scattered on the table—boxes of additional equipment, computer boards, old empty mini-frame stacks, heavy-duty backup batteries that used to be standard external equipment for most home computers so that if the power blinked off the battery kept the system running. John spared a glance into the open door of a bedroom across the hall and saw where there were yet more boxes piled up, some of them stamped Montreat College.

A couple of more students whom he had vague recollection of once being in his classes were in that room, leaning over a ubiquitous green computer board, probing at it with a voltmeter.

John caught Ernie's eye and motioned for him to follow, not sure where to go until Ernie gestured toward a back room, a spacious affair, and within were yet more boxes, stripped-down computers, television monitors, some flat screens, others old-style heavy fourteen-and sixteen-inch monitors. There was barely room for a desk and a couple of chairs, with Ernie gesturing for John to sit down in one, while from under the desk he pulled out a bottle of brandy, opened it, and without asking poured a couple of ounces into two rather dingy-looking glasses.

John did not argue the point this time and was glad for the warmth of the drink coursing through him seconds later. Ernie also pulled out a cigar and looked to John quizzically at least for this offer. John reluctantly refused, and Ernie shrugged, bit off the end of his smoke, produced an old-fashioned friction match, and lit it up, the blue smoke curling around John.

"Something bothering you?" Ernie asked.

John wasn't sure how to start as he sipped his drink. "For starters, I finally relented and said it was okay to recruit a couple of kids for this scheme of yours. Then I find out you all but hijacked the equipment from the college library basement and hauled it all over here without a by-your-leave. I now see five or more kids working here. Where did you get them from?"

"Paul Hawkins recommended them."

John nodded slowly. "And what jobs did you take them from?"

"Here and there," Ernie said with a bit of a grin.

"I would have liked to have known."

"John, you know you are sounding a bit like a bureaucrat with that. Were we supposed to ask permission?"

"Ernie, you know how many mouths we have to feed between now and when food starts to get produced come late spring. Every hand counts."

"And we've got hundreds working on making generators, retrofitting vehicles to burn alternate fuel, even some on your obsession with steam-powered tractors or some sort of mini locomotive."

"We try to find a job everyone can do, but unless under attack, our first priority is food and more food."

"And those tech nerds out there, how much food or whatever can they make versus what they are doing now?"

John nodded, finishing his drink and putting his hand over his glass in refusal while Ernie poured several ounces more for himself.

"Dare I quote someone we both disdain?" Ernie pressed. "'From each according to his ability.' You know the rest."

"I'm not saying that, Ernie."

"Well, in defense of what I am doing here, I'm saying it. Those kids are bloody geniuses when hunched over those old screens and damn near useless when it comes to canning beans, trapping rabbits, or toting a gun through the woods without accidentally shooting themselves or someone else. I'm maximizing their effectiveness, and their effectiveness might actually mean figuring what in hell is really going on out in the rest of the world and how it might hit us. Hell, you're the historian; you tell me what role kids like that played in previous wars."

John took that in and finally nodded. "You telling me you got a Bletchley Park out there in the next room?"

"Could be. Maybe one of them is the next Turing who will figure out how to crack the German Enigma code by building a machine to mimic how it works. Maybe not that dramatic, but if you are here on some kind of inspection tour and are about to order them back to whatever they were doing, I'm kicking you out of my house. The Franklin Clan will close up the gates and survive on our own again."

"And those kids stay here!"

John looked up to see Linda standing in the doorway, most likely having listened to the entire conversation.

"You feeding them as I requested?" John asked.

"That's right," Linda replied with a smile.

"You have that kind of surplus?"

"Be prepared, as my husband said."

John looked down at the freshly opened bottle of brandy stashed beneath Ernie's desk, the cigar resting in the ashtray, and wondered how, after two and a half years, this family still seemed to have enough to keep going without ever asking for additional help. But as he had resolved back in the first days when the responsibility fell upon him to try to organize his community to survive and defend itself, when it came to those who had prepared before the Day, his policy of "don't ask, don't tell" had to stand. He was not a commissar out to redistribute what was left or, as most likely happened in far too many places, point a finger at the 1 percent who'd had the foresight to be ready and shout for the other 99 percent to kill and loot them, just so all could fill their stomachs for a few extra days and then go back to starving.

"We'll feed and house them," Linda announced, pressing in on John's musings. "That poor skinny rail Samantha was half-starved to death; most of her peers pitied her but saw her as not good for much of anything other than consuming a ration a day. Here she is back where she belongs, and the others view her as some sort of guru and definitely a leader they turn to for advice. John, in the vicious triage of the world you have to deal with—and God save you, I know what a hell it must be—that girl most likely would have died before spring and except for a few close friends been mourned by few."

Linda's words were a slap of reproach, and they stung. He lowered his head. "Point made, Linda. She stays."

So many like her had indeed died, so ill-suited to be hunters—at times hunters of other men—or gatherers and sowers. Samantha was the luxury of an advanced technological age that so many like her had actually created. A world that all others once lived off of, even though they did not understand the hows or whys, but would curse if their sixty-inch flat screen hooked to a satellite dish went on the blink during a Super Bowl, or news of what some star had done that day to further titillate a society even as it headed to the brink of disaster and then fell.

The "nerds in the basement," which too many once mocked—even while dependent upon them for their jobs, their entertainment, and indeed their very lives when it came to the infrastructure—had been held in mocking disdain by far too many. Little did anyone realize their importance until the moment everyone was brought to their knees in sharp flashes of nuclear light far above the atmosphere.

"All right, it stays as it is. Now tell me your goals," John said.

Ernie, seeing that John's hand was no longer covering his glass, poured him a few more ounces, and for once John did not resist. Linda and Ernie were running the show for the moment, and he realized it was time to just listen and perhaps relax a bit.

"Something is about to happen," Linda announced. "Ernie and I worked in our fields for about fifty years. Good years with NASA, IBM, and then our own business with the satellite antennas. We were good because we learned to have a gut feel for things at times and stay a jump ahead of the game."

"What she is trying to say—" Ernie started to interject.

"Damn it, Ernie, I know what I am about to say," she snapped, and John could not help but smile. Ernie might intimidate most folks in town, but in this house, he could see it was an open fight at times, and at times Linda won. "We knew Apollo would work, but the shuttle was an insane design. Putting a manned crew atop solid rocket boosters that could not be turned off once lit, the way a liquid engine could be shut down, was asking for disaster. We and others warned and were ignored. We along with others tried to point out the fatal flaw of the insulation coating in the liquid fuel tank as well. It might just be spray-on foam, but if a piece the size of a kitchen counter snapped off and struck a wing during liftoff, it could prove fatal. The math was simple; regardless of mass, it was about velocity at impact that counted. Again we were ignored, and then we watched in horror as Columbia broke up on reentry because of that exact reason."

She was digressing from the discussion of the moment, but he let her continue, knowing she was reaching toward a significant point and expressing frustrations that still haunted her.

"IBM was going to miss the boat with the PC market. We tried to tell the management idiots in business suits that. Their reply? No one really wanted a computer in their house but would rely on them to provide big mainframe systems, run of course by IBM people in white jackets. Of course that meant all of America would pay to be able to dial in and pay yet another fee via old AT&T to hook in to our machines. I remember them pitching that in one of their World of Tomorrow programs at a world's fair. So here we are in the world of tomorrow," she said with a sigh.

She gestured back to the room where the students were working. "They just might crack something, and it might mean the difference between our surviving or not. Your friend the general was giving you a warning. He is going to come down on us. He wants it to be without bloodshed, but regardless, he has his orders already. But what are the orders? Not just against us but long term. He didn't say anything about what that poor dying fellow … what was his name?"

"Quentin."

"What that poor man said about an EMP. And your friend didn't reply. Why?"

"I think he isn't sure himself," John replied, hoping that was the real reason, and not because he was already aware of some plan and going along with it.

"Then let's find out."

John downed the rest of the drink Ernie had poured for him, and it did go to his head. It was a welcome relief. He realized Linda was right. Something was coming, and unlike the threat of the Posse, or even Fredericks who showed his hand, before he fully struck, this time he just was not sure what the hell was about to happen next.

"And something else is worrying me, John."

"What is it?"

"You. The general was giving you a personal warning as well. I pray for you every day, and that prayer now includes that you take heed of his warning."

John smiled but said nothing.

"Be careful, John, very careful."

"Of course," he said, trying not to sound dismissive. "And okay. You win. Put them to it, and while you do, you feed and house them. Is that all right with you two?"

Linda smiled. "You see, Ernie? I knew he'd see it our way."

"Five extra mouths to feed." Ernie sighed. "Sure we can't draw some rations for them, John?"

"Five, I only saw three in that room."

"There's two more up on the roof installing another ten-foot-wide satellite dish we salvaged yesterday from a trailer down near Old Fort."

As John had already conceded who fed and housed the students, there was no sense in arguing about two more and he let it go.

"Those things will be damn visible on your roof," John ventured.

"Don't worry, we already thought of that," Linda replied. "They're screened with some camouflage made from bedsheets to blend in with the snow covering our roof."

John shook his head. If anything, he was feeling a twinge of guilt over the kids like Samantha. Until the realization that there were at least some computers capable of being restored, put back online, and then turned to a useful, perhaps crucial purpose, kids like her had languished, no longer fitting in. And without doubt, more than a few of them had died in this harsh new world. If they again had purpose—perhaps a crucial purpose—then he felt at this moment their society had at least taken yet another small step out of the darkness.

"I think you Franklins have more than enough rations to go around for five extra mouths, at least until the next harvest starts to come in."

Ernie barely cracked a smile. "Be prepared, John. If all of us had thought that way, we wouldn't be counting every bean or ear of corn and calculating if we should throw them to a pig or eat them ourselves. Yeah, we can feed them."

"Point taken," was all John could say.

"Fine, then. Now, I've got a stew ready to ladle out. You and Maury stay. Agreed?"

John felt no guilt with accepting. Too often, someone else would offer a meal of watery soup or a stew with some fragments of squirrel or raccoon mixed in with wild onions and greens, and he always politely refused such paltry fare, not because he wasn't hungry but because it was one extra meal that whomever he was visiting could better use with their raggedy-clad children.

The entire extended family, Franklins and their newly adopted charges, gathered around their dining room table, Ernie standing to offer grace while all joined hands. The room was actually warm in spite of the cold wintry blast swirling outside their south-facing windows, the fireplace glowing hot with heavy crackling logs stacked in. John felt a wave of nostalgia with the gathering. He often lost track now of exactly what day of the week it was. In warm weather, going to church on Sunday had become a looked-forward-to weekly event in the college's chapel, which was still under repair from the battle back in the spring.

But with the harsh weather of the last month and Makala's advanced state of pregnancy, the walk from their home up to Gaither Hall had been set aside. It wasn't just the gathering around a family table for a filling meal that hit hard; it was the way everyone held hands with heads lowered, offering a prayer of thanksgiving that filled him with emotion.

Perhaps Linda and Ernie were putting on a bit of show for their guest and new lodgers, but then again, he knew they were above that. It was a continuation of old Southern traditions, of family and friends gathered together for a Sunday afternoon of sharing and thanksgiving.

And that realization hit him now as well. When was Thanksgiving? Was it next week, or was it already past? Had they lost touch with that after but two and a half years?

As Ernie ladled out each bowl in turn and passed it on, John found he could not help but watch it hungrily. The meat did not strike him as fresh—it most likely came from a freeze-dried can of emergency rations—but it was still meat, mixed in with what appeared to be real potatoes and a sprinkling of greens. What truly set his mouth to watering was not just the stew but the scent of freshly baked bread as well. Part of the modern kitchen fixtures had been pulled out long ago, with an old-fashioned kitchen woodstove set in as a replacement, with Linda leaving the table for a moment to pull a large loaf of bread out of the oven and setting it down in front of Ernie to be cut into thick slices and then passed around as well.

Stew and bread set before him, he looked down at the feast and found it hard not to fill up with emotion, wishing that Makala was here as well. He felt guilty that such a meal was before him.

"John Matherson, don't let that get cold!"

He looked up and saw Linda gazing at him not sternly but with a glint of affection, as if reading his thoughts. "There's more than enough to go around, and I'll have a bowl and a slice of fresh-baked bread for you to take home to your good wife."

He could not find the voice to reply and simply nodded, not used to such maternal gestures, especially now that Jen was gone.

He ate in silence and barely listened to the family chatter, teasing of a brother to their daughter implying she might be expecting, the grandchildren announcing that they planned to go sledding down the driveway, Ernie admonishing that there was still the wood splitting and hauling detail to see to.

As for the students now living with them, Linda, without any overt show, just quietly walked behind them with a steaming ladle and put a bit of extra stew in each of their bowls. No one else at the table complained about this second helping, and John felt a flood of emotion as Samantha looked up at Linda, whispered a thank-you, and then struggled and failed to hold back tears of gratitude for a meal unlike any she had most likely seen in years. Linda leaned over to hug her, and the girl began to cry openly.

No one spoke, and then, to help cover the girl's embarrassment with her emotional display, one of the grandchildren insisted she go sledding with them after the meal was done.

It was the most John could recall having eaten in weeks—or was it months? Perhaps the meal the evening after the battle that had taken out Fredericks when he and those who had fought that day were each handed to eat at one sitting, at John's insistence, an entire MRE from the stockpile they had captured. Nearly four thousand calories of food all in one sitting.

As he looked around at those gathered with him, a favorite hymn came to mind that Aaron Copland had titled "Simple Gifts." As if there were some sort of mental prompting, with the meal done, the daughter got up, went over to the piano in the living room, thumbed through a layer of sheet music, picked out a piece by Debussy that John recognized, and began to play.

There was a moment of silence from the others as they listened appreciatively. It flashed John to the day he was in Gaither Chapel with Makala and a student was singing the haunting song "Try to Remember," a song that so symbolized to John the world they now lived in. The daughter just simply playing a song took John to the thought of a world that must have existed even before his own time, when a family would gather for Sunday dinner, and then afterward someone would play the piano and perhaps others might even sing.

We've lost so much, he realized, but then again, maybe we are learning again about the simple gifts of still being alive. The gifts of a warm, filling meal, family and friends together, and rather than the cluttering noise of some ridiculous game turned up too loudly on a television afterward, it was instead a family entertaining themselves while the cold wind of winter swept down from out of the mountains and across icicle-coated orchards and snow-drifted fields beyond.

He realized, that at this moment, whatever was about to come … it was good to be alive.


"John, wake up. Wake up! We're under attack!"

It was the dream, the jumble of dreams that always ended with him bolt upright in bed, sweat soaked, shivering. Out on the desert, the Bradley up ahead burning, racing forward to find the medics already pulling out the charred bodies, two of them still alive, faces burned black, red mouths open, screaming, and he stood helpless, could do nothing other than stare in shock … Doc Kellor pulling back a blanket revealing Ben, the father of his grandson, features contorted in the agony of death … then Jennifer …

"John, wake up!"

He was sitting up, shaking, the room freezing cold, Makala's arms around him, kissing him awake. He opened his eyes. This time, there was no soothing, kissing his forehead, wiping the sweat from his face, whispering it was okay; it was just "the dream" again.

"You've got to wake up now. Reverend Black's on the phone. We're being attacked!"

He nodded, standing up, bare feet hitting the freezing-cold floor, shocking him, Makala helping him to put on a heavy bathrobe, steadying him as consciousness returned.

"Who's calling?"

"Reverend Black. John, there are helicopters circling." She started to lead him to the sunroom where the phone was.

"Who? Where?"

She picked up the receiver of the phone, an old-fashioned black rotary unit, and handed it to him.

"Matherson here."

"John, it's Black. I'm at the campus office. We've got three Apaches overhead. Can't you hear them?"

That finally startled him awake, and he realized the room was reverberating with a low, steady rumble. He walked to the sunroom window, which was half-covered with frost, looked out, and caught the glint of flashing rotors sweeping by overhead.

"Any shooting?"

"Not yet."

John continued to look out the window. The choppers were staying high, circling out along the crest line of Lookout Mountain. He watched them for a moment, catching glimpses. "Any come in low over the campus?"

"Not yet." He could hear the nervousness in Black's voice.

"Get on the phone to downtown Black Mountain, Asheville, any connections we have. Tell them not to shoot unless fired upon first and report anything they're seeing. I'll be right up."

He hung up. Makala was already scrambling to fetch clothing and boots, helping John to get dressed.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Not sure, but if it's a surprise attack with intent to kill, they'd already be hitting us."

Pulling on his boots, he heard a vehicle outside, and opening the door, he saw that it was Maury in his jeep. John ran out to him, looking up, the distinct thump of a helicopter rising in pitch as the chopper raced by overhead, still keeping altitude.

"What the hell is going on?" Maury shouted as John climbed in, brushing snow off the passenger seat before sitting down.

"They're military, desert camo pattern. They must be with General Scales. Get me to the office."

Maury spun the jeep around through the deep snow and set off downhill to Montreat Road, the vehicle skidding as he hit the base of the road and went sideways onto the main street through the village without slowing. Maury edged off the road to get around a tree that had fallen in the last storm and had yet to be cleared and then turned to race up to Gaither Hall. As they skidded to a stop, John looked up again and saw that there were several Black Hawks as well, slowly circling at more than a thousand feet above the narrow valley.

Black was at the office door, motioning for John to come in. Out on the snow-covered front lawn, a dozen or more students were looking up, all of them with weapons. One of them was Grace.

"Do not point your weapons at them! Everyone get the hell inside!" John shouted.

"Someone on the ham radio, asking for you."

John went to the radio, the tinny-sounding speaker crackling.

"Matherson, this is Bob Scales; please respond."

John picked up the old-fashioned handheld mike and clicked it several times before replying.

"Matherson here. Bob, are you overhead?"

A momentary pause.

"Affirmative, John. Assumed you were in that jeep."

"Yes, sir."

"Nice vehicle. I'd like to see it up close."

John hesitated for a moment. "You're welcome to land, but flag off those Apaches and send them home."

"Can't do it, John. Please listen carefully. I'm asking for your immediate surrender."

"You've got to be kidding."

"John, I've got assets over you that can take down your campus and all those kids in five minutes. We're already landing in Asheville. You might have disabled the Asheville airport, but I have two C-130s touching down on the interstate next to it. I've also got a support column on the ground coming up from Greenville, and they have some Bradleys. It's your call. I'll give you five minutes to think it over."

John put the mike down and looked at Reverend Black and Maury.

They were silent, staring at him.

The phone began to ring. Black picked it up, listened for a moment, simply said, "We already know," and looked at John, still holding the receiver.

"That was Dunn in downtown Asheville. He said several Black Hawks have touched down near the county office complex. They'll be in his office in another few minutes."

"Any fighting?"

Black relayed the question, sighed, and looked back to John. "One of the security team there is shot, bad. Fired on them as they landed."

John looked back out the window, helicopters still circling, and in spite of his orders, students were coming out of buildings, some already in winter camo, weapons up.

"John, what are you going to do?" Black whispered, still holding the phone.

He looked at his troops, his kids. Against the Posse, even against Fredericks, it was one thing, and those two fights had cost dearly. This time?

It would be a bloodbath, and for what?

"We don't stand a chance against them." John sighed. "I know Bob Scales. This is the A team, not those pathetic ANR kids they threw at us last spring."

"John, I need your answer now." It was Bob again on the radio. "I just got a report a couple of your people and mine were shot in Asheville. Stop it before it turns into a full-scale fight."

He wanted to shout back that it was Bob who was starting it with this surprise assault coming in at dawn.

"John, they've got us," Maury said softly, and John finally nodded.

"Reverend. Tell Dunn to stand down, disarm, and surrender. Get on the phone to all locations, tell them not to fire, to stand down, and await word from me later. Repeat, do not resist. You got it."

Reverend Black sighed. "John, you're making the right move."

"Yeah, I know," he replied bitterly. "Maury, get outside, tell those darn kids to get back inside. Find Kevin Malady, tell him everyone is to return to their rooms, stack weapons, and show no resistance. Got that?"

Maury could only nod and went back out the door as John picked up the mike and clicked it.

"Okay, Bob. We surrender on your word that my people are to be treated with respect, no reprisals or arrests. It's got to be the code we once lived by, sir."

"Agreed."

"Wait fifteen minutes so I make sure the word is out. There's a baseball field above the campus; you can set down there."

"Fifteen minutes, then. Bring your jeep up to meet me, John. Make sure your people do not fire. If they do, you know what I have to do in reply."

"Understood."

He could hear Bob click off.

I should have expected this, he thought bitterly. But then again, what could I do differently? After two and a half years of successfully managing the defense of his community, to be caught like this was galling.

Frustrated, he threw the mike down and walked outside.


The rotor of the Black Hawk came to a stop, John at last able to lower his hands from his face as the swirling snow settled down. Three Black Hawks had landed, troops piling out of the first two, weapons raised, forming a defensive perimeter, while overhead the three Apaches continued to circle. Their nose guns were turned away, outward, and not in toward the campus—a smart gesture on Bob's part—but their presence was menacing nevertheless, the sounds, the sights, and smells taking John back to the desert of Iraq so long ago.

John stood by the jeep, Maury at his side. The world felt cold, empty. Could he trust Bob? Or was this all a ruse? He'd grown used to winning, to always somehow pulling the chestnuts out of the fire. And now after two and a half years, the game was up. Whatever it was that Bluemont wanted, they now had it. How brilliantly it was done, to send in a man John once served under, had trusted, respected, and considered to be his friend.

It was all up to Bluemont now. He had defied them because of Fredericks, the type of man who across his years of military service he had learned to hold in contempt. The quintessential bureaucrat, the type where in the face of all logical argument, at times with the lives of men in the balance, would smile that disdainful smile, implying that an Ivy League degree in public administration trumped reality in the field.

Was that what Bob was serving? If so, regardless of the promises made minutes ago, John could see what would follow. Local community control was finished, the high talk back in the spring of a reaffirmation of the Constitution, of their expanding out across the Carolinas, bringing at least some semblance of a technological infrastructure back online to themselves and their neighbors … gone.

There would be no fight now. Perhaps the first gesture to smooth things over would be a bribe of reassurance, some truckloads of MREs brought up from the coast, perhaps even already packed along with the column invading up from Greenville, South Carolina. Then? A new administrator? Another Fredericks? And with him new rulings? The logic that a local militia was no longer needed for self-defense now that the regulars were here, but the young men and women of his community would be needed elsewhere and an order given?

He could see it all so clearly, even as he felt a surge of emotion as the side door of the third Black Hawk slid open and Bob Scales alighted, behind him a detail of eight well-armed men, some in desert camo, others in winter uniforms, who joined the defensive perimeter.

John did not make the gesture of going forward to meet Bob, waiting as he struggled alone through the knee-deep snow, moving slowly.

Bob stopped half a dozen feet away from John and gazed into his eyes, saying nothing.

"Sir, if you are expecting me to salute this time, I'm sorry, I can't."

A flicker of a smile creased his old friend's features. "At least present your sword as a token of surrender, and I'll return it graciously," Bob replied.

John kept his features fixed. Memories flooded in of his year with Bob at the War College, participating in the traditional staff rides to Gettysburg, the hours spent together analyzing the battle while walking the fields with the rising young officers who were their students and getting a lesson not only about the battle itself but also the traditions of the military in which they served. That they would fight ferociously for the cause they believed was right and to which they had sworn their sacred honor, but could as well show compassion and share the last drop of a canteen with a foe who had tried to kill them but minutes before.

"Okay, forget the sword. But can we at least get out of the cold?" Bob suggested.

"Can I request that you call off those Apaches overhead? They're making my people extremely nervous. Last time we had Apaches here, they shot up our chapel and hospital and killed dozens."

Bob nodded. "You can assure me that where they set down no action will be taken?"

"If they land back at the airport where we met, there is no one there, close enough to cover you if needed, far enough away to ease things here a bit."

"Your word of honor on that, John?"

"Yes"—he hesitated for a few seconds—"on my word of honor … sir."

"By the way, I already have a team there," Bob announced.

"Why there?"

"Seemed like a good staging area, and besides, they're looking for a lost Black Hawk. Figured it might be stashed in one of the hangars. All right, I'll order them back to that airport."

Bob turned and shouted an order. One of the troopers deployed on the security perimeter around the choppers nodded and went to the pilot's window of the Black Hawk Bob had come in on. Seconds later, the three Apaches turned sharply to the southeast and began to climb out of the valley.

"Satisfied?" Bob asked.

"It helps."

"Now can we get in out of the cold?"

John nodded and pointed to the jeep. Bob climbed into the passenger seat. The trooper who had passed his order to the pilot shouted a protest and started to come forward, weapon not pointed toward them directly but raised to the ready.

"It's all right, Captain!" Bob shouted. "Wait here."

"But, sir!"

"I'm with friends. Order the men to keep perimeter and wait. I'll be back in one hour."

The captain nodded reluctantly, saluted, and turned away.

"He gets a little too nervous about me at times," Bob said.

"I hope he doesn't get nervous while we're gone. Not a threat, sir, but there are well over a hundred heavily armed people down there." He nodded back toward the campus.

"I trust you. Just make sure they stay away from where the choppers are waiting."

John did not reply.

"You do know that if I am not back in an hour, things can quickly grow ugly."

"Are you doubting my word"—he paused—"General?"

Bob looked back at John, who was climbing into the narrow backseat, smiling but glance firm. "I trust you. We both have to trust each other now."

Again John did not reply. "Take us to Gaither, Maury," John said to Maury, who switched the jeep's engine on and put it in gear.

"Your name Maury?" Bob asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Nice jeep. Original?"

"1942 Wills."

During the short drive back to Gaither, Bob chatted with Maury about the jeep, its history, and how he always preferred them to Humvees.

As they passed the library on one side and the girls' dorm on the other side of the road, John could see anxious faces peering out of windows, nearly all still in winter camo, weapons slung on their shoulders. Malady stood in the doorway of the dorm, ready to go. John told Maury to stop.

"Kevin, keep everyone inside, weapons grounded. And for heaven's sake, no one is to go near where the choppers landed. You got that? Once you feel things are secure with our people, report to me down in Gaither."

"Yes, sir." Kevin made the gesture of saluting even as John told Maury to head on to Gaither Hall.

They turned into the rear parking lot of Gaither, slid to a stop, and dismounted. Bob offered his hand to Maury, who reluctantly took it, and thanked him for the ride and brief history lesson about jeeps.

John climbed out of the back of the jeep and led the way inside. The corridor was packed with anxious students and staff, all of them suited up, all of them armed.

John stopped, looking over his shoulder at Bob, who came in behind him, pulling back the hood of his parka. The old general did not hesitate or show fear. He actually smiled, coming up to John's side.

It was a tense moment.

John took a step forward and held up his hand in a calming gesture. "This is General Scales. He is an old friend from long before the Day. General, these are some of my troops."

Bob actually stiffened and offered a salute, which some then returned, though many continued to just stand in silence, their hostile gazes obvious.

"Colonel Matherson, my compliments, you have a good-looking command here."

Good-looking? John tried to not show any reaction. In an earlier age, a world long ago, those standing in the hallway would have been described as a ragtag-looking bunch at best, winter camo made out of bedsheets, most of the young men unshaven, all of them thin, wiry after two and a half years of privation and two deadly campaigns behind them. A few had offered salutes in return, but the rest were wary, eyes cold and obviously expecting that before the day was out it would turn into a fight to the death … and though scared were ready to face it.

"All of you," John said in a calm voice. "We are in stand-down. I want you to keep your weapons slung and follow proper procedure to ensure chambers are empty. We don't need an accident. Remember what I told you about how things went out of control at Lexington Green. We don't want that here because one hothead takes matters into their own hands. Do we understand each other?"

"Sir, are we surrendering without a fight?" one of them cried.

"We are not at war here. The general is here to talk things over."

"With Apaches as an opening move?" another student shouted angrily.

"All of you listen to me. This is not Fredericks. I know this man. He could have come in here with gunships tearing us apart before we even knew what was hitting us. He's here to talk. So I want all of you to relax, get back to whatever your assigned duties are, ground your weapons, and for now leave them in Fellowship Hall if you are going outside. No one is to go near the ball field. The troops up there have firm orders to protect those helicopters, and that means shoot first and ask questions later. Your venturing up there could be seen as a hostile approach, and then … Lexington Green again. You all got that?"

There were nods, a few soft "Yes, sir" replies, all of them saluting John while avoiding eye contact with Bob, an obvious gesture to indicate who was still in charge as far as they were concerned, and the group started to disperse.

John opened the door to what had been the president's office, motioned for Bob to step in, and then closed the door behind him.

"You handled that well, John, thank you."

"What else was I to do? Order them to shoot you and then storm the field and get slaughtered?"

Bob looked around the room, offering a smile as he took his parka off. "Lord, I do recall this room. Remember I visited this campus years ago." He paused for a moment. "Mary was buried out of this chapel. Our friend Dan Hunt was president. I sat in here with him after the service for Mary. I remember he was in tears for you that day."

John offered a chair at the long meeting table and turned away for a moment so emotions wouldn't show as Bob conjured up the memory of that day. It was Bob who had recommended John for the job at this college, having served with Dan Hunt, the two of them classmates from West Point.

"I don't see him here," Bob said softly.

"He didn't make it—died during the starving time after everything went to hell."

He looked back at Bob, who was gazing at Dan's favorite painting, George Washington kneeling in the snow in prayer at Valley Forge.

"The list goes on and on," Bob said softly, "all those who didn't make it."

"I wondered about you across these years, sir," John replied, "but now you are here."

"You take inspiration from that painting?" Bob asked. "Is that why you kept it?"

John studied it for a moment. "Only recently started to use this office, just for state council meetings. I felt it was kind of a shrine to a good leader. But yeah, on a day like this, it's worth studying."

Bob did not respond to John's obvious touch of cynicism. "How Washington kept his strength through that winter at Valley Forge is beyond me at times. If he had lost his way, the American Revolution would have truly been lost."

"That's worth thinking about now."

Bob turned his gaze from the painting to John, and there seemed to be a flash of warning. "Let's get to business, John," he announced, and he sat down at the far end of the table.

"Formal surrender, is that it, sir? It's Appomattox, you're Grant, and I'm Lee?"

"I prefer not to think of it that way. Call it rejoining the Union we both swore an oath to."

"You mean Bluemont?"

Bob hesitated. "You seem damn hostile to them."

"I have every reason to be hostile. This community lost over a hundred dead to that tin-pot dictator they sent down here back in the spring. Before we leave, I want you to take a look at our chapel; we're still repairing it. Those troops out in the hallway, they have every reason to mistrust. They all buried friends, several of them spouses, by the time it was done. How else should we react?"

"Were they students of yours, John?"

"You mean now, or before the Day?"

"You know what I mean."

John smiled sadly. "Yes. That girl who spoke up asking if we were surrendering."

"You mean the one who would not salute me but definitely saluted you?"

"That one, yes. She was a Bible studies major. Loved history, good kid from a good family that came up here every month to visit, and all of them would sit in on one of my evening classes. Her family lived in Florida."

With the mention of Florida, he saw the sudden look in Bob's eyes.

"Sorry I mentioned that place, sir."

Bob sighed. "Like I said, I know my Linda is gone. I just pray it was peaceful."

"Same for that girl. She got married in our chapel across the hall a year ago. Had a baby three months ago. No husband now—he was killed in the attack where Fredericks was holed up at the end."

"I understand the tough edge to her now," Bob replied.

"We all have tough edges now, sir. No father for her baby, nightmares as to what happened to the rest of her family. This school is all she knows now." He hesitated. "She feels she has nothing to lose if she dies fighting to defend it."

"There is no need anymore to fight, John."

"Really, sir?" He could not control the sarcasm in his voice, but Bob did not react.

"Damn, I'm cold and thirsty."

"It's a dry campus, Bob. At least we try to keep it that way."

"Coffee, then?" Bob asked hopefully.

"None of that either. All those K-Cups of coffee belong to my friend Forrest—you remember him, the sergeant who left an arm in Afghanistan—but I can roust up some herbal tea."

"Please, if you don't mind."

John nodded, left the office, and leaned over the dutch door that led down to the old business office, which had been converted into the formal administrative office of the town. He shouted down the stairs, Reverend Black opening the door down below, and John passed along the request.

He returned to the president's office, where Bob had returned to staring at the painting of George Washington.

"Do you think he really prayed like that in the snow of that winter?" Bob asked.

"He was a man of faith, and if ever this country needed faith, it was that winter. So yes, I believe it is real."

"So do I," Bob said softly.

The two were silent for a moment, both gazing at the painting.

The historian in John knew that the weather during that first winter at Valley Forge was nowhere near as severe as the one at Morristown, New Jersey, a couple of years later when the army was encamped at Jockey Hollow. Several units—unpaid, unshod, desperate, and hungry—had finally mutinied. Washington had taken the hard choice of executing several of the ringleaders and in a tense standoff was ready to order troops still loyal to the cause to fire, if need be, on the regiments in mutiny. The revolution had indeed hung by the slenderest of threads on that desperate day. Only Washington's strength of character and leadership had prevented a complete breakdown of the army and the collapse of his years of effort with all disintegrating into chaos and most likely dictatorship or capitulation.

There was a tap on the door, his friend Reverend Black bringing in two steaming mugs of herbal tea. John thanked him, and there was a moment of hesitation.

John made the formal introductions, Bob coming to his feet to shake Black's hand.

"Everything all right? Everyone standing down?" John asked.

"It's not good over Asheville. Half a dozen dead and wounded. I spoke on the phone with some officer who said he had just placed our person Dunn there under arrest."

John looked over at Bob.

"I'll straighten that out once I'm done here, John."

"So, are we all under arrest?" John asked coldly.

"I didn't want any bloodshed," Bob replied. "I promise to straighten it out."

"Tell that to the families of the dead," Black snapped back.

Bob nodded, keeping his composure. "If you're still on the phone with them, tell the officer there—it's most likely Major Minecci—that I am safe and secure here, will be up there in two hours, and expect a full report. If fired on, he is not to return fire unless the situation is life threatening. Can you help me with that, Reverend?"

Black looked over at John, who gave a nod of reassurance, and he left.

"You could have given us warning," John said. "It would have prevented what happened in Asheville."

"Maybe, maybe not. The way I read things when we last met, I knew I could trust you. But my people who mingled with yours while we were talking? It wasn't good. Reports back were that your people would fight if we just tried to walk in."

"Can you blame them after what the last attempt to bring us into the fold of Bluemont turned into?"

"I balanced all and finally felt this was the right approach. It's tragic that anyone had to die. God knows after what happened in Roanoke, Richmond, and Lynchburg, I know the cost. The only way I felt could work was to show overwhelming force in the first move and count on you being moral and sane in response. It could have been far worse, and you know it."

"So my next question, Bob. Why this?"

"I already told you that before. I've been tasked with establishing a reunified state east of the Appalachians from central Virginia down to the old border of Florida."

"Why not Florida as well while you're at it?" Again, he could see the flash of pain in Bob's eyes at the mere mention of that place.

"We've written off Florida. I remember some years ago—I think I read it in American Heritage or some magazine like that—until DDT and air-conditioning came along, except for the coastal regions, the state was relatively empty. Well, it most certainly turned into that after the Day with tens of millions living there, a high percentage of them elderly and dependent on that air-conditioning, modern sanitation, a reliable supply of medications, modern hospitals, a freezer full of steaks, cold margaritas out on the screened-in lanai every evening, and of course mosquito control. Word is the few left down there again face malaria, cholera, Nile Valley, you name it."

He paused, obviously not appreciating having to dwell on what for him was personal history as well. "Remember, Central Command for our operations in the Middle East was based in the Tampa, Saint Pete area. Within two months, they collapsed, the survivors, the lucky survivors, evacuated by our navy. From Miami to Jacksonville—on the other coast Fort Myers to Pensacola—disintegrated into a sinkhole of anarchy, looting, murder, and then disease and starvation. There are some pockets of survivors along the coast, living again by what they can harvest from the sea as long as pirates don't get them first. The navy tried to control the waters around there for a while and clean out the pirates but finally gave up. Florida, like I said, is a write-off."

It was obvious to John that he wanted to leave that subject behind.

"Florida's gone, but you were ordered to take this place, is that it?"

"I'd prefer not to use the term take, John. Call it unite, reunite. Bring you back in under a central federated government."

"But after Fredericks, suppose we don't want to join?"

"John, you have no choice. To be blunt, it is unite or die."

John chuckled at that and shook his head. "I seem to remember that was on our flags during the revolution against an overbearing authority four thousand miles away."

"You're taking it the wrong way, my friend."

"Bob, who actually are you serving? I mean, really serving? Bluemont, or the oath you swore to the Constitution?"

Bob fell silent, and there was a look of anger in his eyes.

"My trust for Bluemont? It's about as far as I can spit into a hurricane," John interjected.

"My God, John. So you are going to take that decision upon yourself. You don't trust them, so go to hell and leave us alone, and that's it?"

John offered no reply.

"I have my orders. I hope you can trust me to see them through and avoid a senseless conflict that you know you cannot win."

He wanted to retort with a conjuring of memories about military ethics classes, the tragic, horrific example of the German army in the 1930s, when the oath of allegiance was one day switched from defending the state to accepting without hesitation all orders from the führer.

"So what are your orders regarding here, what we have come to call the State of Carolina?"

"A bit aggrandizing, that name, isn't it? State of Carolina. Last time I checked a map, your state here controls what, five thousand square miles? What about Charlotte, Greensboro, Raleigh? For that matter, there is a garrison in Greenville-Spartanburg put there by Bluemont, and they have a corridor of control all the way down to Charleston."

"It's a start," John offered, "and if left alone will continue to expand in an orderly way. Groups like the Posse either move out or, if need be, we take them out. We were doing okay with local folks reaching out to the next community and inviting them to join in. Unite or die? Maybe it is unite and live."

"John, there are a hundred enclaves like yours that are making 'a start,' as you put it, from here clear up to Maine. But then what? We devolve into a hundred feudal-like states that eventually balkanize the way Europe did after Rome collapsed? You and your friends have done a masterful job of restoring order, civilization, and—from what I could observe—even bringing some technology back online. But reunite everything? Do you have any idea what some other so-called states have devolved into? You most likely know about Chicago, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, New York, even D.C."

"I've heard some stories."

"You haven't seen it; I have. D.C. is of course gone, a write-off, same as Florida. There are some whack jobs running what they call a kingdom not a hundred and fifty miles from here that are told to worship their leader as the son of God, and if you don't go along, you are crucified."

"So why not go after them first?" John offered.

"Weak argument, John. Bait-and-switch logic. It is precisely places like here, where things are being restored, that old values still hold, that we need in our fold before I can take out places like that."

"So we are back in the fold, is that it?"

Bob nodded, finally sipping his tea and grimacing slightly. "Damn, this is awful stuff, John."

"Sorry, but that is what we live on."

"Don't take it as a bribe, but once we get this settled, I've got a convoy coming in with two hundred thousand MREs. Remember each of them has a packet of coffee. Do you still smoke?"

John shook his head.

"Why, I remember you as being really addicted."

"I promised Jennifer before she died."

Bob lowered his head. "Sorry." John could tell the emotions were genuine. "We can talk later about all that we lost."

"And your specific orders."

Bob looked back up at him and sighed, obviously not happy about what he had to say next. "I'm ordered to place you under arrest and transport you in an expedient manner to Bluemont to stand trial for murder, the execution of prisoners, and treason."

"Oh, really?" John said, and he could not help but offer a sarcastic grin. "Can I have time to say good-bye to my wife?"

"Wife?"

"Guess you wouldn't have known, or would you? I assume Fredericks, before we killed him, was sending up reports."

"Actually, I didn't know. Who is she?"

John offered a brief explanation to his old and perhaps now former friend as to how he and Makala had met on the Day and all that had transpired afterward.

"I had hoped to see my child born," John concluded, "but guess you need to haul me out of here ASAP."

Bob shook his head. "I'm not going to do that."

"Bob, you have orders to follow."

Bob's gaze turned icy cold. "Don't push it, John. I'm putting my neck out as is. The original orders were to take this place by force."

"So why didn't you?"

"Again, don't push it. Just that I knew there was a better way. And part of that better way is to leave you in peace."

"So I can be a puppet figurehead?"

"Damn, you are hostile," Bob replied.

"I have every reason to be hostile," John snapped back. "We were doing just fine until two hours ago."

"There is a far bigger world out there than this 'State of Carolina,' as you call it."

"I know that."

"No, you don't. Not really."

"Enlighten me, then, sir."

Bob began to stand up. "I understand your feelings, but if this is how it's going to be, let's just cut the crap. I'm not going to put you under arrest and transport you to Bluemont. Nor anyone else here." He paused. "I just implore you to keep things stable with no resistance. You do that for me, and I can skirt around that other order for a while."

"Aren't you breaking orders?"

"Come on, you know there is always leeway for a commander in the field if he knows how to play it."

"And something called the Fifth and Sixth Amendments of the Bill of Rights. Does Bluemont even have the right to accuse me of treason, prosecute me for a capital crime? And the Sixth Amendment is about being tried in my state or district where the alleged crime took place by a jury of my peers. Something about our revolution and protest against those being arrested without warning and transported away. It was so important an issue back then that we wrote it into the Constitution. I could cite a few other points from that document as well."

"Damn it, of course you know I am aware of that."

"And Bluemont isn't? I find that troubling, Bob."

"Again, don't press me, John."

"I'm not pressing you, sir. Perhaps it is you who are pressing yourself."

"Damn it, listen to me! Just listen for a minute."

John nodded and sat back, breaking eye contact and deliberately focusing his gaze on the portrait of Washington at Valley Forge.

"Asheville and Greenville-Spartanburg are to become the staging area to bring Atlanta back under control."

"My God, sir. Who is your head of intelligence? Atlanta is a hellhole. You'll be facing tens of thousands down there, the survivors of a dog-eat-dog existence the last two years. I know. The southern extent of what you dismissively call the State of Carolina is not a hundred miles away from there, and we still on occasion have refugees staggering in from there. Word is that Fort Benning collapsed within weeks after the Day. After that, posse-like groups moved in and looted out weapons from there. Your force might be facing some nasty ground-to-air stuff. Bob, taking back Atlanta…" He sighed. "It will make Sherman's job look easy in comparison."

"I already know that. Look, John, we've got to get our act together east of the Mississippi, and Atlanta is part of that job. This world is still tottering on the edge of a full-scale nuclear exchange. We are all playing a game of brinkmanship now that we have been pushed off the table as the one remaining superpower we thought we were back in the '90s. It's as bad as—if not worse than—when you were a young lieutenant back in Germany watching the Fulda Gap against the Soviets. There's good intelligence the Chinese have moved surface-to-surface nukes onto our mainland, aimed at here. That is a seven-to ten-minute launch-to-strike time at most."

"And our boomers out in the Pacific?"

"I can't discuss that with you."

"Have we abandoned even that?" John snapped.

"Our only hope of survival is to present a unified nation and do it damn quick. Atlanta is but one part of that equation. To the rest of the world, we look like we're in tatters. That whole damn experiment with the Army of National Recovery made us look even more the fools. Bluemont has decided to go to whatever extreme necessary to get the job done and finish it before spring."

Bob fell silent, John returning his gaze to his old friend. He could sense the strain he was under. Something within him felt it was time to finally ask yet again.

"You sent Quentin to try to reach out to me first, and you did so behind Bluemont's back, didn't you?"

"Kind of."

"What do you mean, 'kind of'?"

"I talked with him about it. Originally, he was to be airlifted down to you as an envoy. I was thinking of dropping him off inside your territory, do it covertly."

"But then?"

"He deserted and did it on his own."

"What?"

"You heard me correctly, and that stays here. Okay?"

John nodded.

"Why desert?"

"He picked up on some rumors. Told me the night before he lit out that he could no longer abide by those orders, and the following morning he was gone, along with three others in a Humvee."

"What rumors?"

Bob hesitated for a moment and then relented, speaking softly.

"You asked me about this at the airport the other day and I didn't feel comfortable telling you then, but now? I think it is time you realized what I am trying to contain, what all of us are facing. There's some talk. Can't say how, where, or from whom. Just talk that if need be, Bluemont will trigger an EMP."

"What the hell are you talking about?" John cried. "Against who?"

"Southern United States." Bob shook his head and then stood up. "You repeat that to anyone and I'll have you gagged and hauled out of here today, whether it turns into a fight or not. I've said too much already." There was a sharp edge of warning—or was it panic in his voice for having said more than he should have?

"You say a word anywhere, and by God, I will ship you to Bluemont, let this place rebel, and then you know the results. Do you read me, Colonel Matherson?"

During his entire career under this general, John could only recall several real dressing-downs, though he had witnessed it delivered to many another. Bottom line, it was why some stayed majors and colonels and only a select few had generals' stars pinned to their uniforms. There at times had to be this ruthless edge no matter whom it was being delivered against.

"John, I'm trying to beat the clock. I have orders to neutralize Atlanta and bring it back into the fold within the month. It's to demonstrate to China and the rest of the world that we are firmly in control of our territory east of the Mississippi. I need Asheville along with Greenville-Spartanburg as secured staging areas for the push south. I need that now."

"Whoever gave you that order is insane. Atlanta is now the lower circle of hell, Bob. You could sink an entire army corps into that place and it will be another Fallujah."

"Don't you think I know that?" Bob replied wearily. "Asheville is part of a far bigger game. And if it doesn't work, Bluemont is willing to do whatever they deem necessary to get their point across to everyone here. It's seen as a message as well to China that we will use any means possible to pacify remaining resistance within our territory and in turn a clear warning as well to not press us any further."

Whether what he said was planned and intentional or not, he must have inwardly realized he had spilled a highly classified secret.

"All right, sir, it stays in this room. You have my oath on that. But please go on."

Bob sat down and looked at the half-empty mug of herbal tea. "You sure you got nothing else here?" he finally asked, motioning to his empty cup.

John nodded, stood up, and without another word went out into the hallway. Several of his students were still hanging about, and he asked them to fetch Kevin Malady. His campus commander of their battalion was before him less than a minute later. John whispered a request, and Kevin grinned and ran off.

It was, of course, a dry campus, but even under the strictest of rules at any such place, there were always some ready to bend those rules, and one had to be foolish not to recognize that fact. Kevin was back in less than five minutes, handing over a small hiking backpack. John took it back into the office, closed the door, and produced a quart bottle of moonshine, half-full, and just handed it to Bob, who took a long swig and passed it to John, who took a drink as well before putting the lid back on and passing it back.

"One of the traditional products of these mountains," John said, coughing a bit since it certainly was strong stuff and burned on the way down.

Bob took another long sip and nodded his thanks. "Good stuff," he gasped, and he motioned to push the jar back.

"Keep it."

"Thanks, I will. Not Dalwhinnie fifteen-year-old scotch, but one lives with what they can these days." He took another sip and sighed. "All right, John, do I have your sworn oath that what I have said will stay in this room? Not even to your wife, who I hope to soon meet?"

John finally nodded.

"Just rumor, mind you. Some chatter my own people picked up off encrypted sat comms. Speculation that to bring down Atlanta and any other pockets of resistance in the South, an EMP will be burst above the Gulf of Mexico coast to knock off-line any technology they've managed to bring back up over the last two years, and then we move in the following day. Line-of-sight effect, as you know. It would include here."

"In the name of God, why?" As John asked, he thought of just how delicate the infrastructure his community had managed to bring back online over the last year and a half was. Even a low-yield burst would destroy everything they had managed to re-create.

"Knocks whatever is left down and takes them off balance. You aren't the only one who is getting the genie back out of the bottle when it comes to electricity, getting some cars and trucks running again." Bob now fixed him with a sharp gaze. "Or the Black Hawk here and there that has gone missing and could raise hell with our side."

"Isn't this a sledgehammer to blot out a fly? What threat do we present?"

"It would be a message to the rest of the world as well even if Bluemont says someone else did it—that we are ready to do it to the entire rest of the world and will not hesitate to do so. We've been pushed back as far as we will accept and no further. It is a game far beyond you and me, but it will bring down everything you and your friends have created here."

John felt sick inside just thinking of how each small step back from the darkness had so lifted the morale of all. To suddenly have that go entirely down again would be a final deathblow. If it was delivered, whoever was left afterward might as well crawl into their graves and pull the sod over themselves and die.

He could not reply and just sat there in silence. If at this moment Bob had produced a cigarette, he would have taken it, his pledge to Jennifer gone, for indeed there would be nothing left, no hope left, no dream of rebuilding if this was indeed the level that Bluemont was willing to go to.

"It is why I had to bring you in now, John," Bob said softly, taking another sip from the mason jar. "I'm trying to forestall it, to make a stab at Atlanta first and hope for the best. If that fails, at least I can argue that this region is back in the fold, and if an EMP is detonated to do it farther out to sea or at lower altitude so you are not impacted."

"Bob, just sit back for another year or two, let those barbarians left in Atlanta literally eat each other, then you might be able to move in. But try it now? EMP first or not, you damn well had better have a lot more troops than General Sherman did; otherwise, it will be a bloody disaster."

Bob nodded sadly and then made a show of looking at his old-style wristwatch. "It's been nearly an hour. I don't want my young officer up there to get anxious and come looking for me. It might trigger something."

"The mood my people are in, if he comes down here like gangbusters, yes, it will go bad."

"Then I'd better get back." Bob stood up, John rising as well.

"What next?" John asked.

"I'm setting up forward headquarters in Asheville. Can you assure me there won't be a fight?"

"Asheville? Not sure. Chances are there won't be resistance; the fight was already punched out of that town long ago. I think, though, your safer bet would be to laager in at the airport, far enough out of town so you don't have to deal with some nutjob sniper, but close enough that everyone will know you're there. If that convoy that's coming up from Greenville, South Carolina, gets through the Green River Gorge safely, the airport would be a good place to rendezvous."

"I'll need the airfield there," Bob replied, "so your suggestion is a good one. We have a couple of C-130s with us in Roanoke that have already touched down on the interstate, but getting the runway at Asheville back up would be preferred. And the navy can fly some things in as well once we get that runway your people chewed up repaired."

Bob looked down at the mason jar. John gestured for him to take it, and Bob slipped it into the pocket of his parka. "This is the way it is, John. You stay on, function as before, and if you follow my rules, I'll report to Bluemont the situation is under control here and you are under house arrest for now—or better yet, we can't find you—and that this area has achieved level-one stability. You've got to stay low. For heaven's sake, don't screw it up by letting Bluemont catch wind that you are out and about. If you do that, I want you to continue to function as before but behind the scenes, and for God's sake, don't go broadcasting that around, so stay off the radios."

"And in return?"

"I report this area is secure."

"And the EMP?"

"Let me cross that bridge a month from now. Maybe I can talk them down from it. You're right; I know as well as you that trying to take Atlanta now would turn into another Fallujah or even a Stalingrad. I need your help with this. Can I count on you?"

John finally nodded in reply, for after all, there was no other alternative short of seeing another war fought by his community.

"You got a landline down to the airport?" Bob asked.

"We have a line to Hendersonville."

"Is the wire near the airport?"

"It runs along the interstate."

"Get one of your people down there today, have them point it out, and I'll have my people link it in. I want that done by tonight. That will then be how we stay in touch."

John nodded. "EMP. If those bastards are going to do it, what do you do?"

"Don't ask me that yet," Bob said wearily.

"Will you give me warning?"

Bob stared at him and finally nodded. "If you see me pulling out of here with everything we can haul, pulling back to Roanoke to be out of line of sight, you'll know it's coming. That's the best I can do for you."

"And you would let them do that?"

Bob looked back at the painting of General Washington kneeling in the snow of Valley Forge. "Ask me again in a month."

"All right, then," he said, finally adding, "sir."

"Thank you, John. I'm sorry it had to be this way. Please keep your people reined in; let's make this as easy as possible. From here, I'll go straight to Asheville to make sure things are settled down there. Once that phone line is in, I'll be in daily touch."

Zipping up his parka, Bob opened the door, John following him out. Bob paused, looked through the open door into the adjoining chapel, and stepped in. Students up on a high scaffolding, working to repair the damaged ceiling, were hammering away, disturbing the silence. Bob stopped at the back of the chapel, taking it in, John coming to his side.

"I remember this place well, from when Mary was laid to rest."

"It's the heart of this campus," John said. "Lot of days, even before the Day, this is where I'd come to pray by myself, to sort things out. A lot of hearts and memories are tied to this place."

Bob nodded and then simply knelt down, lowered his head, whispered a prayer, made the sign of the cross, and stood back up.

"Pray for me, John."

And at that moment, John again fully trusted his old commander. Coming to attention, John saluted him, Bob returning the salute and then embracing him. The chapel was now entirely silent; the students who had been working had stopped and were watching them. Though not planned at all, John knew that word of the prayer, salute, and embrace would spread from one end of the campus to the other within minutes, and for the moment, it had defused the potential of a deadly confrontation.

He walked his friend to the outside door where Maury was patiently waiting. Bob offered him a friendly smile, jokingly asking if he could drive the jeep on the way back, and his two friends drove off, Bob at the wheel, tires spinning in the snow.

As he drove off, John made a mental note to immediately call Ernie and tell him to check the camouflage for the antenna array on the roof of his house. No sense in Bob getting wind that they were already working on their own to try to listen in to Bluemont. And with what Bob had just told him, now there was true urgency to that task.

John returned to the chapel alone, sat in the rear pew, lowered his head, and, like Washington at Valley Forge, began to pray while outside snow again began to fall.


Makala was fast asleep out on the sunporch while John dozed in his office, unable to sleep the night after the conversation with Bob and all that had transpired in the previous twenty-four hours, when the phone on his desk rang, startling him awake.

He picked it up before it rang a second time.

"Sir, are you safe?"

It was Kevin Malady.

"Sure, why?"

"Something is up."

John looked at the old windup clock on his desk; it was nearly two in the morning.

"What?"

"Get your wife, get out of that house now, into the woods, and lie low."

"What's going on?" John snapped.

"Get out now. We heard a chopper come in, sound muffled, a special-ops type machine. One of my people on watch with night vision just saw eight people get off at the ball field, and they're heading your way. I'm getting a team together; they'll be down there in five minutes. Sir, get out of your house now!"

John put the receiver down, raced into the sunroom, and grabbed Makala by the shoulders, shaking her awake.

"John, what is it?"

He put his hand over her mouth. "We gotta move now," he whispered, and even as he did so, he thought he saw a glimpse of movement out on the moonlit road. "Now!" he snapped, dragging her out of the bed.

A laser dot suddenly flashed on to the wall just as she stood up, and he shoved her down to the floor. One of the windowpanes shattered, three bullets impacting the wall behind where she had been standing but a few seconds before.

"Down, stay down!"

He pulled her to the doorway into the hallway, pushing the door shut behind them.

Outside? Whoever it was would expect that. Upstairs was the only alternative. Upstairs and hope for enough time for Malady to bring help.

"The stairs quick," he hissed.

As she started up, he diverted to his office, crouching low, grabbed the Glock off his desk, and turned to follow her.

The explosion of a flashbang in the sunroom blew the door he had just closed open, knocking him off his feet. Stunned, he managed to regain his footing, following her up the stairs to the second floor.

Which way to go? He had thought out so many different scenarios across the last two years, but never this one, to be caught by surprise in their own home in the middle of the night. Jen's old bedroom? No, too obvious; whoever it was would hit there first. Even as he hesitated, another flashbang blew downstairs.

The attic. It was a dead end, but it might buy a few more minutes of time.

He shoved Makala to the attic steps, following up behind her, moving backward, pistol raised, ready to shoot if closely followed. A third flashbang and then the sound of more glass breaking, several short bursts of gunfire.

Behind him, Makala fumbled with the attic door, finally shoving it open. He came up behind her and tried to close the creaking door as quietly as possible.

Makala started to speak, and he put his hand over her mouth. The house-length attic was dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming in through one window. He inwardly thanked God that Jen had been a pack rat, the attic filled with old trunks, racks of clothes from fifty years ago, long-forgotten family heirlooms. He scanned it, seeing where several old steamer trunks were set against a far wall and motioning for Makala to get behind them. She hesitated, and he shoved her into the dark, musty corner and pushed her down to the floor.

She was beginning to sob, and again he had his hand over her mouth and pressed his lips to her ear.

"Are you hurt?"

"What is happening?"

"Just stay quiet. Help's coming."

He could see her pale, frightened features in the moonlight. She was protectively clutching her stomach.

"Baby okay?" he whispered.

"I think so."

"Matherson!" The voice echoed up from down below. "Only you we want. Come out, hands up, and your wife is okay. It's just you we want to go with us."

He looked at her, the offer just a fleeting temptation of a few seconds. They had fired without any warning. Whoever it was undoubtedly had night-vision gear and could have seen she would have been hit. This was not for a capture; this was a raid to kill both of them.

And if this was from Bob Scales, and he survived, he would find a way to ensure his former friend roasted in hell.

"Thirty seconds, Matherson. Just come down with your hands up."

He knew better than to reply. From down below, he could hear that someone was creeping up the stairs to the second floor. Even before the thirty seconds were up, another flashbang went off, just beneath them, the concussion startling him and Makala, who was unable to suppress a gasp of fear.

He put his hand on her shoulder. She was shaking like a leaf. Seconds later, a long burst of gunfire swept the master bedroom below.

Silence for a moment, and then footsteps creaking along the old wooden floor corridor below.

Three more flashbangs popped off, detonating in the guest rooms and bathroom, dust from the low ceiling of the attic swirling down from the concussions. More gunfire as they swept each room.

"Matherson, you're cornered. Save your wife and just come down; we know you're up there."

Makala reached out to clutch his side, an affirmation that he was not to surrender.

"It's going to hit hard. Be ready; keep your mouth open," he whispered.

He heard the door up to the attic creak open, and something arced up into the attic. He crouched down behind the steamer trunk, opening his mouth wide to lessen the impact of the explosion on his eardrums. It detonated with a blinding flash, the shock wave hitting so hard that Makala gasped.

He knew he had but an instant to be ready and was back up, Glock firmly held in both hands, resting on the top of the steamer trunk. Gunfire snapped up from the stairwell. And then the first assailant appeared.

John knew the target would be small, face only, helmet and body armor covering the rest. The man rose halfway up, laser sight flashing along the opposite wall, and then turned toward where John waited thirty feet away.

The laser light sparkled in John's eyes, nearly blinding him, and he squeezed off shot after shot. One of the 9mm rounds must have hit squarely; the killing shot he anticipated in return was a long burst going up over his head and then stitching across the ceiling as the man he hit tumbled back down the stairs.

He could hear muffled cursing, and then a fusillade of fire erupted, smashing up through the floor of the attic, and started to stitch toward them.

"Curl up on top of the trunk!" John yelled, pushing Makala up as he remained crouched, weapon trained on the stairwell.

How many shots did I fire? he wondered. How many left?

And then he heard it: an explosion of gunfire outside his home. Shouts, curses, more shots, several grenades going off.

He waited for whatever came next. A grenade came up from out of the stairwell. He pulled Makala back down from the trunk and held her tightly. This time, it was fragmentation showering the room with a deadly spray that, if not for the packed trunks, would have surely killed them.

There was more gunfire from outside, several long, sustained bursts, and he waited, the seconds dragging into minutes. Makala was by his side, curled up, sobbing. He did not dare to look over at her for even a second, all attention focused on the staircase. To add to it all, he could smell something burning, and smoke was beginning to curl up from the stairwell.

"John! John and Makala!"

The voice was high-pitched, frantic.

"It's Grace Freeman! For God's sake, please answer. Please!"

Long-ago training. They take one of yours, put a gun to their head, and get them to cry out. He didn't budge.

"The house is burning. My God, sir, where are you?"

He could hear someone running in the corridor downstairs, continuing to shout his name.

There was a pause, and then the stairs up to the attic began to creak. He was still holding the Glock, a weapon where the safety was built into the trigger. Just apply a few extra pounds of pressure, and it would go off again.

A head appeared, hard to distinguish due to the ever-increasing smoke.

"John and Makala?"

"Grace, don't move," John hissed, still not sure if she was being pushed forward by an attacker, but he had to take the risk of replying.

She looked his way.

"Are you safe?" he whispered.

"Damn it, sir, this house is burning. We gotta move." She cried. "We got the place secured. Come on! Come on!"

John reached down, pulling Makala to her feet, Grace coming around to Makala's side to help.

It was no time for questions as they headed for the stairs. John paused for a second, looking around. He saw an old shirt dangling from a clothes rack, tore it off, and covered Makala's face, shouting for her to take a deep breath and then hold it.

With Grace leading the way, they fumbled down the stairs. John guided Makala around the body sprawled out by the attic door. A round had caught his would-be assassin just below the nose, and he thought to actually pause to see if the man was still alive. Smoke was pouring out of the master bedroom. Makala was clutching his hand tightly and dragging him along, guided by Grace. With a cold sense that even if the man was alive he would be dead anyhow in a few minutes from that wound, he left the body behind.

Coughing, gasping for air, Grace led them down the steps to the ground floor. The sunroom was engulfed in flames. Grace staggered from the blast of heat, and John, coming behind the two, shoved them forward and out the back door.

"I got them out!" Grace cried, and then she leaned over, retching and gasping for air.

John could hear shouts, and through watery eyes he saw Malady come up, weapon raised. He shoved John to the ground, another of his students shielding Makala with her body and more gently easing her down to the ground.

"Situation?" John gasped, looking up at Kevin.

"At least four got away!" Kevin shouted.

"One dead up on the second floor," Grace gasped.

"At least three, then."

Someone had peeled off a parka and was putting it over Makala, crouching down to help shield her. John started to come to his feet, but Kevin snapped for him to stay down; whoever was after him was still out there.

He looked back at the house. An upstairs window burst, flames licking out. All of it was going up. Whoever they were, they must have dropped thermite grenades to set it afire like that. Jen's house was going … all of it going.

And then the thought hit. Someone was draping a parka over him. He pulled it off, held it to cover his face, and ran back into the burning house, tearing free from someone who was trying to hold him back.

"John!" It was Kevin coming up behind him, trying to pull him back.

"No!" John tore himself free and staggered into the sunroom. Nearly blinded by the smoke, he fumbled about on the windowsill, found what he was looking for, and crouching low, parka held up against the heat, he staggered back out. Once outside, he collapsed into Kevin's arms.

He clutched Rabs tight to his chest. He would never let Rabs burn like that.


Sitting in President Hunt's office, he gratefully took another sip of moonshine and looked over at Makala, who was resting on the sofa, two of the girls she had trained as nurses hovering over her. One of the girls looked back at John and smiled reassuringly.

"She's okay, and so is the baby."

He could barely see her smoke-smudged face looking toward him in the blacked-out room, curtains drawn.

She started to cough and then managed to clear her throat. "Moonshine is the last thing you should be drinking now, John Matherson," she whispered, her voice husky.

"I know."

"And damn it, if not for the baby, I'd join you," came her reply.

A burst of gunfire echoed in the distance, and he could tell the difference of who was firing. Sustained bursts versus three-shot replies. Whoever they had cornered next to the cafeteria was firing back like a professional, conserving ammunition.

John stood up and went to the window to at least slip the curtain open to see what was happening, but Kevin reached out and blocked him.

"Their goal, sir, was to kill both of you. You're staying here until this is over."

"Those are"—he hesitated for a moment—"my kids out there doing my job."

"They're your troops doing the job you trained them for"—Kevin paused to add emphasis to his next word—"sir."

There was a sudden explosion of gunfire—long, sustained bursts—and regardless of Kevin's orders, he was not going to cower here, not after what they had done, and he carefully parted the curtain a few inches to look.

He could see the tracers snapping into the side of the cafeteria and what had once been a peaceful outdoor patio. Several dozen students had the area surrounded and were unleashing a fury of fire. One of their targets got up, trying to pull up someone else. John had ordered that if possible take them alive, but the rage unleashed by the assassination attempt could not be contained. In spite of body armor and helmet, their target's legs and face were nevertheless exposed, and he was finally dropped. The other one, obviously wounded, tried to get up, and another explosion of fire took him down.

More shots continued to pour in until finally the cries went up to cease fire.

John started for the door, but Kevin blocked his way and made it clear by the way he stood in front of John that if need be, he'd physically take him down, something that Kevin was more than capable of doing.

"Let someone report in," Kevin snapped.

"For once, John," Makala whispered, "listen to someone else. He's right."

John simply nodded and then went over to his wife's side, sat down on the floor by her side, and took her hand. "Are you really okay?"

"Just some smoke, John, that's all."

"The baby?" he asked nervously.

She tried to laugh but started to cough again. "Scared the shit out of the little bugger; he's been squirming like a kickboxer ever since it started." She paused. "Our baby is okay."

She leaned over and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Why would your friend do this to us?" she asked. "You said he was honorable."

"I don't know," John whispered. "I just don't know."

"Matherson." It was a whisper from the corridor, followed by a knock. He recognized Reverend Black's voice and started for the door, but Kevin stepped in front of him and opened it, shielding John.

It was indeed Reverend Black, and Kevin let him in.

Black went past John, knelt down by Makala's side, and, taking her hand, whispered a brief prayer of thanks and then looked back at John.

"I got him on the phone, John. Pick up the line here."

John nodded. "Did you tell him what happened?"

"I just did as you said—told him it was an emergency and to hold on the line."

"John, don't talk to him," Makala said. "It will tell him you're alive, and they'll come back."

His rage was nearly out of control. Hit him, that was part of it all, but to include his pregnant wife? For that matter, Elizabeth, her baby, and husband could have been in the house as well. The attack was not to just capture him; it was to kill him and anyone with him. He looked at the two girls tending to Makala and then at Kevin.

"As soon as you think it's safe to move her, take her somewhere secure, and don't tell me where it is until this is over with."

She started to protest, but a sharp glance from him stilled her voice.

"It is about you and the baby now, not me," John said sharply, and she did not reply.

He walked back to the desk and picked up the phone. "General Scales, are you on the line?"

"Yeah, John, what the hell is going on?"

"Perhaps you should tell me exactly what the hell is going on, you son of a bitch."

"John?"

"Come after me, fine. That's part of this game you're playing, and I'll accept that. But my pregnant wife?"

"John, in the name of God, what is going on up there?"

"You tell me," John said again, uttering each word slowly and with unrestrained anger.

There was a long pause.

"John, whatever it is, tell me exactly what is going on."

"Why don't you come up here yourself and explain it"—he paused—"sir?"

Another long pause.

"John, just tell me, will you?"

"Fine then, play innocent. I trusted you, and less than an hour ago, eight of your storm troopers hit my house. If my people had not spotted them first and reacted, they would have killed my wife and the baby within her, and then me. That's what happened up here."

"God in heaven," Bob whispered.

"Yeah, God in heaven, Bob."

"Where are you, John?"

"Do you honestly think I'd tell you? Just know that wherever Makala is now, she is safely stashed away."

There was another tap at the door, the person out in the corridor identifying herself as Grace. Yet again, it was Kevin who answered. He cracked the door open and, recognizing her, let her in.

"Don't hang up, General Scales. I'll be back."

He put the phone down and looked at Grace. Her once beautiful hair was badly scorched, the right side of her face blistered. She tried to talk and began to cough.

"Young lady." It was Makala. "You get that burn treated right now."

"In a moment," Grace replied, and then she looked back at John. "Seven accounted for, sir. We think one slipped through and is heading up toward Lookout Mountain. We've got a full platoon tracking him. He's wounded and trailing blood."

"Our side?" John asked, suddenly nervous. "How bad?"

She hesitated and then looked over at Kevin, who nodded.

"Five dead, twelve wounded at last count."

"Who?"

She began to rattle off names, and John sagged with a sudden weariness. One was the girl he had seen running with her lover in the snow just days ago, another Jim Southerland, a beloved art teacher who had decided to live on campus and wasn't even part of the militia but apparently had turned out with the others.

"Let the last bastard go," John said, shaking his head. "These people were well trained. I don't want anyone else hurt in this affair. You got that, Grace?"

"Yes, sir."

But as she turned, John saw the exchange of glances with Kevin. They were out for vengeance and knew as well that as long as one of the hit squad was still alive, their beloved leader and his wife were not safe—at least for the moment.

Grace closed the door, and John picked the phone back up. "Bob, you still there?"

"John, I've ordered a chopper to start running up. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"General, you come up on a chopper, and I promise you, my people will shoot it down. They're in a killing mood. Five of my students and friends died rescuing my wife and me."

The enormity of their sacrifice hit him. It was amazing it was not five, even ten times that number given whom they went against.

"I got at least another dozen wounded. You fly up here, and you and your crew will be added to the list. Now, if you want to bomb the place, just go ahead, but this entire campus will be evacuated before you get here."

"John, please listen to me. I don't know what the hell you are talking about. Are you hearing me?"

"Yes, I'm listening."

"Whoever it was, it was not me or anyone in my command."

John sat down. Bob's words were what he wanted to believe.

"Can we do this, John?"

"What, damn it?"

"I'll come up alone, in a Humvee with just a driver—at dawn, so there is no confusion in the dark. Your people can stop and search me at the security gate you have out on the interstate."

"Until you prove yourself different, Bob, it's on your head. Okay, come on up.

"Stop at the security gate, but if my people see one additional vehicle or hear anything overhead, all bets are off."

"All right. I'll be at the gate come dawn."

"And what's to prevent you from having a few F-18s up at thirty thousand feet?"

"I have no reply other than my word." He paused. "And memory of your Jennifer to guide me now."

With that, John looked down at flame-scorched Rabs, whom he had placed on the desk.

"Dawn, then."