General Bob Scales stood with arms extended straight out as two of the security guards at the Exit 59 barrier roughly patted him down and then none too gently pushed him forward.

Contrary to Kevin's, Reverend Black's, and his own wife's appeal, he had decided to meet Bob at the gate. If anything was to go down, he'd rather it be here than down on the campus. He had forsaken Maury's far too easily identifiable jeep and instead had Black drive him to the meeting in his old Volvo. Lee had shown up and insisted he go along as well. Kevin had already gone ahead with several carloads of the militia and a pickup truck with a "package" in the back for Bob.

The guards pointed to where John waited, standing under the roof of a makeshift shelter that had been erected to protect the interstate security team. Bob approached slowly, keeping his hands out and clearly visible.

There were no salutes, no friendly exchanges other than a warning from Kevin that if he made the wrong move, it would be the last gesture he would ever make.

"How is Makala?" Bob finally asked. "Are she and your baby okay?"

"They're fine," was all John could say, and then he looked past Bob to Kevin. "Go ahead and show him what we brought along."

Kevin put his hand on Bob's shoulder and guided him to the back of the pickup truck and pulled off the tarp covering the rear of the vehicle. Bob stared for a moment and then looked back to John.

"Upon all that I hold sacred, John, I swear to you they are not mine. I've never seen them before."

"We stripped them of their gear," Kevin said coldly. "High-quality stuff, regular army. The one Colonel Matherson shot in the face was roasted to a crisp when his house burned. His grave is the rubble that's still smoldering. We're still hunting the last one, but he won't last long; he's trailing blood. You want them back, sir?"

Bob looked over sharply at Kevin and shook his head. "Bury the bastards wherever you want. They're not mine, and that's final."

"Kevin, take them to where we dumped the bodies of the dead Posse. That's all they deserve."

As he spoke, he watched Bob closely. Both he and Bob had been taught a code of honor when it came to their own dead. Not even a body was ever to be left behind, no matter what the cost of retrieving it.

Bob did not flinch or show the slightest emotion at John's cold words of scorn.

"John, if there is nothing else, do I have your permission to leave?"

John could only nod.

Bob turned and started to walk back to his Humvee.

"General Scales?"

Bob turned and looked back.

"If not you, then who?"

Bob stopped and then slowly walked up to John, stopping almost within touching distance. Kevin was on one side of him, Lee on the other, and both were tense, ready to spring.

"Look me in the eyes, John."

John did as requested.

"Upon the memory of Jennifer's grave and wherever my Linda now rests, I swear to you I did not do this."

"Then who?"

"I gave you a warning. There are more than a few who want you dead, John Matherson. I hate to think it is who I now suspect, but maybe it is."

John took that in but did not reply.

"And if so, and if they tried for you in your home, they know more about you than even I do. It means you have someone in your community who has given information out." He paused as if suddenly realizing something. "And it means they know that you and I have talked."

He stood silent as if evaluating that thought.

"God be with you, John," Bob whispered, "and maybe I should ask that He be with me as well in the days ahead."

John did not reply as Bob turned again and walked back to his Humvee, which backed up, turned, and then sped off.

"I don't believe him," Lee finally said, and Kevin nodded.

John kept his thoughts to himself and then finally looked at Kevin. "Dump their bodies like I said," John finally said. "And, Kevin, keep a twenty-four-hour watch on Makala, and I am not to know where she is."

"Already taken care of, sir."

"Lee, mind if I bunk with you?"

His friend smiled and nodded.


"Ernie, I need something, and I need it now," John announced while still standing out in the snow in Ernie's driveway.

For once, Ernie was out the door to greet him and actually grabbed John by the hand. "You okay? We heard about what happened last night. Makala, is she okay?"

"Yes, just fine. We're fine."

"Those sons of bitches."

Lee had thrown a fit when, at midday, John had roused from his exhausted sleep and announced he was going to visit Ernie.

That had triggered an explosion of anxiety, with Kevin appearing with a pickup truck–load of their troops, fully armed, several of them wearing the captured gear taken from the dead raiders.

The last attacker had been found dead, shortly after dawn, having apparently bled out from his wounds, and after being stripped, he had been dumped with the others.

At least for the moment, it meant to John that he was safe and would not let what happened stop him from his routine, and that included using Maury's jeep when it was snowing, so he ordered Kevin and the others to relax and get some sleep. An order reluctantly obeyed.

"Mind if we come in?" John asked, nodding over to Maury, who was standing beside his jeep and throwing blankets over the seats to keep the snow that was falling from covering them.

"Why don't you have a top for that damn thing?" Ernie asked, shouting to Maury.

"Couldn't find one that was authentic to the period."

"Oh, great, historical accuracy before comfort."

Maury did not reply. John knew it was painful enough for his friend to redo the paint job back early in the spring to cover over the white star on the front hood and paint the rest in a speckled camouflage pattern, which of course Maury had to match up with the Normandy 1944 look, so it was less easy to spot them from the air.

Maury just glared at Ernie and did not reply.

"All right, you two, come on inside." He motioned to the door into the garage. Slamming it behind the two, Ernie turned, arms folded defensively.

"Are you going to shut me down?" he asked sharply.

"Hell no."

"Well, I heard you are taking orders from our new potentate down at the Asheville airport and assumed you were sent here to pull the plug after he failed at his attempt at killing you."

"Damn it, Ernie, did anyone ever discuss diplomatic conversation skills with you?"

"Nope. And if anyone ever does, I'll tell them to go to hell."

John couldn't help but smile. "Yeah, okay. Everyone knows. I surrendered without a fight. You got an alternative short of a bloodbath for our side? As to damn near getting killed, just leave that be for now."

"How many troops does he have with him?"

"He's got at least half a dozen Black Hawks, maybe as many Apaches, a couple of C-130s, and from what our lookouts in Hendersonville told us, at least half a dozen Bradleys and a dozen truckloads of supplies and additional troops up from Greenville. And you suggest we fight that?"

"Go up into the hills and wait him out. He'd be facing half a thousand or more very pissed-off, well-armed folks."

"Ernie, you have been a burr under my hide from day one, but this tops it. I'm supposed to go back to those kids at the college and tell them to suit up and head out into the woods in this weather?" He snapped out the last words and pointed back outside where a lightly falling snow was being whipped along by twenty-mile-per-hour winds. "Half of them would freeze to death within a couple of days out there with no fires to keep warm. Light a fire, you got an Apache with infrared seeking on top of you."

"He's right, Ernie."

The two turned to see Linda slowly coming down the basement stairs. "So stop needling him. You know as well as I do there was no chance to fight back, so let it be."

"I was just suggesting an alternative, Linda."

"Fine. You suit up, take a rifle, go sit out on the ridge for a few hours, and then come back and tell us if we should fight or not."

"I'm seventy-five; those kids trained to fight are in their twenties."

She ignored him and walked up to John and Maury, holding out two mugs of coffee.

"We don't have much of that stuff left," Ernie muttered.

"They need it more than we do warm inside here," she snapped and then turned her attention to John. "Really, are you and Makala all right?"

"Just fine, Linda. It was bad, though, for those at the college. Five dead, a dozen wounded, and I doubt if a couple of those will make it."

He tried to say those words without becoming emotional again. They had died saving his family and him. All of this was becoming too much to bear. He knew if he broke in front of Linda, she would go all to pieces as well. He shook it off and just offered a weary smile of resignation.

"My only other question, John: Do they know about our operation here?"

John shook his head. "So far, I don't think so; that's why I called and said to double-check the camouflage on your satellite dishes."

"You can't see them from the road or from up above. I had the kids make some netting out of bedsheets to blend in with the snow. I think we're safe."

"Good. That's the way I want to keep it."

He could see that Ernie was still glowering and felt it necessary to smooth the waters. "Ernie, I'll admit now, it was a smart move to shift your operation down here. The last thing I want is another war. You saw what a couple of Apaches under Fredericks did to us in the spring. Their only tactical mistake was basing out of the mall. If they had been based at the airport with proper security, Fredericks would have won. We don't have Stinger ground-to-air missiles, and any Hollywood hokum about taking one of those birds out with an old-fashioned RPG is absurd. General Scales held the trump card, made sure we saw it in his opening move and won."

"He played it well," Maury interjected. "There was nothing we could do in response, at least for now."

"But—" Ernie started, and Linda cut him off.

"But what? A hundred, two hundred kids dead?"

"They're not kids, Linda."

"We've got grandchildren that will be in the militia units in another year, Ernie. To me, they're kids."

John caught her eye and nodded.

Strange, when his second lieutenant's bars were pinned on him, he was twenty-one and felt he was indeed a man. His father had been flying combat missions at twenty-three, his grandfather at twenty-one. Of course he felt like a man then. But now, when there was an entire generational difference between him and those who were actually the ones who would carry the fight, it was all so different.

He recalled the old photo books of soldiers from World War II. The haunting image of a shell-shocked Marine covered in filth and blood, staring at the cameraman with vacant eyes. One had to look deep into that photograph to conjure out the realization that the frightfully aged Marine most likely was, in fact, not more than eighteen or nineteen years old.

Those whom he called kids, when looking up at the Apaches circling over the campus, were again ready to fight, but in their eyes they had as well that same haunting gaze. They were veterans of two major battles, and they knew the price and the loss even when they won. They were ready to fight even though with the pragmatic realism that only a veteran could gain, they knew without doubt the fight would most likely be futile.

Memory of his walk up to the campus of several weeks back came to him, the young amorous couple playing in the park. That should be their world, holding with it some hope of a future, not another fight to the death. And now one of them was indeed dead. The thought of that stabbed deep, but he had to push it aside for now.

Damn all that created this world for them, he thought bitterly as he nodded, still looking at Linda.

"You're right, Linda; they're still kids, or at least should be kids. I'm not going to spend their lives in some final gesture of defiance."

And even as he spoke, the nightmare of what Bob said might happen—that Bluemont might unleash another EMP—hung over him. After what had happened just hours ago, he was no longer sure of Bob, though as emotions settled, he did want to believe him. Perhaps now the answer to it all was to find out, on their own, what the truth really was regarding Bluemont—and what was happening in this house might be the key.

He suddenly realized that he had been standing in quiet contemplation for several minutes while Ernie and Linda had launched into what he realized was something of a standard method of communication between the two. Ironic as he focused attention back on them. They obviously loved each other dearly, and yet they sure had a strange way of expressing it.

"All right, you two, let's chill it." It was Maury who finally interrupted the argument.

The two looked at him, and Linda smiled. "Thank you, Maury. Point taken. At least by me."

Ernie said nothing and finally turned back to John. "Let's answer the first question, then. If you are not shutting us down, why are you here?"

"I just want an update and to pass along a few suggestions. I want your team to lie low, but keep the kids working here on task 24-7."

"So you are not this General Scales's lackey?" Ernie quipped.

"You know, Ernie, someday when all of this is over, you and I are going to have a real serious discussion."

"Just remember, Matherson, I saved your life. Fredericks was ready to shoot you in the back."

"Yeah, right."

Ernie smiled. "Well, some are whispering I just simply saved you from the dilemma of what to do with that son of a bitch by just shooting him and getting it over with. Either way, I did you a favor."

John finally relented and nodded.

"This basement is freezing," Linda announced. "Let's go up to the Skunk Works."

"The what?" John asked.

"That's what we're calling it now. The kids like the name, especially after I told them about a little side contract work we once did at the real Skunk Works Lockheed had."

John smiled at that. Lockheed had been a prime contractor for highly specialized spy planes back during the Cold War, their secret R&D lab dubbed the "Skunk Works." It fit for what they were doing now.

Linda led the way up to the main floor of their home, again cheerily warm thanks to the fireplace and the wood-fueled kitchen stove. She led them up to the second floor, moving a bit slowly, bracing her knee as she climbed the stairs, muttering that she wished she'd had the replacement knee surgery done before everything had hit the fan.

As they reached the top of the stairs, John looked up and grinned at the hand-drawn sign hanging in front of them: "Linda and Ernie's Skunk Works." Whoever had drawn it was indeed creative. Linda and Ernie caricatured as cartoon skunks, arguing with each other, with an array of $#*#%& erupting from the skunk image of Ernie's mouth, even as they were holding hands.

The entire room was now cluttered with electronic equipment, most of it retro from the '80s and '90s but some of it looking fairly recent. The work crew had grown from the five he had seen last time to nine, hunched over screens, empty plates and cups strewn on the tables and floor. That alone made John wonder how many precious rations Linda had been lavishing on them. The mere sight of a half-eaten sandwich, packed with what look liked hamburger meat, by Samantha's work area triggered hunger in John. A half-eaten sandwich remaining unconsumed was something he had not seen in a very long time in this starving world.

All were at work, two arguing in the far corner, each pointing to their respective screens, one of them a fairly new nineteen-inch flat screen.

"How and where did you get all of this?" John whispered to Ernie, those at work not yet noticing his presence.

"Here and there," Ernie whispered.

"I need to know. If word gets out we are salvaging equipment from people's basements and attics, it might leak out."

Bob's comment about a spy in their midst had been troubling him ever since he'd woken up.

"Let's just call it Dumpster diving from abandoned buildings in Old Fort. I figured on hunting down there; it's only five miles away if you take the abandoned road for which I have a key to the gate. I took my sons along, and we prowled around a bit. Hell, the old police station and town hall are down there. Anything that looked to be online down there I assumed was fried, but in a back-room closet, there was a whole stack of tossed-off equipment. Someone told me they had just had a major refit of their entire computer system just a few weeks before everything happened, had stashed the older stuff, most likely to be quietly taken home after being formally written off as junked. It was still there, so I took it, and no one the wiser. Who the hell wants computers anyhow in Old Fort? Smarter than prowling around Montreat where curious eyes might see us and gossip about it."

It was important to keep this man happy, John realized, and he made the effort to pat him on the back.

Samantha at last turned in her chair, saw John and Maury standing watching them, and smiled.

Whatever Linda was feeding them, the girl looked the healthiest John could ever recall. She must have put on five pounds or more since he had last seen her. She nudged those working to either side of her, and for a moment, all work ceased.

"Don't let me interrupt," John said with a smile. "I just dropped by to see how things were going."

"Is it true that we've been occupied by military from Bluemont?" Samantha asked. "We heard the choppers coming over and shut down while they were overhead. We also monitored a BBC report, claiming they had reports of heavy fighting in Asheville and that you were under arrest and standing trial for the murder of ANR prisoners after they surrendered."

Those bastards, John thought. Of course they would spin it that way.

"None of it true, Samantha, at least my being arrested. I'm still here, aren't I? Yes, the military has occupied the area. Yes, several of our people and a couple of theirs were killed in Asheville and a dozen others on both sides wounded. But no one over here. There is no more fighting on either side. The general in command is an old friend of mine. We have a peaceful understanding for now. So don't worry about it, and just stick to what you're doing."

He could see their doubtful gazes.

"Please trust me. There is no fighting at the moment. What I am asking of all of you is to keep at what you are doing. I'm counting on you for that."

Several started to talk at once, but Linda held up her hands like a schoolteacher bringing her class back to order. "Stay on those screens. We'll have a team meeting over dinner to evaluate the day's data. Now get to it." Her voice was gentle but firm, and all followed her orders.

Linda beckoned to the back office. As they left the work area, John leaned over to Linda. "Do they know what happened this morning?"

"Ernie and I decided not to tell them, though one said they thought they heard a helicopter passing overhead. Until we know who the casualties are at the college, we figured it best not to get them upset and not focused on their work."

John nodded his thanks as they followed Ernie, with Maury by his side, into the back office.

There was no comment from Linda as Ernie fetched out the bottle of brandy, a jug-handle quart and a half, broke the seal, and without comment poured three glasses, keeping one and handing the other two over, with Linda abstaining.

"Here's to a blessing to the health of your family and you," Ernie offered.

"And to those who gave the last full measure this morning," John whispered before taking a sip.

Ernie put his glass down and smiled. "John, I think we are onto something."

"What?"

"We're not having much luck at all with breaking the encrypting. Bits and pieces at best, which is mostly guesswork. We've figured out a header to messages that indicate place of origin is Bluemont. A couple of names and titles. Their encrypting is sophisticated, as to be expected. What shows as the letter A might mean the letter M the first time it pops up. If that were the case, any fool can just sit down with a chart and a frequency table of how many times a particular letter is used. For example, A is used a hell of a lot more than X or Z in anything we write. Kind of like playing that old television game show but without lovely Vanna pointing out the letters as the players guess.

"But of course it's not that simple. A might mean M the first time we see it, but the next time it might mean L or W, and so on and so on. It is the same problem Turing faced when building a machine to mimic the German encrypting machines back during World War II. The trick was to try to see patterns. One of the Germans' big mistakes was daily submarine check-in reports with longitude and latitude, three groupings of two numbers each for degrees, minutes, and seconds. At the same time, naval intelligence reports in they're tracking a sub at, say, twenty degrees west and fifty-five degrees north, and they think it is U-Boat 111. Add in that French intelligence had reported U-Boat 111 putting to sea and a drunk sailor had told his girlfriend who is with the resistance where they were bound for patrol. Put those three different data points together, look at what we are getting via the Enigma machine—most likely from that sub—and it puts another piece into that puzzle to breaking the code."

Maury, the World War II history buff, interjected, "But they had hundreds working at Bletchley Park on breaking Enigma. They already had parts of the machine snatched by the Poles out of a German embassy just as the war started, machines later captured from subs, and like you said, data to correlate from other sources. Even then, it took several years to even start to get it right, though eventually we were transcribing the orders their high command was issuing almost as fast as they were being decoded by their own people."

"We don't have hundreds of people, and we don't have years," John replied softly.

"We do have our computers up and running," Ernie interjected.

"But how fast can we get results that we can use?"

"It depends on what you are looking for," Linda replied with a smile.

"How so? I fear this is a needle-in-a-huge-haystack problem."

"I recall stories from before the war of highly placed government officials, damn idiots, using their personal e-mail servers for classified data and transmitting in the open rather than on government-secured lines."

"And?"

"During the war," Maury interjected again, "I mean the Second World War, it was found that some bored sailor on a U-boat was playing chess via Enigma with a friend back at naval headquarters. 'Queen pawn to queen pawn four' type stuff."

The two looked at him.

"Well, it was stupid, but when the pattern was realized, people at Bletchley Park were decoding it and then transferring that knowledge to important stuff, even while they were laughing about how the guy back at headquarters was a lousy player and placing bets as to who would win."

"My point is," Linda replied, taking over again with the conversation, "you look for someone using the system in a declassified or inappropriate way. In one case, a couple of hackers in Europe were able to get inside the system of a very high-level official before the Day and cracked into thousands—tens of thousands—of files because that high-level government type was using their personal server. Letters going to friends asking about a kid's birthday mixed in with very deep stuff about military operations."

"How does that help us?" John asked, feeling that he was swimming in seas beyond his understanding.

"We've got an idiot like that," Linda said with a grin.

"I don't think it is that important, Linda," Ernie announced.

"Well, I think it is, and John should hear it."

"Go on."

"Within all the reams of encrypted data, something has been popping up. We're almost certain it is from Bluemont."

"We suspect it is from Bluemont," Ernie said.

"All right, suspected, then. What is it?"

"Personal notes. Short ones," Linda interjected.

"So?"

"John, this is high-level stuff, and we think we are getting into the stream."

"What kind of personal notes?" John asked, feeling numb from exhaustion and the impact of the brandy, now desperately trying to fathom where Linda was going and why it was important.

"It reads like husband to wife. I-miss-you type things."

"And?"

"A comment that in a few weeks the sender is scheduled for two days off and will visit."

"That's it?"

"It could mean anything," Ernie snapped. "Maybe it's to a girlfriend. Hell, maybe boyfriend to boyfriend. I don't put much on it."

"You would say something like that, Ernie. I don't care who it is to or how you see their relationship. It just caught me as strange, popping up unencrypted."

"Linda, you're losing me here. So far, I'm leaning with Ernie."

He hesitated, going over in his mind his promise to Bob Scales versus what was already out in the community as to what Quentin had said while dying.

"When we started this endeavor, there were questions about what that dying messenger said. Something about an EMP. Are we picking up and deciphering anything that looks like messages about an EMP?"

Ernie perked up with that. "Why, John?"

"It was a reason I decided to green-light this project."

"Did you get something out of General Scales?" Ernie pressed, staring up at John.

"I'm dealing with what we know from Quentin," John replied, trying to sound calm but knowing he was never the best of liars or one able to cover up facts that were troubling him.

"I see," was all Ernie said in reply while offering to top off John's drink, which John firmly refused but then wondered if his gesture not to drink was a clue to Ernie that he wished to remain absolutely sober during this conversation.

"No, nothing clear yet. Thought we had a code word for it yesterday, but that fell flat on its face. Remember, good encrypting can mean billions of permutations changing all the time. The machines we've got are way behind the ability to tackle that with the speed we wished we had. The machines out in the next room are not even doing gigs of calculations a second, when we actually need terabyte capability. So no, nothing yet."

"Then just please keep at it."

"You dodged my question, John," Ernie replied.

"Maybe I did," was all he could say in reply. "But I want to shift this back to Linda. Why are you interested in these personal messages?"

"They just strike me as odd. We have no idea exactly what Bluemont is, other than it was listed before the war as a center for FEMA in the event of a national emergency. Their updated version of the Cold War bunkers is out of some movie like Dr. Strangelove from back in the '50s and '60s.

"Ernie and I knew about them. Gossip when we worked at IBM, people sent off for a couple of months to set up computers and when asked about what they were doing, they'd smile and act all hush-hush. You know how it is—you were military once—and how some of those with a secret just walked around all so self-important."

John nodded. Such types always drove him crazy. Just because they had a security clearance for some particular project, they would strut around with an oh-so-superior air, like a child taunting, "I know a secret you don't know."

He often wondered how any secret actually could survive at all when placed into the hands of so many people with such ego issues.

"What are you leading to?"

Ernie started to speak, but Linda overran him. "I think tracing out these short notes might bear some fruit. If nothing else, there might be something classified spilled in one of them. It's happened before, I bet."

"Code words during World War II." Again it was Maury. "Manhattan, Big Boy and Little Boy, Omaha and Overlord. You put them into a letter that had to go through censors and the FBI was at your door. The double edge there. The mere fact that you used those words innocently could bring a whole lot of hurt down on you, but that it did bring down a whole world of hurt meant you had stumbled onto something. There's the story about some innocent guy who wrote crossword puzzles and by chance had the code names for three of the five invasion beaches for D-day in a puzzle. He winds up in an FBI office getting grilled. Of course, no one reported it, but suppose it had been in a radio broadcast then, or an e-mail today, and suddenly that person is grilled and others find out. That's a tip-off."

"And fat chance we'd have such luck today," Ernie replied. "Anything going up to the sat and back down to wherever from Bluemont is a closed loop. If somebody screws up, who are we to even know they screwed up? Assigning a code word to an EMP, they sure aren't going to use flashbulb or big boom. It'll be subtle—Starfish or Rose—and we'll never notice it."

"I'd veto Starfish," John said softly. "Might make you think about looking up at the stars, and beyond that, it was used by us, Starfish Prime, for a test launch of an EMP back in 1962."

"I knew that," Ernie replied with a smile. "I remember that test—just testing to see if you remembered."

John wondered if he was for real or just pulling his leg, but it did not matter.

"Okay, let's cut to the chase," Linda said. "Whoever this lonely guy or girl is in Bluemont, the single letter R has turned up in every one of the unencrypted correspondences between the two separated lovers. 'To R,' and 'Re: R.'"

"So?" John asked.

"I want to put half our assets on looking for anything related to R in any message headers and addresses."

"You're crazy," Ernie retorted.

"Yes, I was; I married you," Linda snapped back.

John held his hands up in a calming gesture, looking one to the other. Who do I side with? he wondered. Ernie was the one who had pulled off creating what was now the Skunk Works—did so under his nose—and his foresight had been proven because if still located in the college library basement, chances were Bob Scales would be onto it. But on the other side, Linda was proving that she had a deep intuitive sense about some things.

He recalled years ago, while at the War College, interviewing a retired four-star general, who as a young colonel was first wave ashore at Omaha Beach. The dignified elderly man spoke about Napoleon's famous interview question for a candidate for promotion to general: "Are you lucky?" The old man had laughed in a soft, self-deprecating voice and said that luck was about intuition and listening to an inner voice of warning. He recalled a night when his battalion dug in to an orchard for the night and he awoke a few hours before dawn with an overwhelming dread that something was about to go wrong. He ordered his battalion to decamp immediately and pull back a quarter mile. Shortly before dawn, the Germans laid down a killing barrage on that orchard they had vacated but a half hour earlier and sent in a dozen panzers to finish the job. His battalion's reply was to annihilate the panzers.

It wasn't luck, he said, it was some inner warning that had awakened him. That the orchard must surely stand out on a map to the Germans—a likely and comfortable place for a battalion of motorized artillery to laager for the night—and with that realization bringing him awake, he moved out. He never doubted his intuition again or tried to rationalize it away. He acted. Often he was wrong, but the times he was right made the difference between him sitting in John's office to be interviewed and being buried in France.

He realized his meeting with Bob at the snow-covered airport should have set off every alarm bell, for surely Bob was feeling out the situation prior to striking. He should have prepared better and had failed to do so. If he had acted, would he have fought Bob? He realized that was futile; his reaction would have been the same, but nevertheless, he should have listened to his inner warnings far more closely.

He looked over at Linda, his decision made. "I'm with you. Put half your kids on it. Focus in on any communication that looks personal and has some sort of reference to R. I think you are onto something."

"Oh, hell, I knew you'd agree with her," Ernie growled.

"That's because he's smart," Linda said with a smile. "Now I saw the way you were looking at a half-eaten sandwich, John. I still have some burger meat left over. Let me cook one up for you two visitors and enough left over to take home to your wives and kids."


At last the weather had broken, with a stretch of over a week in the upper forties, so that there were actual bare patches of pavement visible on the roads again.

He had heard no more from Bob other than a terse daily phone exchange with each telling the other that there was nothing new to report. No further reference, especially over an open phone line, about the assassination attempt or what might be unfolding regarding Bob's plans regarding his stated position that he would go in on Atlanta within days.

Work on the mill dam and generator to provide power to Old Fort and even on to Marion was completed, and with a ceremony to be held in downtown Old Fort at the train station, John felt it would be good for Makala to end her week of being in hiding. He found that he had to take something of a fatalistic view regarding the threat. If they, whoever they were, intended to try again, it would come, and nothing he could do would prevent it. He could either cower in hiding with his wife or live life.

The baby was due in little more than a month. Protective like any expectant father, he had first vetoed the idea of her riding down the mountain in the old Edsel. Then one of the citizens of Swannanoa had shown up toting an old-fashioned set of tire chains that would fit the car. It was something folks in the South had rarely seen, but as a boy growing up in the North, he well remembered the struggle of fitting them to the tires of his father's car before a major storm, and he always associated the sound of them with when he was six, a blizzard on Christmas Eve, believing they were Santa's sleigh bells. Driving to Old Fort and back would consume two gallons of gas, but the council insisted they go for the ceremony as a demonstration of the bond between the mountain communities and those down in the piedmont below.

He felt a little more justified when Paul and Becka, along with the twins, were crammed into the backseat, for after all, they were the architects of the entire electrical system that was gradually spreading out. He had debated with Paul the wisdom of risking his family out in the open by traveling with a man who most likely had a price on his head, but Paul had insisted they go along.

The drive down the old interstate was more than a little white knuckled. Several had attempted the run after the last storm, but it was the Bradley that had gone up and down several days earlier that had packed down a pathway that was now melted clear in places. Unlike in areas in north where the effects of several heavy snows coming nearly weekly could linger on the ground for months, this far south, a stretch of days up in the forties in December with clear skies could trigger a lot of melt off even in the mountains of North Carolina.

Still, he took the downhill run at little more than ten miles an hour, carefully staying in the middle lane. Other than the journey back from Morganton after the adventure in the Black Hawk, this was only his second foray down the long interstate climb through the mountains since the Day.

Evidence of the wreckage left from the Posse attack littered the road. For the folks of Black Mountain, the road had a certain taboo quality to it. At the top of the pass was where the town had established its barricade against the tens of thousands of refugees seeking entrance in the weeks following the Day. The barrier was still there but for the moment no longer manned with a passageway cut through it on the eastbound side.

Right at the crest of the mountain, at the truck safety stop where heavy vehicles used to pull off to examine a large map and safety information before beginning their descent, was the place where John had personally supervised the executions of Posse prisoners, including their ringleader. Several frayed ropes still swung in the breeze from the stoplight overhang. He knew the bodies that had once dangled there as a warning had long ago rotted off, what was left consumed by buzzards and coyotes, but as he drove past, he could still imagine them there as they kicked out the last minutes of their lives. The cliff just beyond had become the dumping ground for hundreds of Posse dead, and even after two years, some claimed a stench still wafted up on damp mornings. Seven bodies had been added to that pile, but he made no mention of that fact to those traveling with him.

Abandoned vehicles still littered both sides of the road on the way down. Most had been picked over in the months after the fight but with little enthusiasm or careful checking, for some still contained skeletal remains. It was a foreboding place, and all in the vehicle were silent as John negotiated his way around the wrecks until finally halfway down the mountain the wastage of war was pretty well left behind. The driving became a bit easier as well, for it was not uncommon that while a foot of snow was coming down atop the mountains, down in the piedmont it would be rain. Long stretches of the road, especially where the highway weaved about facing to the south and east, the pavement was melted nearly clean and just covered in slush.

Nevertheless, he made a mental note that once the ceremony was completed and he had performed some ritualistic handshaking and small talk, he would turn back and head for the home that he and Makala now occupied across the street from the campus. There was the feeling in the air that another front was starting to come through, and the prospect of driving the Edsel back up the mountain with the slush turning to ice and snow again falling was of concern.

They finally reached the exit where the remains of a burned-out McDonald's marked the turnoff. For that matter, all the buildings lining this part of the highway were scorched ruins. The Posse's taking of Old Fort had been an act of utmost wanton brutality, nearly all caught by surprise in the town before they could flee the onslaught, and most had been murdered. As he turned onto the main street, the same dreary sight greeted him, everything burned out and looted, charred ruins covered in a coating of snow and ice.

It was deeply depressing, the first time he had actually come here since before the Day. By the railroad tracks crossing through the center of town, there was an abandoned flatbed eighteen-wheeler. Obscene graffiti spray-painted on the cab indicated it had been a Posse truck, and an equally graffiti-covered Cadillac made John wonder if this was the vehicle of the Posse leader he had hung.

No one had expended the energy to move these and half a dozen other vehicles off the road, giving most of the downtown area a tragic postwar visage. It wasn't until they crossed over the railroad tracks that John saw that the old train station by some twist of fate had been spared, along with several shops and the town office on old Highway 70 as it headed east.

Several dozen were gathered outside the station for the ceremony. The same with nearly all the citizens of his world, they were slender, wiry looking, wrapped in oversized stained and soiled jackets and parkas. He recognized Gene Bradley, the nominal head of the community, an old, retired postman for the town, who wore the gray uniform jacket of his profession as if it was a badge of office.

John let the Edsel drift into the parking area behind the train station where half a dozen all-terrain vehicles, a battered old VW bus, and even a horse-drawn wagon had parked. A heavy truck retrofitted to burn on waste oil was actually out on the railroad tracks. The old telephone and telegraph poles once used by the railroad had been the convenient way to string wire from the power dam up in Mill Creek Valley five miles away. Quite a few old-fashioned glass insulators had been found on the poles along the way, even long stretches of sagging copper wire that had not fallen prey to scavengers and boys armed with pellet guns who always felt the insulators made excellent targets long before the Day.

The truck had several spools of wire on the back, and sitting around it was the work crew who had accomplished the feat of running the wire into town over the last few weeks in spite of the weather. Paul got out to check with them, proudly shaking hands all around while John worked the crowd of citizens with Makala by his side, of course all the women asking how she was doing and when she was due.

"I think we're ready to start," old man Bradley announced, and he opened the door to the train station, letting the crowd in. The interior triggered a wave of nostalgia for John. When his girls were little, they had spent many an afternoon "train chasing," following a heavy coal or freight train down from Black Mountain by taking Mill Creek road. They'd stop to watch it circle around the local attraction of what folks called "the Geyser" but was actually just an oversized fountain set in a small park and then race ahead to downtown Old Fort, get ice cream in a shop across the street, and then sit in front of this station to watch the train come thundering through before heading home.

They were warm memories, and he suddenly felt Makala's hand slip into his as if she were sensing his thoughts.

There was the usual round of "speechifying" that good days were finally coming back with the arrival of electricity and offering thanks for all the help they had received from the citizens of Black Mountain and Montreat College in bringing a modern world back to them. There was even a joke, but it was half-serious as well, that the next step was to again see trains, powered by steam, pulling into the station.

It dragged on a bit long, and John waited patiently. This was an important day for these few of the town who had somehow managed to survive. John was asked to say "a few appropriate words," and he did keep it to just a few, looking past the happy group to low scudding clouds that were starting to come in from the northwest, possibly the harbinger of another storm.

It was finally time to light things up. All eyes turned to Paul and Becka, each of them holding one of the twins, who were taking in their first journey to the outside world with wide-eyed wonder, both parents keeping back a bit protectively, for Becka was indeed paranoid about the prospect of the twins catching a cold or something worse from those gathered around.

A bit of a friendly argument ensued as to who would actually go up to the old-fashioned switch, which look liked it belonged in a Frankenstein movie, and snap it down. Finally, one of the children of the village was pushed forward, picked up by her mother, and did the honors. A string of lightbulbs and other strings of the ubiquitous Christmas lights brought in from somebody's attic flashed to light. Again, there was that same look of wonder on all the upturned faces, cheers, and some even started to cry. Someone turned on a CD player, and Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the U.S.A." hit John hard as it always did. Nearly everyone joined in at the chorus, and nearly all were in tears by the end.

Next was the usual country song, more than a few beginning to dance, while outside there was a shout that the food was on. John walked out of the now-stuffy room, Makala by his side, to where several women had lugged over kettles of what smelled like venison stew. He could never admit, even now after the starving times, that venison stew made him queasy. While he was a student at Duke long ago, one of his roommates had come back from a weekend hunt toting a four-point buck, hung it up in the backyard, and butchered it himself. Being students on a tight budget, the group had pretty well lived on venison for a couple of weeks. They had teased John as a wimpy Jersey boy for not enthusiastically joining in for their meals of venison steak and ground venison stew, always washed down with plenty of beer. He had of course partaken, but there was something about the smell that had bothered him ever since, even when hunger gnawed away and a student at the college had come in with an increasingly rare kill.

He politely took a bowl of the stew and struggled with it, Makala smiling at his discomfort and his white-lie responses to the elderly ladies about just how good it was to have fresh venison stew, though he wondered just how fresh the meat truly was.

There was a side to John that only those close to him really knew how to read; at heart, he was an introvert. If given the preference for an ideal day, it would be to just spend it with family, maybe a friend or two dropping over, and then plenty of time in the evening to curl up with a good book about history. During his years as an officer, when in direct command of a platoon and then a company, he'd had to force himself to be out there, to be patient and listen, to learn how to work with others rather than just be the type to issue orders and expect others to instantly obey, even when he knew he was right.

He had walked backward into his entire role as leader of his community, never wishing it. It was why friends like Lee Robinson, Maury, and others said that he was actually highly efficient, because at heart he did not want a role that others would have greedily grabbed on to and never want to relinquish.

He had to play the role now, enduring more than one handshake that turned into an embrace of gratitude from someone who had not bathed since winter set in.

Paul and Becka had already placed the twins in the back of the Edsel, Becka claiming they were tired and that it was nap time. It finally served as an excuse for John to disenthrall from the enthusiastic crowd. He did not want them to think he was rude or standoffish—he definitely was not—but now he doubted the wisdom of agreeing to get Makala out of the house for a while in her eighth month of pregnancy with a potentially icy drive back up the mountain.

Paul and Becka were already in the backseat, huddled over their precious cargo as John helped Makala into the old Edsel after passing the word to Bradley to give a call up to the town hall at the campus to let them know they were leaving. It was a safety gesture that if they did not get back within the hour, it meant they were stuck, and it was also a holdover from not all that long ago whenever venturing out of Black Mountain, because there were still the occasional marauders lurking along the roads, ever ready to jump on a lone traveler in a highly prized functional car.

He did not add that if they were still singled out as a target there was little that could be done, and now that worry was hitting him hard. Going out on his own in a different car was one thing. Doing it this way in light of what happened was a show of courage that he had to do, but he was putting those whom he loved at risk and now just wanted to get back home.

He absolutely refused Kevin and Lee's demand that he travel with a well-armed escort. Long before the Day, he had come to disdain the near-absurd lengths that security teams went to around even the most minor of officials after 9/11, and he refused to bow to that level.

Strange world, he thought as he reached the interstate and swung onto the opposite side of the road since on the way down it appeared to be clearer. Strange as well that though he had an extremely pregnant wife in the front seat and parents in the back with twins nestled between them, all four adults were armed, Paul and Becka each carrying sawed-off shotguns and Makala, like him, armed with a .45 Glock.

A couple of times up the long climbing slope, the Edsel fishtailed a bit. John was glad that they had left while the sun was still high in the sky for this time of year; the temperature was beginning to drop, and a breeze was picking up, with a thickening spread of clouds drifting in from the west. At such moments, the four did what people nearly always do: speculated about the approaching weather.

"John, look up to your right!" Paul suddenly cried, breaking the relaxed and friendly conversation.

John leaned forward at the wheel and saw a Black Hawk crossing up high over the ridgeline to their right, swinging about in an arcing turn, and then diving back down and disappearing from view up toward the top of the crest.

John hit the gas as much as he dared, the Edsel fishtailing even more until the chained tires dug into the slush and propelled them forward, blue exhaust swirling out behind them.

"Are they after us?" Makala asked nervously.

"Doubt it," he said, trying to reassure her.

"If they wanted to arrest you, John, this would be the convenient place to do it, away from the town." She didn't add that killing them would be all so easy now.

If that was indeed the intent, he thought, then he truly was a fool for leaving the security of the campus and partially trusting Bob's words.

Coming around the last bend in the road, he saw that the Black Hawk was going into a hover at the top of the pass at the long-abandoned truck stop, the place of a major battle and executions.

"Back it around!" Paul shouted. "Head back down to Old Fort."

John wearily shook his head. "Whatever is about to happen, they have us." He sighed. "Keep your weapons down and out of sight."

John slowed the Edsel and stopped fifty yards out, turning the Edsel sideways by the exit ramp of the truck stop.

"If it goes bad," he said, looking over at Makala, "take the wheel and try to make a run for it."

Her arms were around him, hugging him fiercely.

He forced a reassuring smile. "The baby comes first, lover. Don't worry—if they wanted us dead, it already would have happened."

He carefully got out of the Edsel, made a show of holding up his Glock by the grip and then placing it back into the vehicle, and walked toward the Black Hawk with hands out to his sides and clearly showing he was unarmed. The chopper's rotors slowed to a stop as he approached, the side door sliding open, and Bob Scales got out, doing the same as John, arms extended out, showing he was unarmed.

The two approached each other cautiously. Behind Bob, John could see that there was a door gunner at the ready, weapon not pointed directly at him but ready to be swung around.

"Hell of a way to meet, General!" John shouted over the whine of the Black Hawk's turbines, which had not been shut down.

"Yeah, hell of a world, John," Bob replied as he slowed and came to a relaxed attitude of attention.

John did the same and finally raised his right hand in a salute, which Bob returned.

"We have to talk," Bob announced.

"I was hoping that was all. Just as long as you leave my family and friends out of it."

Bob looked past John to the wreckage scattered about the truck stop, the horizontal pole where frayed ropes swung slowly back and forth in the increasing breeze from what appeared to be an approaching storm.

"So this is where you held the Posse off?"

"Yes."

"Exceptional choice of ground. I heard how they nearly succeeded in flanking you from over there to the north." As he spoke, he pointed to the deep ravine of Mill Creek.

"Something like that."

"I just took a look over there and saw something interesting, John."

He did not reply.

"You should tell whoever is over there that the white camouflage netting was fine right after the snow fell, but those antennas kind of stick out clearly now."

Again John did not reply.

"It was spotted yesterday, John. Actually, I don't mind, but I am curious as to who you are eavesdropping on over there."

"Why don't you go ask yourself?"

"I was thinking just that, but didn't want some sort of misunderstanding if I or some of my people just showed up unannounced."

"Is that the reason you flew all the way over here?" John asked.

"One of several," he replied, and John sensed the tension in Bob's voice.

He said no more and continued to look around, gazing again at the ropes, the only evidence left of the mass hangings that had taken place here at John's orders.

"You did what you had to do here," Bob finally said, "but knowing you, dealing out justice summarily must have been tough."

John looked up at the ropes, remembering the insane gibberish the leader of the Posse was screaming in his final seconds before being hoisted aloft to slowly die of strangulation. The hysterical pleas of the others with him as one by one they were hoisted aloft or taken to the edge of the ravine and shot in the back of the head until he finally relented and let the last few survivors of that murderous gang go to spread word of what would happen to any who dared to approach again.

"They were cannibals. There was nothing else I could have done."

Bob looked over at him.

"When you've seen too much, sir, strange how all higher emotions can just drain away. I'm haunted by other things now, but not this."

"I know."

John looked up again at the ropes, and he suddenly felt a strange sense of detachment—no fear, no desire to try to flee. He looked back at the Edsel, where Makala had slipped over to get behind the wheel.

"Whatever it is, you're leaving her out of this, aren't you?"

"Of course, John."

"You've orders to take me to Bluemont that you can no longer dodge around, is that it?"

Bob did not reply.

"Bob, I prefer a bullet. I remember a class with you once about George Washington, how he had to handle the Major André case, even though every judge of his court-martial appealed for mercy, or at least a bullet rather than the rope."

"I remember that," Bob said softly.

There was a moment of silence, and Bob looked at the Edsel. "You know, John, I think that is one of the ugliest cars ever made."

It broke the tension for a moment as John smiled and explained how it had belonged to Mary's mother, the old oversized machine impervious to the effects of an EMP.

"And that is your wife down there?"

"Yes, sir."

"May I say hello? I'd like to meet her."

"Of course. But if I am being arrested, I'd prefer no word. We have a baby due in a few weeks; I don't want anything to upset her."

"Of course."

"All of them are armed," John said softly as Bob started down to meet them, "and more than a bit nervous as well."

"I understand."

Bob approached the driver's side of the car. Makala opened the door and started to get out, Bob smiling and telling her to stay inside where it was warm. She rolled down the window.

"Ma'am, I wished we had met under better circumstances," Bob said gracefully.

"So do I." Her voice was anything but friendly.

"John said you two are expecting." He continued to smile and leaned in slightly. "And excuse me, ma'am, but you look like it will be any day now."

"Yes, any day now, and I expect my husband to be by my side."

"Of course. I understand."

One of the twins in the back of the car began to fuss, and Bob turned his attention to the backseat.

"Now there's a lovely package."

John offered quick introductions, Paul and Becka looking up at Bob warily and not offering any reply other than curt hellos.

"I wish I had more time to meet all of you properly and someplace warm where we could sit and get acquainted. I can guess you want to get those two little ones safely home. You can pull around the chopper and go on your way."

"With my husband?" Makala asked sharply.

"We need to chat for a while, ma'am."

"But he'll be home directly afterward?"

"All will work out just fine," Bob said smoothly.

"I see," was all she said back, her gaze now fixed on John.

John offered a smile of reassurance. "I'll be along shortly, sweetheart. Why don't you get the Hawkinses and their babies settled in and stay with them until I get home? Okay?"

Makala had the uncanny ability to know when he was holding something back or lying, and he knew she sensed it now.

"John?" She started to crack the door open.

He stepped forward, leaned into the car, and kissed her. "Baby comes first," John whispered even as he kissed her again. "Get home safe, sweetheart. I love you both. Please do that now."

She began to sob, arms reaching out to hug him, to somehow pull him into the car, but he broke free of her embrace, pushing the door closed as she tried to open it again.

"Now, Makala, please. Do it for me. Get the Hawkinses safely home."

Unable to hide her sobs, she shifted the car into gear, rear wheels spinning as she hit the gas, swung the old vehicle out onto the road, and floored it, tires spinning in the slush and then gaining traction. She swung around the tail rotor of the Black Hawk and disappeared from view, John's gaze on them until out of sight.

"A beautiful woman, John. Lots of guts. Can see why you fell in love with her."

"Thank you for playing your part, Bob. But she knows."

"Yeah, I could see that. What loving wife wouldn't see through it?"

There was a moment of silence between the two.

Bob put a reassuring hand on John's shoulders. Now that they were gone and he no longer had to playact, emotion was hitting him. "I hope you two have a daughter on the way. I always feared that Jennifer wouldn't make it through the times after the attack. I remember how aggressive her diabetes was. Is it any help to you now that I prayed for her every day, even tried to figure out how to get through to you with some insulin? But it was impossible. You know that."

"It wouldn't have made any difference. A few extra shots, six months' worth, her fate was sealed along with so many other kids like her on that day. We both know that."

"Nevertheless, it haunted me. Same as my Linda and so many others."

John could hear the emotion in his voice, and then there was silence between them as they walked back up the slope to the helicopter and climbed aboard, the gunner offering each of them a hand as they stepped up and strapped in.

"So this is it?" John asked as the rotors began to turn.

"Not quite yet. I'm sorry, but we've got to take down your eavesdropping as well. One of your ham operators screwed up, put it out on the air that you and your people were listening in and suspected that Bluemont was plotting some sort of attack. Sorry, John; I got direct orders to take it off-line."

John wearily shook his head. It was the age-old bane of any secured operation. All it took was one loudmouth and all cover was blown.

"Only one of two ways I could see of doing that. We hover over the building, half a dozen of my troopers rappel down on to the roof, and chances are a lot of people—yours and mine—get shot, or you just walk in with me and we peacefully take it off-line. It's your call."

"We walk in," John replied. "One question, though. How did you know where to find us?"

"There are spies, and then there are other spies, John. I think you were bloody insane for driving down to Old Fort after what happened last week. But in my case, it made it easy to pick you up without any fuss and take care of your listening post at the same time."

"Just great." John sighed.

"Maybe you should count yourself lucky."


The walk from the Ridgecrest conference center up to the Franklins' steep driveway was just a short distance but damned tiring as they slogged up through the slushy snow. A couple of times John came to a stop so Bob could catch his breath, and there was even a bit of tension-breaking joking about how both of them were getting too old for this type of hike. As they rounded the last turn in the driveway, John came to a sudden stop as four figures rose up from concealment—Ernie's sons, daughter, and her husband, all of them pointing weapons at them.

John held his hands up, whispering for Bob to do the same as John identified himself. Weapons were lowered but still casually held in their general direction as they ascended the last fifty yards to the garage entrance, where Ernie awaited them, arms folded in his usual defiant gesture.

"I suspect this is not a friendly visit," Ernie announced without offering any kind of welcome. "We saw the chopper circling earlier and heard it land at Ridgecrest. One hovered above us for a few minutes last evening as well."

John tried to make formal introductions, but Ernie cut him off. "So, we've been found out, and your friend decided to come here personally to have a look-see before shutting us down. Is that it?"

"Let's not go off half-cocked, Ernie," John replied.

"Half-cocked? Let's look at this from a different light, John. So this your legendary friend Bob Scales?"

John nodded.

"And our new military dictator. At least he looks a damn sight more official than that damn Fredericks that I put a bullet into."

"Oh, for God's sake, Ernie, can we just mellow out for a moment?"

"So you're the one that shot Fredericks?" Bob interjected.

"Yeah. You got an issue with that? The bastard was about to shoot my foolish friend here in the back, so I gave it to him first."

"From what I heard of everything that happened here"—he paused—"can't say I blame you. And if you saved John's life in the process, I thank you."

"Just great, I feel exonerated," Ernie replied. "So now that I've confessed, am I on the arrest list too?"

"No."

"But my friend here is?"

Bob was silent.

"Tell you what. A quid pro quo. You let him go, we let you go. You hold him, we hold you. You execute him, we execute you. How's that sound?"

"Damn it, Ernie, stop being an ass," John snapped. "One volley from an Apache will take this place apart—you, your entire family, all the kids you got upstairs. I won't be part of that."

"Thank you, John," Bob said softly, still forcing a disarming smile. "Mr. Franklin, I respect your loyalty to our friend John. I feel the same way about him. But to try to hold me—actually, I'm okay with it, but some of my people would not be—they'd try a rescue and evac the moment they heard I was being held, and a lot of innocent people on both sides would get hurt. We don't want that. I know John doesn't want it either."

John nodded.

"Well, maybe I'm willing to take the risk."

"Ernie, go upstairs and ask Linda what she thinks."

"Oh, for God's sake, John, don't pull that card on me."

"Smart decision, husband," Linda announced from the landing of the stairs that led up to the first floor. "Now will you invite our guests in?"

John looked up at her, smiled, and could see the look of worry clouding her features.

Ernie relented, motioned for them to go up, while behind them, his sons, daughter, and son-in-law were taking off their camouflage smocks and stacking arms.

As they reached the first floor, Bob breathed in deeply, smiled, complimented Linda on whatever was simmering atop the woodstove in the kitchen, and then went over to the fireplace in the living room, extending his hands to warm them. John joined him, and looking up to the second-floor balcony, he could see nearly a dozen anxious faces peering over the railing and looking down at them. He motioned for them to disappear, but they did not comply.

Linda came over, helping John and Bob to take off their parkas while the daughter approached the two with steaming mugs of broth, which both gladly took.

It was all so surreal for John, as if he and an old comrade from his army days were paying a friendly visit. But he could not help but notice the sea of cold, decidedly unfriendly gazes from Ernie's family who were gathered in the kitchen and leaning over the balcony railing.

Bob could not help but notice as well, and after taking several long sips of the warming broth and thanking their daughter, he turned to face the assembly. "Can I ask that all of you join me down here by the fire?"

There was an initial reluctance, no one moving.

"Please. It's okay. Let's gather round," John said, and the tense spell was broken for a moment.

The students came down from the second floor, family members coming out from the back rooms of the first floor, filing into the spacious living room. As almost twenty of them gathered in, John could see just how much the Franklin Clan had been putting out to support their Skunk Works. Even though the house was large, it had become decidedly crowded. Rations that had been long ago planned for eight or ten to survive for a couple of years were now being doled out at what must be a prodigious rate. He figured Ernie must have been using either gas or propane to at least power the well to keep a cistern filled. How much more was that taking now?

With two surviving sons—a third had been killed in the fight with the Posse—a daughter who now appeared to be pregnant and her husband, four grandchildren, and nine students, the strain of supporting all of it must certainly be telling. He could see Linda was the matriarch of the entire arrangement and could sense her near-infinite weariness with all that she had to see to as she continued beyond that to be something of a project manager as well. But it was all now coming to an end, the future indeed uncertain and most likely dark.

Bob put the mug of broth down, looked around at the gathering, and offered a somewhat military "Let's all just stand at ease and relax" opening statement.

But no one did relax; the tension was palatable.

"I'm sorry, truly sorry, to tell you that whatever it is all of you are engaged in, I have received orders to shut it down."

"From who? Why, damn it?" a chorus of protest rose up.

Bob extended his hands in a calming gesture, but it did no good, anger rising by the second.

"Damn it, everyone shut the hell up!" John snapped out sharply, and the room did fall silent in response to his outburst.

"Listen up. What General Scales is saying here is the way it's got to be. I don't like it any more than you do. I came here with him with an understanding. No harm was to come to him, and realize he's made one hell of a personal gesture of his showing his character by doing this personally rather than sending some underling to do it. He put his life on the line to deliver this message."

No one said anything, but John could still sense the righteous anger.

"Look, it is the way it is, and I don't like it any more than you. Either we shut it down and start disassembling it now, today, or I know for a fact that come tomorrow, his people will be back and do it for us."

"Let them try it!" Samantha cried, voice near to breaking. "We haven't busted our asses for weeks without sleep just to have it come to this."

"I know how you feel. Remember I was the one who first said go ahead with it when Ernie and Paul Hawkins figured out we could get computers back up and running and use them for what you've been doing. Please listen to me. We don't agree, you try to put up a fight, and thirty seconds of an Apache helicopter hovering over this place will end it anyhow. There is no arguing with that. Most of you saw what an Apache can do when we faced off against Fredericks back in the spring."

"So we surrender to another Fredericks, is that it?" Samantha pressed. "Go ahead and try, damn it. We can haul this stuff out of here before you hit and hide it in the woods, and then try to find it all."

Bob edged past John and looked straight at Samantha. "I admire your courage, young lady. Yes, you can do that. If I were you, that would be my first reaction. But please think. If forced to act rather than resolving this peacefully, this house is gone. If forced to, your power station—which you need to run things here—is gone. Then what? You are dead, and a lot of young men and women about your age are gone as well. Please, I do not want that, but the orders are firm. This operation shuts down today. I'm asking your help to ensure it happens without anyone getting hurt. If I didn't care about that, I just would have sent an attack helicopter in and not put myself here in front of you."

John looked over at his old commander and actually did feel a surge of emotion. His words, his caring, hit hard. Fredericks, and so many others like him, would have hit first, and those killed on both sides not a concern.

There was a long moment of silence broken only by whispers back and forth between those assembled.

"He's right," Linda finally interjected, breaking the tension. "All right, General, we shut it down, but before we do so, I want you to look at a few things and answer a few questions. Can you agree to do that first?"

"Of course, ma'am."

"It's Linda."

"All right." Bob hesitated, some emotion showing. "My wife was named Linda as well."

Linda looked back at the gathering around them. "Why don't you kids relax for a while? You all look pasty faced as zombies. Get some coats on, go out, and enjoy the air and a bit of sunshine before that next storm rolls in. Now get going."

She shooed them out of the living room like a protective hen, the group breaking up, but it was obvious that none of them were pleased.

"How about we go upstairs to talk?" she offered. "Ernie, time for some cigars and brandy."

"Share a cigar with him?" Ernie growled, nodding toward Bob. "And Matherson doesn't smoke."

"I'll sit next to you and inhale deeply," John said, trying to smile and break the tension.


Once into his office, Ernie opened the cigar humidor, and there were only two left within.

"These are my last two Cubans, and don't ask how I got them before the Day," he announced sadly as he held one up and sniffed it. "My homegrown stuff tastes like shit, but at least it is something after you two are gone."

Bob actually smiled and nodded a thanks as Ernie clipped off the ends, offered one to Bob, struck a match, and held it for Bob as he puffed his cigar to life. Ernie hoarded the precious friction match, managing to light his own cigar as well before tossing the match down to the tile floor.

"Classified info," Bob said, smiling after first inhaling the cigar, taking it deep in without coughing. "A year back, the navy seized a shipment of these, and I was able to trade a bottle of real scotch with an admiral friend of mine for a box. First one I've had in half a year or more. Thank you."

"So that easy to get contraband stuff out there?" Ernie queried sharply.

"Not as easy as you might think," Bob replied without breaking his smile, showing to John that he could still keep that poker-face grin even when someone was needling him.

Linda came in bearing a bottle of wine, and Ernie groaned. "That's one of the last of the Malbecs." He sighed as Linda handed it to him to uncork.

"Might as well send our friend John off with a proper wine," she said.

"Who said I'm going anywhere?"

She looked at him, and her composure let down for a moment.

"You're arresting him and taking him away, aren't you, General?"

Neither Bob nor John replied as Ernie, taking that in, uncorked the bottle and poured out four drinks into slightly dingy glasses and held his up.

"America," was all he said in a very formal salute.

"America," the other three whispered, and at that moment, John picked up a subtle nuance when Bob drained off a good portion of his glass and put it down without further comment. Old tradition was to toast the commander in chief as well in any such setting when glasses were raised. He looked over at Bob, who did not return his glance.

"Shall we pull the wires now?" Linda asked without preamble. "Smash the motherboards and hard drives in front of you?"

Bob shook his head and then took another sip of the wine. "That won't be necessary at the moment, but yes, I'm afraid it will come to that. If you can promise me there'll be no confrontation, a couple of my people will come over tomorrow to take the computers away. I just ask that you disable them in some way now."

"How about we fire off a mini EMP for you?" Ernie snapped, and Bob looked over at him sharply. Ernie smiled at his joke, which was definitely flat. "But then again, I suspect Bluemont has the same plans soon enough."

"Why do you say that?" Bob said, and again John could see the poker-face smile.

"What you saw out in our Skunk Works isn't there to play some damn games or set up a new Facebook or those damn Twitters. Yesterday, we noticed a real increase in traffic. We managed to capture and decrypt a few lines here and there after a lot of sleepless nights. Does Wallops Island, Virginia, sound familiar, General?"

"Nice beaches. Camped there years ago."

"It was also a NASA and NOAA facility for lofting short-range rockets, not usually orbital, but they could launch from there for small payloads—say, what used to be known as a suitcase nuke. We've got something about a 'package' being moved there. Wallops Island, package, mix in my paranoia and I read it as something really dark."

"I'm not privy to such information," Bob replied calmly, and then he masked his reaction by taking another sip of wine.

Ernie smiled but did not press further, a reaction that John thought strange coming from this man. He saw Ernie glance over at Linda and read that there was something else up their sleeves, something beyond speculation regarding a "package" at Wallops Island, a place John was finding hard to place on a map.

"General, we've been picking up something else," Linda interjected.

"Go on."

"You know as well as I do that all systems, no matter how secure, are porous, only as secure as their weakest link, meaning personnel link. Recall some high-level types before the Day who would sit at home late at night, using their personal servers to send out chatty e-mails and then mixed with notes to friends, family, something official and classified?"

"I do," Bob said, his features clouding with obvious disgust at such stupidity.

"Easy enough to crack if they break security protocols. Do that and a door might be wide open for someone to snoop into. Well, we've got such a person at Bluemont."

"Go on." After taking another drink of wine, Bob put the glass down on the table next to Ernie, who did not hesitate to pour in several more precious ounces while Bob took another puff on his cigar, and John gladly inhaled next to him. The entire Internet and computer security game was something he would readily admit was beyond him, so it was always fascinating to listen in on something like this.

"General Scales, what is 'Site R'?"

John could see Bob stiffen at Linda's query.

"Could you repeat that one, Linda?"

"Site R, and your response tells me that means something to you."

There was a long moment of silence from Bob. Cigars had always been an excellent means of giving a man a moment to gather his thoughts as he appeared to examine the glowing tip, knock off a bit of ash, and take another meditative puff, which is exactly what Bob did, and it spoke volumes to John, who remained silent.

"Linda, I am not sure what you are driving at, and as far as this Site R is concerned, I have no comment."

"Then it's classified?" Linda snapped, her voice like that of a prosecuting attorney closing in for the kill.

She stood up, went over to a filing cabinet alongside Ernie's desk, pulled it open, drew out a file folder, and tossed it on Ernie's desk next to where Bob was sitting.

"My Site R file, General. Sorry, but our regular printer was fried off on the Day. We did scrounge up an old dot matrix printer from the college library and a couple of boxes of paper but no extra printer cartridges. My handwritten notes—excuse them, some people say I have a miserable left-handed scrawl—but take a look, General."

Bob picked up the file folder, opened it, and held it up close to try to read the faded printouts and all but illegible handwriting. He finally gave up and put the folder back on the table. "What are these?"

She smiled, the smile of the legendary Cheshire cat, luring by its cryptic words its prey coming in closer for the kill. "We started to monitor this person over a week ago. He was breaking standard encrypting. Our profile, a bureaucrat at Bluemont. E-mails bouncing all the way up to their satellite system and back down to an address at a place called Site R. Personal stuff; hope it is his wife rather than a girlfriend, because if it is a girlfriend and he's married, the bastard should be hanged. Some of it the usual sticky stuff, some of it, well, all this proper Southern girl can say is, it got very randy at times between the two, though that girl Samantha who was tracking it day and night got more than a few laughs."

Linda smiled at that, and even Ernie chuckled.

"He sure is horny."

"Ernie!" Linda snapped.

"Well, he is. And in this starving world, you gotta be damn young or very well fed to have enough surplus energy to think the way those two are. It used to be called sexting, I think."

"You don't have to tell me," Linda shot back, and Ernie visibly wilted.

"Hey, let's call that TMI," John snapped, though he was now curious to look at the files as well, even though from Bob's expression it was obvious Linda had hit a major nerve at the mention of Site R.

"Please continue," Bob said softly as he picked up the file folder and began to thumb through it again.

"Site R, as I was saying. We wondered where it was. For all we knew, it could be some island in the Indian Ocean, England, Antarctica, and the e-mails just pathetic longings. But then it cracked open wider. Our horny Romeo appears to be making his plaintive cries of undying love and longing right under Juliet's balcony."

"How do you know that?" Bob asked.

"He said he had a seat on the weekly shuttle chopper. Once things settled down when the package was delivered, he would be able to visit her again. Something about a five-day personal leave, a quick flight, and plenty of time then with his lover. She replied that she is getting sick of being stuck in Site R and asked why can't she just get a posting to Bluemont and then they could be together all the time. He then dodged off on his reply and, get this, said that no one is supposed to know that he, and I quote, 'got you out to safety at Site R.'"

Bob looked at her wide-eyed, obviously taken completely off guard, and she indeed did smile openly now. Whatever her game, John realized, she had just sprung it on an obviously unsuspecting general.

He opened the file folder again, held up the pages closely, and started to scan through them one by one. Cursing softly, he reached into his breast pocket to produce a pair of reading glasses, put them on, and for long minutes scanned through the files.

All were silent. Ernie puffed on his cigar, and after draining the precious glass of Malbec, without offering to those around him, he pulled out the nearly empty bottle of brandy, poured a stiff drink, and swiftly downed it, earning a sharp glance from Linda.

Bob finally put the file back down with a sigh. "Damn all to hell," he whispered, and he held his empty glass up for Ernie to reluctantly refill with what was left in the brandy bottle and took it all down in a couple of quick gulps. "Can I keep this file?" he asked.

Linda shook her head. "If it's as important as I think it now is, the answer is no."

"And if I just take it?"

"You don't leave here if you try."

He nodded, looking over at John. "You reason with her. I want this file. I need this file."

There was an urgency to Bob's appeal that spoke volumes to John, who wordlessly gave an appealing look to Linda. She was silent for a moment, considering her answer.

"I assume John is under arrest and going with you, General Scales."

Bob, who was leaning over toward Ernie, who was relighting his cigar, looked back at Linda. "Yes, he is, but don't tell your family and the students here that. We don't need a scene."

"John?" She looked at him sharply. He realized all he had to do was announce he had no intentions of going and all in this house would resist his leaving and if need be hold Scales as hostage.

"Give the file to me, Linda," John said. "You can trust me with it. Bob, can I take responsibility for the file?"

Scales nodded in ready agreement. John reached over to pick it up without waiting for her reply and then turned his gaze back to her.

"All right, John." Her voice was choked with emotion.

"Thank you, ma'am," Bob said, and setting his glass down, he swiftly stood up.

Linda stood up and went up to John and hugged him. "When do I see you again, John Matherson?"

"Don't worry; just keep everyone here safe."

She started to stifle back tears.

Bob reached out to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Ma'am, you just might have changed the paradigm. I hope you can trust me."

She looked back at him sharply. "I don't."

"I can understand that."

"Anything you wish to smash on your way out?" she asked sarcastically.

He did not reply, leaving their office, slowly walking out into the large room dubbed the Skunk Works and then turning to look back at the three who were following him.

"Keep this up and running. Focus on this—how did you put it, Ernie? This 'horny Romeo'? Focus in on him with everything you have."

Linda and Ernie looked at him with obvious surprise.

"As far as your team knows, they are being shut down. Find whoever is your loudmouthed ham operator—for that matter, all your ham operators—and I want them off the air now, immediately. I want a full shutdown on any kind of uplink traffic. Silent listening only. Nothing even on the phone line. I'll have a courier down here tomorrow to pick up anything new, but it will be made to look like he is occupying this place and shutting it down. Do you read me?" Those last four words were spoken sharply in a clear command voice that carried the type of threat a general knew how to conjure up when need be.

Ernie and Linda stood silent, just nodding in reply, until Linda broke the silence. "And John's fate?"

"He is still under arrest and will face charges in Bluemont," Bob said sharply, loudly enough that the eavesdroppers gathered in the living room below could obviously hear.

Shouts of protest rose up as family and former students gathered at the base of the stairwell as the four came back down.

Bob made a show of shouldering his way through, ignoring the curses and threats hurled at him, John following in his wake, shrugging off more than one plaintive attempt at a hug and appeals for him to stay.

Though the climb up to the home had been a laborious one, Bob descended the driveway at a near run, John following in his wake.

Whatever it was that had so hit the general, it was obviously big, and not another word was said as he approached the waiting helicopter, its turbines kicking over as he approached. John hesitated to climb in. He could not help but sense that doing so was sealing his fate for whatever was ahead.

Bob climbed into the chopper, the rotors overhead beginning to turn, and looked back at John.

"Matherson, you can turn and run and I won't follow. That or get your ass in here now and face what is coming next. It's your call."

Wondering if he would ever see Makala and his newborn child, he hesitated for several seconds and then climbed in after Bob, and the Black Hawk lifted off.


He didn't feel free or that he was actually under close arrest. After landing at the Asheville airport, Bob had disappeared into the cavernous hangar that had once housed National Guard aircraft at the north end of the airport while John was led to what had been the headquarters for a couple of private aviation firms. Bunks had been set up in the foyer and corridors to house troops, some of them fast asleep. Those relaxing off duty and still awake gazed at him with curiosity but said nothing as a sergeant major led John to what had been a private office, desk pushed to one side, a standard collapsible bunk with sleeping bag set up in its place. The sergeant told him to wait for a moment and returned with a sleeping bag and an MRE-supplied cup of instant coffee, which John took a sip of and set down; it was laced with whiskey, and for the time being, he definitely wanted to keep his head clear.

"Anything you need, sir, I'm bunked next door; just come and get me."

"Mind if I wander about a bit, Sergeant…" His voice trailed off, the middle-aged man's name tag concealed under his parka.

"It's Sergeant Major Charles Bentley, sir. Just call me Charles or Sarge. Okay?"

"Fine, Sergeant. About wandering around?"

"Sorry, sir, but you are under arrest until I hear differently. I'm responsible for your well-being. Play along and we keep it as it is now. You try to walk off, sir, and sorry to say it, I will have to put you under restraint. Those are the general's orders."

"I won't be a cause for concern, Sergeant," John said as he turned to look out through the half-open venetian blinds. A couple of dozen private planes were still out there—Bonanzas, Mooneys, the usual Cherokee 140s and 180s, Cessna 172s that must have belonged to the flight school, and even some high-end turbo props and a couple of corporate jets. All of them abandoned. Long ago, he had sent a crew down here to drain off their avgas and Jet A, but even before his people had arrived, looters had already been at the planes, taking all the gas and most likely just for the hell of it smashing them up. The planes, once worth millions, had all been pushed to one side to make room for the eight Black Hawks, six Apaches, and a C-130, and as he watched, a second C-130 was taxiing in from landing.

"Is that everything you have, Sergeant?" John asked.

"You know I can't answer that, sir."

"John is okay with me."

"Sir, orders from the general are to consider you as a colonel reactivated to service. So it remains sir or Colonel."

"All right, Sergeant. Mind if I ask a few questions?"

"Those I can answer, fine by me, sir."

"Been with General Scales long?"

"I'm his top enlisted aide. After Major Quentin left, I've been his sole adjutant."

"Can you tell me anything about Major Quentin?"

The sergeant politely shook his head in reply.

"He left us with a hell of a mystery, Sergeant. This talk about an EMP. You know anything about that?"

"Sir, you know as well as I do what I can and cannot answer."

John smiled, pulled out one of the chairs stacked up in the corner of the room, and sat down, taking off his parka, stretching his legs out to relax, and making a show of just sipping the whiskey-laced coffee but not gulping it down. "Sergeant, how about sitting down for a few minutes? I'd appreciate the company."

"Sir, you are bunked in the same room as the general. When he comes back, perhaps it would be better to direct your questions at him."

The man was good. Firm without being disrespectful, and he would stick to his orders—perhaps one of them to get John a bit tipsy and pump him, or even to see if he could be made tipsy.

With that thought, John made a show of going over to the window, cracking it open, and pouring out the laced coffee. He looked back at the sergeant, who actually grinned a bit.

"Waste of a good drink, sir."

"I prefer to keep my head on straight. Here and then wherever it is you are eventually taking me."

"If there's nothing else, sir, I'll be next door down." The sergeant turned to leave.

"Charlie?"

The sergeant looked back.

"At least tell me about yourself. Were you in the Pentagon on the day the shit hit the fan?"

"No, sir. I was actually part of the ceremonial team at Fort Meade for duty at Arlington. Final assignment before mustering out after twenty-five years."

The sergeant's trim but muscular build, ramrod-straight posture, and demeanor was a giveaway to John. The ceremonial guard was one of the most exacting assignments in the military. It was not just the very public task of standing guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier but also for all military funerals and beyond that any ceremonial event requiring military presence in D.C. itself. Behind the scenes, it was also a highly efficient combat force, one of the top ready reaction forces inside the beltway.

"How did you meet General Scales?"

"He and some others from the Pentagon came in the evening of the first day." He seemed reticent to continue.

"And then?"

"Well, the general and I sort of fell in together, and he asked me to stick with him."

"Mind if you tell me more about what happened in D.C. that first day, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. There was a lot of confusion. The whole city was down, communications down. By the middle of the first night, the city was burning." Again there was a drawn-out silence; he was obviously reluctant to say more.

"Nothing classified—just curious," John prompted him.

"After a couple of days, it was obvious to some we were doing nothing effective where we were. Some said we should try to link up with Andrews Air Force Base, but that was on the other side of the city, and we hadn't seen any air traffic, at least not going out from there."

That struck John as curious. "Did you see air traffic?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. A number of choppers, looked like special-ops-type equipment, most likely proofed against EMPs. They were moving about."

"So something was at least flying?"

"Yes, sir. But nothing toward us. All our comm gear was down, and we were obviously written off."

"What were these choppers doing? Where were they going?"

"Don't know, sir," he replied a bit too hastily.

John knew the sergeant would not speculate anything with him and dropped that line of questioning. "So you then went to Andrews?"

"No, sir. A group did set out that way." The sergeant smiled. "A lot of those wandering in from the Pentagon were men like General Scales. Well, I should say around the same rank. There was a lot of arguing back and forth, which I stayed clear of."

"Smart move, Sergeant. If two generals got into a row, I always made myself scarce."

"The general said we should strike out for Fort Belvoir and link up with whatever was there. Most of us went along with him."

"Most?"

"Well, sir, it did get a bit ugly. Not often you see a two star telling a couple of three stars to go to hell. The general, he had a hell of a lot more ground experience, not a paper pusher—we could see that and went with him."

"Good analysis and smart move."

"I understand you served under him, sir?"

At last, a question back, and John openly went over the times they served together, even how when he had decided to retire because of Mary's cancer, it was Bob who had helped him find a position at Montreat College, which was Mary's hometown.

The sergeant took it in, most likely not much that was new there if his job was to pump John as a "good cop" interrogator.

"Sergeant, you have family?"

And now the man did stiffen up. "Yes, sir."

"And?"

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"I understand. The general told me about what most likely happened to his wife."

There was a momentary pause again.

"They lived on the other side of the Potomac. My wife, two daughters, a son. My boy was a plebe up at West Point. My daughters still in high school. I didn't want them in some crap hole of a school in Washington. Unless you were able to pay forty grand apiece to send your kids to one of the schools where all the elites were sending theirs, you were stuck. I had in-laws up near College Park, good schools at least up there, so that's where we bought a small, very overpriced house to ensure the kids were safe and at a good school."

Again a moment of silence.

"I wanted to try to get to them; the general talked me out of it. I guess he was right. One man alone, trying to get through all that chaos. It was something I would think about at times before the Day. You know, trying to plan what to do if everything ever hit the fan. But you know how it was, sir. It was always figuring ten, maybe twenty megatons on Washington, an equal dose on Baltimore—one minute we're here, the next we're together with a lot of other poor souls waiting to talk to God. You know what I mean."

John could see that the mere recollection was painful. All the worst nightmares possible most likely kept him up night after night. No quick, near-instant deaths. A woman with two teenage daughters. What chance did they have? And the sergeant knew it.

John decided to tell him a bit about Jennifer, a choice to perhaps share a bit of the misery to help bond. The sergeant listened sympathetically.

"At least you were with her at the end, sir."

"Yes, I'm grateful for that. Also the most painful moment of my life, but yes, at least grateful that I know what happened, unlike you and General Scales. Does he ever talk about it?"

Again a moment of silence.

"Some nights I can hear him praying about her; that's all I'll say."

"I understand."

It was obvious the sergeant was not going to offer more. He did try, a bit woodenly, to ask about what assets John had, even as to where the Black Hawk was stashed, to which John just smiled politely and replied that he'd prefer not to answer. The sergeant finally relented and stood up to leave.

"Sergeant." As he spoke up, John held his coffee cup back up. "Can I hit you up for another cup—this time straight, no cream, no whiskey, no Xanax. Okay?"

The sergeant smiled. "Sure thing." He returned a moment later with a steaming cup and a plastic MRE pouch filled with hot stew. John took both gratefully.

"Again, sir. No wandering about or talking with other personnel. If I have your word of honor, I'll leave the door unlocked. There's a bathroom down the hall; we managed to get water running for the toilets, but no hot water yet. I'll loan you a razor, soap, and a heat packet from an MRE for shaving if you want."

"I'd appreciate that, Sergeant. I really would."

Several minutes later, he was in the bathroom, looking into a mirror, as always shocked by his appearance. It seemed he had aged ten years in the past two. His hair, cut short, had gone nearly entirely gray; the rough stubble of a beard actually was looking white, his features gaunt, eyes a bit sunken, complexion sallow. It was the look of his world, again reminding him of photographs of long ago, the aged and chiseled features of boys in their early twenties after a couple of years with the Army of the Potomac, having survived Antietam and Gettysburg and all wars since.

The sergeant came in, offering over a disposable razor that looked fresh, a small, still-wrapped packet of soap, a small toothbrush with a travel-size tube of prewar paste, and a plastic MRE bag, its chemical charge having been activated and the pint of water within hot to the touch. John thanked him with genuine gratitude. For the first time in more than two years, he was no longer struggling with an old-fashioned straight razor. He splashed some of the scalding-hot water onto his face, opened up the soap pack, rubbed it on to the stubble, dipped the razor into the hot water, and began to shave. When he turned on the faucet, a trickle of rusty-colored cold water dripped out. Several nicks and a lot of scratching later, he looked back up at his red-faced image in the mirror.

Well, if they are going to shoot me, he thought, at least I'll look halfway decent. The bag of water was still hot, and on impulse, even though the room was freezing cold, he stripped off his heavy flannel shirt and sweat-encrusted undershirt, leaned over the sink, poured several ounces of the water on his head, and scrubbed a bit with the small bar of soap, his short hair so oily he barely worked up a lather. Alternating between the freezing-cold water and what was left of the warm water in the bag, he rinsed most of the soap out. How he longed for a full shower, but the building was without heat, and at least he now felt semicivilized as he pulled the graying T-shirt back on and heavy flannel shirt over it. He finished up by brushing his teeth with real toothpaste, a heavenly feeling after two years of charcoal mixed with mint leaves.

Coming out of the room, he found the sergeant loitering in the hall, and thanking him, John handed the razor back, the sergeant motioning for him to keep the small bar of soap, toothpaste, and brush. He realized the sergeant had shown a subtle act of trust. Even though it was a modern disposable razor, a desperate man could still cut his wrists with it, an act unthinkable to a man like John, and the sergeant knew that.

"You almost look like an officer again," the sergeant said, offering a smile. "Don't let your stew chill down; the coffee has nothing in it. Chances are when the general finishes up with whatever it is that bit him in the butt, he'll want to talk to you."

"So you wanted me to look good and well fed before the execution, is that it, Sergeant?" John said it as a joke but saw that it had misfired.

"The general follows the rules, sir, same as me, and I believe you as well. In his eyes, you are a standing officer in the American army. There will be no summary execution, sir; you will have a proper court-martial. Yes, we executed some in Richmond and Roanoke, and that was for the same kinds of crimes you faced with that Posse group. So, sir"—and his voice now took on a harsh warning edge—"do not insult General Scales in my presence, sir, by implying he would act in any way contrary to the Articles of War."

John admired this type of loyalty and extended his hand in an offer of apology, which the sergeant, going formal, did not at first return.

"Sergeant major, I hold the general in the same respect as you do. I know I am under arrest by orders from Bluemont, not by the general's."

"I suggest you get some rest, sir," the sergeant said. He drew back and offered a salute, which John formally returned.

"Thank you for your help." He paused, continuing to hold the man's gaze. "And my sympathies regarding your family, regarding all our families, including that of General Scales."

There seemed to be a flash of easing down on the sergeant's part. He nodded and turned away while John went back to his assigned quarters.

The stew was barely lukewarm. He downed it hungrily, gulped the black coffee, unrolled the sleeping bag the sergeant had provided, and, in spite of what he figured was his condemned status, he was asleep within minutes.