"All right, Colonel Matherson, out of that sack and on your feet."

Momentarily confused, John sat up. How long he had been asleep he wasn't sure. It was dark outside, Scales standing over him holding a Coleman lantern that was hissing loudly, turned up to full illumination.

John sat up, rubbing his chin, surprised with the realization that he was freshly shaved and his mouth did not feel sticky and taste rancid.

Scales set the lantern down on the table pushed to the corner of the room, pulled a chair behind it, and placed another across from him, motioning for John to sit down. "I trust Sergeant Bentley saw to your needs and treated you well."

"A good man. You know how to pick them, sir."

"Fine. He told me you behaved okay—no tricks—and kept to the code, not revealing anything. Sorry about lacing that coffee with whiskey. In part, it was to get you to just relax, but yeah, we both know it's an old trick."

"Figured that one, of course, though it was tempting. So, when does the court-martial start, or are you really transporting me up to Bluemont for trial?"

Bob sighed, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. "You got a good eight hours of sleep, John, I've been at it nonstop since midnight, and it's just past six here."

John waited for him to continue.

"We've orders to pull back to Roanoke and before we leave to take down everything you have here."

Even as he spoke, John glanced out the window and saw that several floodlights powered by a loud generator had been set up around the perimeter where the Black Hawks and Apaches were parked, crews busily at work.

"And that is it?" John said coldly. "Why?"

"Those were my orders, and don't you dare to try to throw the line at me about 'only following orders.'"

He knew better than to do so and raise that infamous moral argument.

"The attack we were supposed to be staging for to move on Atlanta has been put on hold. We don't have the assets to do it."

"Bob, if what I see parked outside is everything you've got, there is no way in hell you're ever going to secure Atlanta."

"What I was trying to tell them all along. I actually did pass up what you suggested—of course you can understand I did not peg your name to it—that we need to sit back through the rest of the winter at least, let them tough it out a while longer, and perhaps be more tractable come spring. They weren't happy up in Bluemont with that. They tried to push it. I said it was impossible. and they just got back to me to pull back to Roanoke but to take down whatever you've built here first."

"It means they're going to do it. They're going to pop an EMP. That's the real reason they want you to give up what you've just gained."

Bob looked over at him and said nothing.

"Anything else?" John asked.

Again silence.

"I assume I go with you."

"Something like that."

"It's what I figured."

Bob went up and looked out the window as a Black Hawk's engine started to turn over, was revved up for a minute, and then shut down. A light snow was falling, and once out of the sleeping bag, John could feel that the temperature in the room had dropped by quite a few degrees.

"Among everything else, John, the fact that you are still alive and managed to dodge that hit squad has made life even more complex."

"So it was Bluemont?"

Bob simply nodded.

"You suspected they would pull it; that was what you were warning me about."

"You twisted a lot of tails up there the way you took out Fredericks and then several days later talked with the BBC about it. They had to brand you as an out-of-control terrorist." He sighed. "And yes, I had orders to summarily execute you as a renegade. I didn't dare to try to contact you directly with a warning. There is someone in your ranks that was infiltrated in—most likely by Fredericks, who I guess gave a GPS of your house and your routine. I was able to bullshit my way around that you had slipped by me and that trying to take you out would trigger a full-scale riot. So they decided to act on their own with, as used to be said, 'extreme prejudice.'"

John took all that in, and there was an inward relief at last. He believed him, at least for now.

"And a huge subtext as well, John. They hit you, everyone will believe I did it, and it will trigger a regular civil war. It was a stab at me as well." Again he sighed and looked down at the floor. "One of the final acts that is triggering what happens next."

Bob stood, went back to his bunk, opened a briefcase, and pulled out what John recognized as an aviation map. Bob spread it out on the desk, anchored one corner with the Coleman lantern, and just stared at it for a moment. "So in your service, you never heard of Site R?"

"It's some place out in Nevada, isn't it?" John asked, but then he paused as Bob placed an old-style aviation slide rule on the map. The circular part was mounted in the middle of a rectangular sheet of metal, a foot long and four inches wide, one side hashed off with lines like a ruler, which John recalled could be used to measure distances on an aviation map.

Bob was not trying to hide anything as John came around the table to look over Bob's shoulder. John could see lines already penciled in, originating in Asheville and then tracing north by northeast. He leaned closer. To an untrained eye, the map was a nearly insane jumble of circles, numbers, and symbols for airports, some surrounded with air-controlled demarcation zones, the surface color shaded to indicate ground altitudes, inverted V-like symbols of such obstacles as antennas.

He focused his attention on the penciled lines that crossed into an area bound by Washington, D.C., on one side and extending westward for a considerable distance, all of it colored over in light gray.

Bob saw where John was focusing his attention.

"All that gray area was heavily restricted to air traffic, even more so after 9/11. It is just under 350 air miles from here."

John followed the line that Bob now traced out on the map and then looked up at him in surprise.

"My birds down there have an operational radius of just under 350 miles. I'm having my people mount some extra fuel tanks to extend that. It is eating up nearly every gallon I have left. We're lifting off in a couple of hours." He looked over again at John. "You're going with me."

"To hand over to Bluemont?"

Bob glared at him. "I'm leaving some of my personnel behind for this. It will be a handpicked team that goes with me. I don't think I need to tell you when it comes to really trusting everyone who is with me in this command, I know who I can count on, who might hesitate, and some just might jump the other way. My Major Minecci is one of them, so he stays behind. I can carry ninety with me in the Black Hawks."

He continued to stare at John. "I want you to pick half a dozen of yours to go with us."

"In heaven's name, why? So they can be executed too?"

"I want them as witnesses," Bob replied sharply, obviously insulted by John's accusatory response. "I want civilian witnesses who are about to learn the truth. I want you to pick six people that you trust."

"And that means trusting you, General."

"Yes, it does. Again, I leave the decision to you." Bob turned away and looked out the window. "You can walk out of here now, and no one will stop you. I publicly arrested you to protect you, because I had orders to either give you a speedy trial and execution or take you to Bluemont for the same. I am not going to do that. I had reason to believe another unit might be sent to visit you—or, for that matter, just drop a fuel-air bomb on that beautiful valley of Montreat to finish it—and let me take the blame. Arresting you as I did bought a little extra time, but Bluemont is expecting me to deliver you alive or dead before the day is out. Knowing that, you are free to go if that is your decision, but get your people evacuated now, today."

"Or what, sir?"

"This morning, my ass is on the line as well. I'll explain it later, but things with Bluemont have never been a love match from the start, of late have gone very sour, and you, Colonel Matherson, you and your friends have finally pushed me over the edge."

"Which means?"

"Your call, John. If you don't trust me with this, and suspect I am playing some game to deliver not just you but six of your friends to Bluemont as icing on the cake, then get the hell out of here now. If you trust me I want six of your best with me within two hours. I want them as additional witnesses as to what is going to happen next. When all is said and done this day, many might not believe me, but they just might believe you and your friends."

John again looked at the map. He was not sure exactly what it was that Bob was plotting, but it was not what he expected just twelve hours ago when arrested.

"Okay, sir," was all he could say in reply. Across a lifetime he had learned that far too often when someone said "just trust me," it was a prequel to getting a knife in the back. Bob was asking him now to not just put his own life on the line, but those of some of his closest friends and comrades as well.

But there was a cold logic to it all at this moment. If they were about to be betrayed, Bob's prediction that Bluemont would take his community off the map with an air attack was undoubtedly true and his friends would die anyhow.

He again looked at the lines Bob had drawn on the map, what it implied, and he finally made the decision. If Bob's intent was to betray them, they were all dead anyhow. If not, he would have to trust his old commander's offer.

"Okay, sir, I'll give them a call, but chances are they'll refuse."

"I won't blame them if they do, but I sure would appreciate their presence this day. I can have a Bradley up there in an hour to pick them up and bring them back. I hope they sign on."

John looked at the map one more time, still not sure where this was all leading. Some pieces were beginning to fall into place, memories surfacing from his time at the War College and a stint in the Pentagon.

"I'll make the call."


John climbed into the troop compartment of the Black Hawk and looked across to the opposite row of benches. Maury, Grace, Forrest Burnett, Reverend Black, and Kevin Malady seemed relatively at ease, but Lee was already cursing under his breath while Maury helped him to adjust his safety straps. They had all been rousted out by his call to the town office. By chance, Forrest had come in from over the mountain when hearing that John had been arrested, demanding to lead a rescue operation before he was hauled away. The fact that all of them had actually trusted his voice, over a phone, to board a Bradley sent up from the airport and that it was not a trap to round up those who had served with him spoke volumes.

The door was about to be slid shut when, to John's surprise, Bob Scales climbed in, followed by Sergeant Major Bentley and a young staff sergeant toting several different radios. Behind them, extra boxes of small-caliber ammunition were loaded in, finally followed by a medic dragging aboard a couple of boxes of medical supplies.

The pilot looked back over his shoulder. "Sir, we are overweight!" he shouted.

"Just get us the hell up, burn off some gas, and we'll be fine!" Bob shouted back. "I've seen worse!"

"Your orders, sir," the pilot snapped back.

Bob looked around at John's friends and smiled. "So I suppose you're all wondering why I asked for this meeting at eight in the morning with the snow coming down."

"You're damn straight," Forrest muttered, and he finally added on, "sir."

"Time later—now just enjoy the ride, I always get a kick out of liftoff."

The eight Black Hawks and six Apaches started to taxi out from the parking area in front of the National Guard hangar, ground crews watching them, bundled up against the blasts of the rotors and the moderate snow coming in from the west.

Rather than do a straight vertical takeoff, they actually taxied down to the end of the runway, the lead Apache turning to face the wind and with wheels still on the ground built up forward speed before finally nosing up. John looked forward through the windshield of the Black Hawk to watch the show.

Forrest was leaning up out of his seat to watch as well and started to chuckle. "Remember that damn movie, the one with the bugler blowing charge? We actually used to do that in the 'Stan if a bunch of us were lifting off and going in harm's way. Got your blood up."

"Shut the hell up," Lee muttered, already clutching his vomit bag. "If I'd known this involved another flight, John, I'd have told you to screw off."

Three Apaches lifted off first and then circled high to protect the rest of the formation. The Black Hawks were next. John's pilot shouted a warning to hang on. He rolled forward at full throttle, shifted the collective, and nosed up high, Lee moaning as they lifted into the swirling snow. Gaining just a few hundred feet, they leveled off and turned to a nearly due north heading.

"It's going to be nap of the earth most of the way!" Scales shouted. "Might get bumpy at times with this weather. We're going to follow Interstate 26 over the mountains, angle east once through the pass until we pick up Interstate 81, and then straight on from there. Low and fast. Should take about two and a half hours. We've got a hot thermos of coffee for those who want it; otherwise, just settle back, try to get some sleep, and enjoy the ride."

His words were met by a heavy retching from Lee, and there were a few gags from the others until the slipstream shrieking past the helicopter whipped the stench away.

There had been a barrage of questions from John's friends as they wearily alighted from the Bradley at eight in the morning and were handed Kevlar vests, helmets, M4s, and combat packs. The situation was not helped when Lee saw that they were being shepherded to a Black Hawk, its engines already running.

Maury started to shout questions at John about what was going on and where they were headed as the chopper leveled off. John pleaded real ignorance as to what was transpiring, and all looked to Bob, who remained mum. The group settled into sullen silence as they raced north, interrupted only by Lee's pathetic heaves. The medic finally plastered an antinausea patch behind his ear and give him a couple of pills to swallow, and just as they were clearing the top of the I-26 pass at the Tennessee border, Lee finally settled down thanks to the medication and drifted off to sleep.

John sat lost in silent contemplation. He was putting one hell of a lot of trust in Bob at this moment, trusting not just for himself but for the lives of his closest friends on the line as well. The penciled lines on the map, whatever they meant, could have been just an elaborate ruse to lull him into belief and ultimately to lure in his best combat leaders and closest friends, one of them the only man in their whole community who could, in a clumsy way, actually fly a Black Hawk. For Bob to personally deliver them to his leaders in Bluemont, the murderers of their precious Fredericks, would be quite the coup.

He looked over at Bob, who, like any old hand with likely thousands of hours in Black Hawks, had settled into his bucket seat, stretched out his feet, lowered his head, and simply dozed off. There was precious little to see out of the frost-and snow-covered side windows. Up front, the view was just a blur of snow and glimpses of a deadly still interstate highway as the chopper banked to a northeasterly heading with Interstate 81 on their left. John caught a glimpse of what looked like an abandoned airport, its snow-covered runway running parallel to the interstate. John had a flash of memory; it might have been Mountain Empire Airport. He recalled it as a friendly place when several years back he was up with a friend in an Ercoupe, and they landed to get gas and some Coke and crackers. One of the mechanics noted that a cowling flap had cracked loose on the antique plane. It looked to John that the bent-back metal from the cowling would mean they would be stuck for hours. The mechanic simply bolted it back in place and literally charged them just a dollar and a half for the bolt.

He hoped that whoever had helped them had survived and that he was perhaps peering out with envy at the eight Black Hawks and six Apaches racing by, just barely above the pavement.

Time stretched out, John nodding off as well after the tension of the last few days. As he was stirring awake, he saw Grace and Kevin sharing a joke and laughing, leaning in close against each other. The way they looked at each other, he wondered if something was developing between the two. If so, good; they'd make a fine match.

John dozed off again, to be awakened by Bob talking to the pilot and then looking back to John.

"We just lost one of our Apaches. Turbine overheating. They're landing on the highway, see if they figure it out, but we're pushing on."

"Where are we?" John asked.

"Near Winchester, Virginia. It really is nap of the earth now, so you'd all better hang on for this last part."

Winchester?

If so, John knew that Bluemont was just fifteen or so miles to the east, dug into the slope of the Blue Ridge Mountains, which too many mistakenly called the Shenandoahs. If they continued on the current heading, it really did mean Bob was not heading there after all.

"How far to wherever it is we are going?" John asked.

"Fifteen minutes by air at most, but if Robert E. Lee was leading us as infantry," he said, smiling, "it'd be about two days' forced march."

It took a minute to decipher that, and John smiled. His last remaining doubts had just been set aside.

The helicopter flared fifteen minutes later as Bob predicted, nose high, coming in to land, snow swirling up around it, nearly blinding the view. John looked out eagerly. He recognized the terrain as if it were darn near his own hometown. The chopper, nose into the wind, thumped down a bit hard, bounced, and then finally settled. Bob, unstrapped from his safety harness, was already up. He hunched over, went to the side door, slid it open, and then leaped out. Typical Bob, John thought. First one in with boots on the ground. John eagerly followed him. Bob shaded his eyes against the rotor blasts as one helicopter after another settled down along the road, doors sliding open, troops leaping out with weapons raised.

John looked over at Bob. "Why land here?" he shouted.

Bob grinned at him. "Because I miss the place."

John could only shake his head in wonder.

Bob called over one of his captains and shouted some orders. The captain nodded and turned to issue a command, and nearly all the troops dismounted, spreading out to form a defensive perimeter—except for one squad, two of the men toting sniper rifles, another what looked to be a ground-to-air missile, and two others backpacking heavy loads that John could not identify.

"Care to come along?" Bob shouted to John.

"You're damn straight I'm coming along. Mind if my friends join in?"

Bob looked back at the Black Hawk they had been on, John's people tentatively climbing out, all of them with looks of confusion, Lee obviously unhappy until he looked around, eyes going wide before he ran a dozen yards forward to look up at a road sign.

"My God!" Lee cried. "Taneytown Road and Wheatfield Road! You have got to be kidding me!"

"No joke," Bob replied. "Care to follow me?"

"You're damn straight, sir!" Lee shouted, and it was he who eagerly broke the trail with his towering bulk, heading up the Wheatfield Road, plowing through the snow, which at places was drifted nearly two feet deep, clearing the way. Behind him, the two snipers—both men nearly as big as Lee—followed, kicking snow aside, obviously laboring to clear a path for General Scales, who, though obviously enthusiastic and eager to go, nevertheless was a man well into his sixties, and after five minutes of uphill ascent, it was apparent the hike was beginning to take its toll.

They reached the intersection with Sykes Avenue, where Lee had paused, looking back almost like an eager child ready to push on whether the adults were following or not. Bob nodded and pointed south, a steep ascent even on days when the road and hiking path beside it were cleared of snow. John paused at the intersection, waiting for General Scales to come up, the man bending double for a moment to catch his breath. While waiting for him to continue, John took in the view, limited for a moment as a snow squall swirled around them and then opening back up again. It truly did take his breath away, and he felt a surge of emotion.

"Let's go," Bob announced between hard gasps for air.

"Maybe wait a few minutes, sir, catch your breath," John offered.

"Go to hell, Matherson. I can still hack it," the general replied. "General Warren and a lot of others did it on the run with full gear. Then there was that artillery battery manhandling their guns up this slope as well."

"And they were in their teens and twenties," John replied cautiously.

Bob smiled at him and then without another word pushed forward. John noticed that the two snipers had held back a bit and were obviously working hard to tramp down the snow to form a path, as was Sergeant Major Bentley, who came along, invited or not—he had to be by his general's side. None spoke to the general or dared to offer a hand, but it was obvious they were keeping a sharp eye on him as they climbed the last few hundred yards up the steep slope.

John, walking by his side, found even he was breathing hard, a memory flooding back of when he was a boy and had actually run up this hill in his eagerness to reach the crest.

And indeed there was the crest just ahead, crowned by an iconic statue.

Bob was breathing so hard it started to worry John as they came nearly to the crest and turned off on to a walking path that wove its way through the heavy boulders.

Lee was already up atop one of the boulders, shading his eyes against the wind, looking west. "Down there, straight down there, one of my great-great-grandfathers came in with Hood's division." Then he swung his arm to the northwest. "Another one of my great-great-granddads was in the thick of it up there by the Seminary on the first day."

Lee's voice thickened. "My God, on the third day, he went in with Pettigrew and lost his arm. Oh my God." He turned away and tears flowed. "Why did you bring us here?" Lee asked of Bob, who smiled.

John was brimming with the same question, having recognized where they were within seconds of touching down. They had landed behind Little Round Top on the battlefield of Gettysburg.

Bob motioned for all to gather round, unable to speak for a moment, still breathing hard, coughing and spitting. "It sucks to get old, gentlemen. My first time here, I was twelve and ran my parents into the ground."

John was smiling and nodding as his mentor spoke.

"Colonel Matherson and I must have hiked—or should I admit driven it—a dozen or more times together for staff rides while we were at the War College up in Carlisle, which is only thirty or so miles off that way." He pointed to the north.

"I'm not getting it, sir," Kevin Malady said. "I've always wanted to visit this place, but why now?"

Bob turned and pointed out toward the west. "Site R is over there," he announced. "That is why we are here, gentlemen."

"Site R?" Lee asked, but it all came to John in a stunning rush of realization.

When Linda had first mentioned it, that they were monitoring some personal traffic back and forth from a Site R, it had not registered with John since he had assumed it was some government site out west. It wasn't until he saw the lines drawn on Bob's map that it finally had clicked. It explained why Bob had put a full clampdown on everyone in his command as to their destination and why he had made some obvious choices to leave certain personnel behind, while letting it appear he was personally delivering John to Bluemont and asking some of John's team to come along as well. To throw off anyone within his own command who might squeal to Bluemont after he lifted off, the game of luring in some of John's top people to be handed over as well hopefully worked.

Bluemont was far behind them now, and Gettysburg sixty miles farther on—as Bob adroitly put it, a few days' march away for Robert E. Lee. Site R was not much more than six miles away from where they now stood and clearly visible from Gettysburg's Little Round Top.

"Site R was built back in the early 1950s," Bob began, and John smiled. It was almost like the start of one of his lectures delivered at the War College.

"It was built as the fallback position for the Pentagon and civilian government in case of nuclear war. At the time it was built, the thinking was that the commies"—he paused with an ironic smile—"excuse me, I mean our good friends the Russians, if they launched an attack, it would come in with bombers, and we'd have six to eight hours' advance warning. So the military decided they needed a bunker, a damn big bunker to house upward of twenty-five thousand personnel. It had to be far enough away from D.C. not to be caught in the blast radius of a twenty-megaton warhead and the resulting fallout, but close enough that it could be reached by ground within two hours, by air within twenty minutes.

"Thus Site R. That's why a modern four-lane highway was built from D.C. to Frederick, Maryland, back in the 1950s. Convenient as well that, with Eisenhower as president, it was damn near in his backyard with his farm just down there on the other side of Seminary Ridge. Whenever things were looking hairy, Ike could always just go to his farm for a while without triggering a panic and be just a few minutes away from the biggest shelter in the country. Same with Camp David less than five minutes' air time away from here."

As he spoke, almost like a tour guide, he pointed to the west, but for the moment the snow squalls obscured the view.

"All the times I was visiting here, I never knew about it," Lee offered.

"Well, it was kind of a secret that wasn't a secret. Impossible to hide something like that, not like some of the sites out west. It's just we never talked about it, even with officers getting trained up at Carlisle just thirty miles from here.

"Anyhow, work crews that had been drilling all the tunnels for the Pennsylvania Turnpike, coal miners from the fields north of here, a couple of thousand of them were brought in and hollowed out an entire mountain. I've been in it. You go down half a mile deep, a regular three-lane highway, and come out into subterranean caverns that just seem to go on forever. They put up hundreds of recycled World War II barracks, officers' quarters, rather nice private trailers for high-rank civilians, mess halls, a giant cistern fed by artesian wells, storage areas, years' worth of survival food, and a meeting room that looks like it came straight out of that movie Dr. Strangelove. It's something like a time capsule down there actually. I was part of an emergency evacuation drill back when the Cold War was still on but winding down. Of course we all thought it absurd. It wouldn't be bombers hitting us anymore. It would be sub-launched ballistic missiles from off the coast, launch to impact on D.C., little more than five minutes."

He laughed sadly, shaking his head.

"During that surprise drill, just herding us onto the buses took an hour before we were even out of the parking lot. Your typical snafu. Kind of sad and creepy actually how we laughed about it on the drive up here. At least it was an overnight away from the Pentagon."

"When was it still operational?" Maury asked.

"I think that exercise we were in proved how futile it all was. If the shit hit the fan without warning, we were all toast, so why sweat it? Got mothballed back when everyone was told the Cold War was over. Rumor is it was reactivated and the vice president was parked in there for a while immediately after 9/11. But since then?"

He sighed and shrugged. "I know this. On the Day, there was no mention of it whatsoever to anyone in my wing of the Pentagon."

He turned to look back to the west and walked over to where the two soldiers who had been lugging heavy backpacks had already shucked off their loads and were pulling them open.

"But in a few minutes, we'll find out the real truth of it all."

Bob leaned over, pointed to the west, both of the men nodding, and as John watched, they began to unfold and open up a couple of portable dishes and several other antennas. They then pulled out of their packs a couple of high-grade military laptops and turned them on while the other trooper, squatting down, secured the dishes, aimed them west, and began to slowly adjust them while listening to directions from his companion with the computers hooked into the antenna arrays. Bob walked away and came back to the rest of the group.

"I thought about Site R off and on after the Day, even asked about it. All I ever got back from the government in Bluemont was blank stares and what I sensed were bullshit answers. The so-called reconstituted government at Bluemont was hunkered down in the FEMA fallback position and was told that was it. I just let it go since it was obviously a 'don't ask and we won't tell' type of issue. But there were whispered rumors. And then yesterday, your friend Linda Franklin handed me some data." He looked off to the west. "And if confirmed, my friends, the shit is about to hit the fan big-time."

He walked over to where his eavesdropping team members were still at work. One of them looked up at the general.

"A few more minutes, sir."

Bob, obviously agitated, turned back to John and his friends. "Bluemont was a more recently constructed site, actually the headquarters not for the military in the event of a catastrophic attack but for a civilian agency, FEMA. Not as big a facility by a long shot—could house four or five hundred at most—but a lot more up to date. Half the distance as well to D.C. for evacuation. Rumor was it was the parking place for whenever there was a ceremonial gathering in D.C.; a member of the cabinet, a representative from each House, and some administrators were sent there just in case something really bad happened. So Bluemont seemed the logical place for those that were able to be extracted out after the attack to set up the government and start over.

"Also"—he paused for a moment and then shrugged as if the topic were no longer a secret—"there were rumors that some personnel were already up in Bluemont on the day we were attacked, taking part in some sort of drill. Those allegedly lucky ones thus became the core of the reconstituted government. At least that is how I saw it all until Linda tossed those papers in my lap last night with e-mails leaking back and forth between Bluemont and Site R."

His features reddened slightly. "Some juicy tidbits, for this old guy, if not for how deadly it all is, I could almost laugh with how pathetic that guy in Bluemont sounded—what did they call it?—sexting or something like that to a woman in Site R?"

He shook his head. "So now we are here," Bob said, looking back to the west. "The snow's clearing for a moment. Go ahead and take a look. It's just to the left of that ski slope. That's Site R, just over there; you can see the antenna array atop the mountain."

John squinted and looked to where Bob was pointing, and sure enough, he could see the antennas jutting up from atop a ridgeline as a snow squall drifted clear for a moment.

"Wouldn't those antennas have fried off on the Day?" Maury asked.

"Yes, but for a place like that, they have backups and more backups stored inside. Remember it was built to come through a nuclear war. If that place is somehow operational, they got the replacements up. So that is why I decided we should park here—eavesdrop in the best way possible, with our gear literally aimed straight at them from only six miles away. I knew this to be as good a spot as any to do so and figured we'd soak up a little history as well while my tech boys listen in. Feel free to wander around, but don't go out into the open. I doubt anyone picked us up flying in twenty feet off the road for the last fifty miles, but one can never be positive, especially when coming up on a place like this. So now we sit back, wait for my team to get up and running, and see if this is a wild-goose chase or not."

"And if it is a wild-goose chase?" Kevin Malady asked, looking over at Bob suspiciously.

Bob sighed. "Let's just hope this is the final straw," he said coldly, his tension obvious to all.

"Let's take a look around," John announced, working to ease that tension down.

If this was indeed a wild-goose chase, what would his friend do next? For that matter, John now wondered, what would he do with whatever it was he was about to find?

John felt it best to step back for a few minutes. He motioned for his friends to follow and set off along the crest of the hill. He cautioned all to remain inside the wood line, while pointing out the statue of General Gouverneur Warren, hero of the Battle of Gettysburg, his bronze figure forever gazing toward where the Confederate attack had come in.

Near Warren's iconic statue, the gaudy and imposing two-story-high mini-castle dedicated as a monument to a New York regiment towered above them, which John suggested they not climb up. He noticed that Bob was following along.

Bob's features were drawn, pale in spite of the icy blasts of wind whipping about the hilltop. What is he contemplating next? John wondered.

"Wish we had time to really visit this place," Bob said. "Maybe when better times come again, we will do so."

In the silence of a winter morning, the landscape clad in snow, visibility at times dropping as another squall came in like powder smoke obscuring this field of action, John felt a strong profound connection with this land and its history. With all that had happened, would history eventually forget this place, its location returning to primordial forest such as what greeted the first settlers a hundred years before the battle? It was a sobering thought that a day might come when their descendants a score, maybe even a hundred generations hence might walk this ground, look at the broken fragments of long-gone monuments, and ask, "What happened here?"

Already, the first signs of neglect were showing. The once heavily trodden pathways were beginning to be reclaimed by the forest. Looters and vandals had already defaced many of the monuments, stealing the bronze plaques emblazoned with the names of the gallant for their metal. Even a couple of the artillery barrels had been stolen from their cast-iron gun carriages.

The path led down the slope to a simple granite monument tucked into the southwest slope of the hill. John, with his friend Bob by his side, approached it reverently. It was the monument for the Twentieth Maine, which had held the extreme left flank of the Union army on that grim, terrible day against odds as high as six to one. Even Lee Robinson, whose ancestors had assaulted this hill, stood in reverent silence as John spoke a few words about what this place meant to him, how the commander of that regiment, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, when returning years later to this now-quiet glen declared that where great deeds are accomplished, greatness lingers and that this was indeed the vision place of souls.

All stood silent, Bob then offering that they pray together for the repose of the souls of all who fell here, both North and South, which they did, Lee openly in tears.

As the group turned to start back up the slope, General Scales interrupted their departure.

"It might be legend, it might be true," he began, struggling to keep control over his voice. "Some claim that when the few hundred men of Maine who were sent to hold this position started to dig in, piling up rocks to form a low wall to huddle against and hearing a tidal wave of thousands screaming the rebel yell heading their way, Colonel Chamberlain stepped forward to address his men. Back then, officers actually did that kind of thing.

"Legend is that he cried out, 'Men of Maine,' and then went on to proclaim that perhaps only once in a century were so few men gifted to hold such responsibility, that whether their Republic lived or died now rested in their hands and their hands alone and let each man embrace that duty, if need be with his life.

"Maybe that is us this day," Bob said. "The Republic might rest in our hands before this day is out."

With that, he turned and started back up to the crest, shoulders braced back, walking with a purposeful stride. John followed in his wake, sensing that his friend had reached a profound decision.

As they reached the crest of the hill, Sergeant Major Bentley, who had stayed behind, came racing down to meet the group.

"My God, General, you got to see this!"

Bob moved ahead swiftly, and this time Bentley did not hesitate to put his arm around his respected commander and help him up the slope.

John fell in behind them as they reached the crest. The two snipers were hunkered down behind the boulders, and the antenna arrays had been covered with gauzy white camouflage netting, one of the snipers forcefully suggesting that the rest of the group stay low.

"We monitored a Black Hawk taking off from there not ten minutes ago," Bentley announced. "It was a tense moment, feared it might be coming over this way to check us out. But it turned southeast, and from the chatter we picked up, it was bound for Bluemont."

"Okay, and…?" Bob asked.

"My God, sir, that place is bursting with chatter, uplinking to a sat, take a look!"

Bob went over to where his two surveillance people were hunched over their laptops, capturing data. One of the surveillance team looked up at Bob, but he wasn't grinning, and there was a chilling, icy look of rage in his eyes and clarity in his tone of voice.

"Sir, those bastards—" He paused for a moment. "Those people over there, the flow is near constant. The stuff going up, not much and highly encrypted, but we can break some of it down. It is the other traffic, though. Personal notes to people back at Bluemont. Personal! One of them complaining that they're sick of the frigging rations!"

The young man looked down at the ground and slammed his fist next to the laptop he was monitoring. "They're complaining about the food they're stuffing themselves with while I found out my father was killed trying to protect our family dog from being taken for food, and my mother was…" His voice trailed off into tears of rage.

Bob squatted down by his side, rubbing the back of the young man's neck, but as he did so he looked at the data scrolling down on the screen, eavesdropping on transmissions from Site R but six miles away. He remained thus for long minutes, at one point picking up the laptop and asking the other technician how to freeze the screen so he could reread something. As he did, his features reddened, and he put the laptop down and stood up.

"Okay, we've got enough here," he snapped sharply. "I want you two to stay here and keep monitoring. Capture everything you can."

He then looked back at the two who were the security detail and ordered them to stay as well, along with one to follow him back to the choppers and pull out some survival gear and rations and then come back.

He now looked at John and the others. "Let's go," he snarled.

"To where?"

Bob pointed across the fields of Gettysburg to the ridgeline beyond. "We're going to take that damn hill."


A thunder echoed in the valley behind Little Round Top as the five Apaches and eight Black Hawks started to rev up. General Scales had gathered his men around once back down from the hilltop and briefed all on what was to be done. Standing with his friends, it struck John just how concisely the man had thought out a tactical plan within a matter of minutes. He outlined the reasons for his decision first and offered that if any did not want to participate, they were free to stay behind. Upon hearing what the general had to say, every man and woman volunteered, all filled with a deep anger. Next he laid out the tactical plan for the assault to the pilots and troops and, having caught his breath after the grueling hike in the snow, did so with a calm radiance and voice of authority.

As he broke word to his command of exactly what they were facing and that they were going straight in, John could see the entire demeanor of the eighty troops, the pilots, and copilots shift within seconds to determination and bitter rage. Many of them cursed foully as they gathered round their choppers and geared up for a flight into what might turn into a hot zone, zipping up Kevlar jackets and loading up with extra ammunition from the boxes hauled in on the helicopter John had ridden in. The medics were tearing open the box of supplies carried on John's chopper, each of them shouldering several fully loaded emergency bags, checking to make sure they had medic armbands on both arms. Forrest quietly whispered to John that in Afghanistan the medics took those off since the bastards they were fighting would single out medics for special treatment.

Once loaded up, Bob circled to each team, bowed his head, and led them in a short prayer before helping them to load in. Bob chose to go in with the lead copter, telling the pilot for the one John was on to hang back and be the last one to come in once the LZ was cleared.

"This is why I wanted you and your friends with us!" Bob shouted. "If we find what I suspect is over there, I want civilian witnesses. You might not know it, John, but your reputation extends beyond just Black Mountain, Montreat, and Asheville. So if things get hot, you are to stay back and stay alive. You got that?"

Bob led this last group in a short prayer with heads bowed, and he shook hands. He told Forrest and Malady—who was a marine vet—to make sure everyone's gear was squared away and then stomped off to the lead chopper.

"Let's double-check each other's equipment and get ready for some shit!" Forrest shouted enthusiastically, and John could see that in a perverse way, PTSD was forgotten for the moment; he was back in his old element and enjoying it.

As each climbed into the chopper, Forrest and Malady checked their Kevlar jackets and helmet straps, Forrest giving John an admonishing look as he zipped up John's jacket and then helped him up while Kevin double-checked that each was properly strapped into their safety harness.

"It could be hot; we might get hit. If we do and have to ditch in, follow what I do!" Kevin shouted.

Their pilot looked back over his shoulder, holding up one hand in a thumbs-up gesture, which all returned.

"Bugler, sound charge!" Forrest shouted as they lifted off, this time rising nearly vertically, the Black Hawks spacing out into line astern with Bob in the lead Black Hawk, while two Apaches fanned out on to either flank, the other three moving ahead of the column.

John looked over at Lee, who was sitting next to him, his gaze fixed forward, and for once he did not look nauseous.

They swung a bit to the north, following the Wheatfield Road rather than cresting up over Little Round Top. Lee, wide-eyed, rattled over the place-names—Wheatfield, the Peach Orchard, Trostle Farm—his voice filled with emotion. John recalled years ago at the town's Civil War roundtable meeting when Lee had nervously presented a talk on his family's role in the war, how two of his ancestors fought in this battle, one losing an arm. There were tears in his eyes as he leaned up to take in the view.

"If only we had half a dozen of these at that battle, good God, how it would have changed things."

"Suppose we had them instead," John quipped back with a smile.

The choppers swept low over the snow-covered battlefield, hugging the earth, climbing up the gentle slope of Seminary Ridge, pitching up slightly to just barely clear the trees. Ahead, Sachs Covered Bridge could be seen, beyond that the open fields of the Eisenhower Farm, and then directly ahead … Site R, the ridgetop bristling with antennas.

Lee took a deep breath and looked across at Forrest, who was sitting silently, eyes half-closed.

"How bad is it going to be?" Lee shouted.

"Don't know. Maybe just some garrison types who will pee themselves and run as we come in. Or special-ops types with orders to shoot to kill anyone who comes close and tear us apart as we come in. You'll know in about three minutes."

"Now I know how my granddaddies felt." Lee sighed, his features set and grim. He started to whisper, and John caught bits of the Ninety-First Psalm, what many called the soldier's psalm, "Thou shall not be afraid for the terror by night; nor the arrow that flieth by day. Nor the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor the destruction that wasteth by noonday…"

"Minute out!" the pilot shouted. "Doesn't look hot; we circle while the others touch down first."

John strained up to try to catch a glimpse. The mountain filled the windscreen before them, the pilot pitching up slightly to clear space beneath him for the Apaches that were already skimming along the face of the ridgeline. There was a paved runway at the base of the ridgeline, John noting that it had been cleared of snow. Between the airfield and the ridge, there were a half a dozen helo pads, cleared and marked as well. A Black Hawk rested on one of the pads.

So far, no shots were fired. The Apaches zoomed back and forth along the face of the mountain as the chopper with Bob in it skimmed in low, flared up, and touched down on one of the pads. Bob was the first one out before it had even settled down, followed by troopers with weapons raised.

Another came in, and then a third while a couple of hundred feet up, the Black Hawk that John was in turned in sharp sixty-degree banks, circling about. Lee, absolutely wired up, for once did not complain while Forrest, chuckling softly, hung on to his safety harness with one hand, M4 strapped across his chest.

"Shit, we've got incoming!" the pilot shouted, and he snapped the Black Hawk over into an opposite turn. For a few seconds, it looked to John as if he was about to go straight into the mountain before pulling around.

John caught a glimpse down and saw that a firefight was opening up, tracers arcing back and forth between where the Black Hawks were landing and bunkers set to either side of what appeared to be a massive steel door at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. What appeared to be orange tennis balls snapped past the Black Hawk's windshield, the pilot cursing and going into sharp spiraling evasive turns.

"I'm putting us down before we get hit up here!" the pilot shouted, and he nosed nearly straight down. The helicopter pads were now all occupied by the Black Hawks, John's pilot opting for an access road, plowed as well, that circled round the pads. He flared up sharply, the medic that was flying with them reaching up to slide a side door open. Even before touching down, he was shouting for them to get out, stay low, and hit the ground.

Forrest was the first up and in spite of his old war injuries was out the door. He ran half a dozen feet and flung himself to the ground, M4 up and ready to engage.

John had not done anything like this in more than twenty years, but training did kick in, as it did for Malady and even Maury, who leaped out and sprawled into the snow alongside Forrest. John looked back and saw Lee standing in the open doorway, Grace behind him.

"Lee, Grace, get out!" John shouted, and at that instant, a burst of shots laced down the side of the helicopter, shattering its forward windshield, hitting the pilot, and then stitching across Lee. He collapsed back into the Black Hawk, the long burst raking down the length of the helicopter, tearing across the turbine housings, and from there into the tail rotor, which disintegrated into deadly shards arcing out in every direction.

Smoke billowed out between the still-rotating rotor blades. John got to his feet and ran back even as the medic was grabbing hold of Lee, pulling him feet first out of the crippled bird. There was blood covering Grace's face, but she was up, helping to push Lee out, John grabbing hold of his friend's legs and pulling him to safety.

His friend was wide-eyed and gasping. It looked as if his vest had taken a shot, and for a few seconds, John thought he had just been stunned by the blow, turning to Grace and shouting at her if she was wounded.

"I don't think I'm hit!" she cried. He then looked back at Lee, who at that instant started to cough up blood.

The medic frantically tore the Kevlar jacket open, cursing. There was an entry wound that had punched through his jacket just above his heart. The medic rolled Lee up onto his side, slipped his hand down the back, and came up with a bloody hand.

"Damn it!" the medic cried, and he looked at Grace, who had been standing behind Lee in the helicopter, her face splattered with blood.

"You hit?"

"No, not sure … no."

"Then put pressure on Lee's wound!" the medic shouted, pushing down hard with his own hands first and then grabbing Grace's hand and guiding her to take over. He looked back to the front of the chopper. The pilot was staggering out, arm drenched with blood, copilot running around the front of the Black Hawk to help him get clear. The medic returned his focus to Lee.

John knelt beside Lee, not sure what to do other than hold his old friend's hand. The medic was cutting through Lee's parka and shirt underneath, stabbing the exposed arm with a syrette of morphine, and seconds later the look of panic in Lee's eyes cleared a bit while the medic worked frantically to set up a bag of plasma.

"What's his name?" the medic cried, looking over at John.

"Lee Robinson."

The medic leaned down close to Lee's face. "Lee, you are going to make it, but you've got to stay with me. I've got to keep you breathing, I'm going to work a breathing and suction tube down you; don't panic. You got that? Stay with me. I'm going to get you through this!"

Lee looked around wide-eyed, gaze resting on John. "Gettysburg. Good place to die, my friend."

"You're not dying, Lee!" John cried.

Lee coughed up more blood. "Thought we'd share being grandfathers together. Tell them I love them."

He started to convulse. The medic gave up on the breathing tube for a moment, pulling Grace's bloody hands aside and actually slipping a couple of fingers into the entry wound.

"Jesus God," the medic whispered softly, and then he leaned back, reached into the tote bag dangling from his shoulder, pulled it open, and drew out an emergency surgical pack.

"I've got to try to go in," the medic announced, "stop the bleeding there."

He unrolled the pack beside Lee and then drew out another morphine syrette and stuck it into Lee's arm.

John looked at him, questioning this decision.

"I've got to all but knock him out," the medic snapped before John could even ask.

All this time, gunfire was snapping around them, several shots stitching up the snow within feet of where the medic was working. He looked back over his shoulder. "Damn you, you sons of bitches, can't you see I'm a damn medic?" he cried.

Lee was still frothing up blood. His lungs were clogging with aspirated blood, the medic whispering for Grace to cover her friend's eyes and keep reassuring him.

She began to sob as she leaned over him and started to whisper calming words that he would make it.

Another convulsion tore through Lee's body, blood spraying up out of his mouth in a torrent, and then he just started to relax.

The medic leaned back and said nothing, lowering his head.

Lee looked up at John and actually appeared to smile. "Gettysburg. Bury me here, John." And then he was gone.

John could only kneel beside his friend of so many years, holding his hand, finger resting on his pulse, feeling the last faint beat, and he was gone. All he could do was kneel over, embrace his friend … and cry.

"Matherson!"

He looked up. It was Sergeant Major Bentley gesturing for him to come forward.

John ignored him for the moment, looking back to the medic.

"It was .50 caliber most likely. Kevlar won't stop that. Felt like his aorta was nicked, pulmonary arteries shot up as well." He stared at Lee for a moment and then turned to look at the pilot, who was crouched down next to him, blood pouring down his arm.

"Let's take care of that," the medic said, and he turned away as if Lee had never existed.

"Damn it, Matherson, on me!" Again it was Bentley. John forced himself to stand up and then paused, leaned back over, and closed his friend's eyes. Grace was kneeling by the body, crying.

"Grace, stay here with the medic. You can help him."

"I'm going with you," she snapped sharply.

"Damn it, I'm not losing you too, Grace. Now stay here with the medic. He needs you more than I do."

"Stay here, Grace; I need you," the medic ordered even as he tore away the sleeve of the wounded pilot to reveal arterial blood pulsing out.

"Matherson, damn it, the general wants you. Move it!"

John looked back to where Bentley was standing out in the open, arms on hips, as if oblivious to the firefight that was going on.

John spared one last glance for his fallen friend, stifled back his emotions, and crouching low started toward Bentley.

Maury, Forrest, and Malady, who had been deployed forward, got up to join him.

"Lee?" Maury asked.

"Gone," was all he could choke out.

A loud tearing sound, almost like that of a bedsheet being ripped in half, echoed against the face of the ridge. One of the Apaches, angled down, was at a hover fifty feet up, pouring in a stream of 30mm shells across the face of the huge steel doors, then turning its fire into a bunker on one flank for several seconds, pivoting, delivering the same deadly blow to the second bunker on the other side of the door. Its tracer rounds made its efforts look like a garden hose of liquid fire pouring down from an angry heaven. A second Apache was swinging back and forth, sweeping the ground above the door with the same river of death. There was a secondary explosion from what must have been a concealed bunker positioned partway up the steep slope.

John came up to Bentley, who without comment turned, set off at a slow jog, and led them to where General Scales was down on one knee, snapping out commands into a handheld radio.

"That's it, you've torn the shit out of them!" he cried. "We take one more shot. Don't wait for me. Cut loose again!"

The two Apaches broke away from their attacks, turned, and with rotors thumping loudly pivoted and climbed up.

Bob stood, went over to a Black Hawk, and held up his hand, and the pilot offered him a microphone linked to a loudspeaker strapped to the helicopter.

"That's it!" Bob shouted. "We didn't want a fight. You opened fire first. You saw what you got. Lay down your arms, come out hands over your heads, and I promise safe surrender. You've got thirty seconds, or some Hellfires will come in next."

The bunker to the left flank of the steel door let go with a secondary explosion, ammunition within lighting off like a long string of firecrackers, men around Bob ducking. He remained standing.

"Fifteen seconds or you'll really get a taste of hell."

Three men came staggering out of the second bunker, hands up, one of them obviously burned, smoke swirling up from his scorched uniform.

"Medic forward!" Bob shouted. "Surrender; we'll take care of the wounded. This is General Bob Scales, Eastern Command. I am giving you a direct order that will save your lives. Now give it up."

One of Bob's medics raced forward and actually knocked the man in the smoldering uniform down, rolling him back and forth in the snow and shouting for one of the other surrendering men to help him. The sight of this finally broke the standoff at last.

More men and women began to emerge from concealment, many of them wounded.

"That's it! Keep coming forward!" Bob shouted. "All medics up front and center. Treatment center on me. Move it!"

The Apaches continued to circle overhead like birds of prey eager to strike. Looking up, Bob picked the transmission mike up, clicked it, and passed the order for them to climb a bit higher, hover, and hold fire unless directly ordered to attack.

He let the mike drop, grimly surveying those coming in, and then looked over at John. "Thank God you're okay," he said. "I looked back when your bird was hit; I thought it was you in the doorway."

"It was my friend Lee," John replied, still struggling with emotion.

Bob looked at him questioningly.

"He's dead."

Muttering a curse, Bob turned away. "Damn them, damn them. There was no need for this. I had to come in sharp and fast, not just go up to the gate, knock politely, and ask to please come in. But it didn't have to be this way. Damn fools should have seen we had the firepower edge."

Several dozen surrendering were now coming forward, the majority injured in some way. A captain, dragging a wounded leg, approached Bob and stopped half a dozen feet away, and just glared at him. "Who the hell are you?" the captain snapped.

"First off, I am your superior officer, and you will salute before addressing me," Bob snapped.

The captain glared at him and those around him, attention focusing on John and his people for a moment, who, other than their flak jackets and helmets, were decidedly unmilitary.

"And this rabble?"

Sergeant Bentley stepped forward and got within inches of the captain's face. "You will address the general as sir, you son of a bitch, and salute a superior officer. Now close your damn yap and answer when spoken to."

The captain began to reply, and Bentley leaned in almost nose-to-nose, exactly like a professional DI intimidating a jerk of a recruit who, if behind the barracks and out of sight, would get his butt kicked.

The captain relented, stepping backward a few paces and to one side, turned his focus toward the general, and finally offered a salute.

"Captain Dean Hanson, United States Air Force."

Bob barely returned the salute. "Your unit?"

"223rd Security Battalion."

"Oh, Christ, air force security," one of the men behind Bob growled. "No wonder."

Bob did not look back at whoever spoke out with disdain. "Why did you fire on us, Captain?" Bob snapped.

"Sir, our standing orders are anyone enters this compound, we shoot first and ask questions later."

Bob looked around at the carnage. Lee was not the only casualty on their side. Several men near Bob were down. Dead and wounded were being carried in where one of the medics was shouting that he was setting up a clearing area, literally next to the command Black Hawk. The ship John was in was beginning to burn, and no one was bothering to try to suppress it.

"Now listen to my orders," Bob snapped at the captain. "That steel door over there, open it now."

The captain stiffened and shook his head. "My name is Captain Dean Hanson, United States Air Force, serial number—"

Bob stepped closer. "Cut the bullshit, Captain. Open the damn door."

"Sir, what you are ordering is in direct contradiction to my orders."

"From where?"

"Sir, I do not have to answer that question."

"Bluemont?" Bob shouted and John saw a flicker in the captain's eyes, and he knew Bob saw it as well.

Bob shoved past the captain and strode the hundred yards to the door, ducking down for a moment as more munitions from one of the bunkers ignited like a Fourth of July display. A dozen of Bob's troopers and John and his friends fell in behind him. As they approached the vast steel door, they could see it looked almost like a safe, its face pockmarked from the strafing runs by the Apaches that still circled overhead.

"Captain, open that door!" Bob said, looking back at Hanson, whom Bentley was shoving along behind them.

"I can't."

'What do you mean you can't?"

"The control mechanism was inside the bunker you just destroyed." There was an edge of triumphant sarcasm to his voice.

John looked at the captain with unconcealed hatred. In a world of starvation, those like Hanson stood out. He was full fleshed, actually overweight, face round and florid, obviously spending more time sitting in a comfortable office, three good meals a day, and not out scrounging for enough calories to struggle through one more day.

"Bullshit," Bob snapped. "There's always a backup. Something like this, no idiot built it with only one way to open the door. You've got a backup."

"My name is Captain Dean Hanson—"

The captain's words were cut short by a scream of panic as he ducked down, falling to his knees, Sergeant Bentley, with an old-style 1911 .45 semiauto standing over him, having discharged the weapon only inches from his head.

"Next one will be to the head in thirty seconds if you don't answer the general," Bentley said.

The captain looked up at Bentley, obviously terrified, and then looked to Bob.

And then there was actually a bit of a smile. "Screw you. I know you. You'd never execute one of your own," he snapped, but his voice was quavering.

Bob glared at him, all around them silent. John took it all in and knew the captain was right. Bob was trying to bluff him, and the captain knew it. Though they had come all this way, that steel barrier blocked them from the answer they sought.

There was only one way out, John realized. He stepped forward and went up to Bentley.

"Give me that pistol!" he snapped.

Bentley looked back to his general, who gave a subtle nod of agreement.

John took the pistol, stepped in front of Hanson, and leveled the weapon straight at his forehead. "Now listen very carefully, you son of a bitch," John said, his voice icy cold. "My name is John Matherson. For a year, I was military commander of my community down in the mountains of North Carolina. Do you hear me, Dean?"

There was no response.

"I am not part of General Scales's command. I'm here as a witness to whatever is behind that door. Less than a week after the shit hit the fan and everything went down, I put a bullet into the head of a thieving drug addict in a public execution. Do you hear me?"

Again no response, but he could see the man was looking up at him wide-eyed.

"I've personally executed dozens more since then without hesitation. Ten minutes ago, one of your bastards killed one of my closest friends; the blood on me is his blood. Do you read me?"

There was a faint nod.

"I've extended your life by two minutes. Maybe the general would not order you shot, but by heaven, I have no such compunctions. I'm giving you thirty seconds to do as the general ordered. If you do not, I will blow your frigging head off and not hesitate. At this moment, I might blow it off anyhow as payback for my friend even after you answer, but your odds are better if you answer. After I shoot you, I'll single out another and another of the prisoners until someone finally gives the general the answer he wants. Now, Captain Hanson, do you read me?"

He paused and looked around at those gathered and then back at Hanson. "Fifteen seconds!" John snapped.

"John?"

He looked up. It was Scales, who was shaking his head.

"Stay out of it, damn it!" John shouted. "We've been through hell for two and a half years, and I want the answers now. Lee didn't die just for us to stand around like a bunch of assholes in front of a door this bastard can open."

He looked back at Dean. "Ten seconds … eight seconds!"

Several of the prisoners, obviously terrified, shouted for the captain to relent, one crying out that he knew the answer and would give it.

John could see that the man had lost control, his trousers soaking through.

"Six seconds." He pressed the cold muzzle of the gun to the captain's forehead.

"All right! All right!" Dean screamed. "I'll talk."

John nodded and stepped back, suddenly feeling completely drained.

"Get him to open the door now," John commanded. "If he doesn't open that door in three minutes, bring him back here and I'll kill him."

John walked back to Sergeant Bentley, easing the hammer of the .45 down to the safe position. He held the weapon by the muzzle, which was warm, and offered it back to the sergeant, who took it.

Bentley stared him straight in the eyes. "By God, sir, would you have done it?"

"After all we've been through?" John said, not answering the question. "And, Sergeant, don't ever ask me that question again."

A couple of troopers of Scales's command dragged Dean up to the door. He fumbled to open the collar of his uniform and drew out several keys on a chain around his neck, muttering that the electronic controls had been shot out. He handed one to a guard accompanying him, explaining that they both had to insert the keys in locks ten feet apart and turn them simultaneously. They did so, and with a metallic hiss, the vast doorway cracked open.

Bob stepped forward. "Hold it there!" he shouted, going up to Hanson's side. "You got a security detail in there?" he snapped.

A moment of hesitation.

"You play us wrong now and I hand you back to my friend Matherson. Do you have a security detail inside?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you are in first, and order them to stand down. I got a sniper aiming straight at your back. You play us false and you will be the first to die, and I turn those outside over to Matherson and his men. You read me? If the killing is to stop now it is up to you, Captain. I want any security to come out, weapons held overhead, or by God I'll have an Apache outside this door pouring 30mm and then a Hellfire down inside."

"It's over!" Hanson cried.

"Then make sure it is."

Hanson, shaking and barely able to walk, approached the front of the blast door, which had slid open just a few feet, hands held high over his head.

"This is Captain Hanson. We are surrendering this facility to forces of Eastern Command. Safety your weapons and come out with them held over your heads."

John could hear voices from within arguing back and forth for several long, drawn-out minutes. Dean started to step into the cavernous darkness but froze in place when Scales barked out an order for him to not take another step in, shouting loudly that he was General Scales, in charge of Eastern Command, and was taking control of this facility and those who surrendered would be treated honorably.

Dean, voice breaking, began to sob, crying out that it was over and for the detail within to come out as ordered.

Finally, they began to emerge, and within minutes, half a hundred were out the door, dropping weapons as they emerged to be hustled off by a detail set up by Sergeant Bentley.

Finally, there was no one left except Hanson partway into the half-opened doors.

Bob finally came up to his side. "How do we open these things wide?"

Dean nodded to a control panel inside the doorway. Bob told him to go ahead. Dean entered a code, and the doors slid the rest of the way open.

John watched this in angry silence. The doors must have weighed several dozen tons or more and were at least three feet thick. Fifty yards into the tunnel, there was another set of doors, not as substantial but still significant, and for a second time, the same ritual was played out of cracking them open, Dean taking a few steps in, shouting for the security detail behind them to come out with weapons secured and surrender.

It was a tense few minutes with several of them refusing until Bob, with his excellent command voice, talked them down, that the entire firefight had been a tragic misunderstanding and as he was commander of all troops east of the Appalachians, those within were under his command, to obey immediately or face court-martial. They finally surrendered.

"Another security detail beyond here?" Bob asked as he nodded down the wide, cavernous corridor carved out of solid rock, three lanes wide, illuminated every hundred feet or so by a dimly glowing fluorescent light set into the ceiling.

"Just those off duty and everyone else."

"Everyone else?" John asked.

Dean looked at him but said no more.

"Get this bastard out of here," Bob snapped, looking back at Sergeant Bentley. "All prisoners secured outside. All wounded regardless of side treated ASAP. I think ten of our men can handle this rabble now that they've surrendered. I want the rest on me. I want you with me as well, Sergeant, so get it squared away and then catch up."

Bob watched as Dean, staggering from shock, was led back into the brilliant midday light of the entrance.

"Would you have done it?" Bob asked, looking at John.

John just gazed at him, still feeling cold, nearly broken inside, wondering now what shock would confront him next.

Bob put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We've all been through too much," he said, gesturing down the long tunnel. "Let's see what's down there and if this trip was worth the price."


It was a very long trip down, a hike of well over half a mile. John and those with him and Scales fell silent except for occasional whispers and Bob explaining this entire facility was carved out of solid rock and was not a natural cave.

The road began to level out from its five-degree pitch, the air within warmer so that parkas were unzipped. Bob cautioned those with him to keep their Kevlar jackets buttoned up tight and weapons held up in a nonthreatening manner and to only return fire if fired upon first.

A babble of voices began to echo—shouts, cries, yells of confusion and fear. Bob ordered the main group to stop, and he sent several scouts ahead, again reminding them of orders not to shoot.

Long minutes passed. Bob squatted down on the hard tarmac, reaching into a pocket and pulling out some hard candies from an open MRE pack and passing them around.

As they waited, Bentley came up. There was a wordless exchange of glances, and it was an indicator to John that this officer and top NCO truly worked as a team, respected each other, and could work on instinct of mutual trust without a word being said.

Bentley unclipped a flashlight from his vest, snapped it on, and continued down the tunnel until finally he was only a pinpoint of light. Several more minutes passed and then all jumped with a start; a single shot, followed a second later by two more, echoed like a cannon in the cavernous hall, the flashlight snapping off.

"Son of a bitch," Scales snapped. "Up, get ready to move, weapons on safety, but be ready to engage if fired on."

The troopers with them began to move out, edging along either side of the tunnel. Bob gestured for John and those with him to hold back for a moment, passing a quiet order to the one medic who had come in with them to get against the wall and be ready to set up an aid station.

"I don't want a bloodbath," Scales announced. "If we find what I think we're about to find, I don't want a bloodbath."

They started forward, crouching low. A flashlight came back on down at the end of the corridor, blinked twice, and then several seconds later blinked five more times. Bob, unclipping his flashlight, repeated the signal back, and came fully erect.

The flashlight at the end of the corridor grew brighter, moving up and down, obviously held by someone walking toward them, shifting the high-intensity beam up toward the ceiling so as not to blind them. The troopers advancing ahead of John and those around him stopped in place. There were some whispered exchanges, and then Bentley came into view, illuminated by the dim overhead fluorescent lights, left hand holding his .45. In the pale light, John could see blood soaking his arm. He had his right hand firmly gripped to the collar of a civilian dressed in what was the nearly ubiquitous uniform of government officials of chinos and a blue dress shirt. The man was short next to Bentley, nearly bald, features heavy, looking back and forth nervously at the troopers who were poised to either side of the tunnel.

Scales stood in place, not coming forward, John falling in by his side.

A few more steps and Bentley showed just enough restraint not to send the man he was hanging on to sprawling to the pavement, but he did shove him forward so he nearly lost his balance.

His dignity obviously insulted, the pudgy-featured man drew himself up, tucked his shirt back in—which had been disheveled by Bentley's rough handling—looked down at his left sleeve, which was splattered with blood, and shot an angry glance at Bentley, who remained by his side.

The medic was already up by Bentley's side.

"It can wait," Bentley snapped. The medic looked over at the civilian.

"That's my blood on him," the sergeant said sharply.

"Just who the hell are you?" the civilian cried, voice a bit quivery, but Scales ignored him.

"Sergeant Major Bentley, are you hit?"

"I'll be all right, sir; it can wait."

Scales glanced to the medic.

"Don't see anything arterial, sir; I guess it can wait a few minutes."

"Fine, then."

The civilian cleared his throat to try to interrupt, but Scales continued to ignore him.

"Report, Sergeant—what was that shooting about?"

"This man here had a bodyguard who decided to take issue with my presence. He fired first."

There was a pause.

"So I killed him."

He said so as if it were just a typical day's work, and Scales nodded.

"A lot of others around—you'll see in a minute. I had to aim for the center of his body. Didn't want any stray shots to get someone else."

"He murdered my man—"

Again Scales cut him off. "Let the medic tend to your wound, Sergeant, and thank God you are safe." At last, he turned back to the civilian. "You are damn lucky my sergeant was able to walk back; otherwise, it would have gone very badly for you and a lot of others. Do you read me?"

That caught the man off guard.

"Now you can talk. Who are you, and what is your position?" As he spoke, he took a step forward, hands balled up and resting on his hips. John had seen this more than once when his friend wished to convey a very strong "don't mess with me" attitude.

The civilian nervously cleared his throat. "I'm Richard Pelligrino, head administrator of this facility."

"And this facility is…?"

"Site R."

"I already know that," Bob snapped. "What is it now?"

Pelligrino hesitated, looking around at all those who were gazing at him. "Who the hell are you to come barging in here like this, slaughtering my security team?"

"You are answering the questions, not I, and you'd better answer me now, Mr. Pelligrino. I've got over two hundred troopers outside who are very pissed off. I've got a full battalion airlifting here within the hour. I have the assets. Maybe you know who I am, my command, and what I can bring to bear. Do you realize that, Mr. Pelligrino?"

Pelligrino's gaze drifted to Scales's name tag. He hesitated and then looked back up at him. "Why are you here? This position is not part of your command."

"It is part of my command now and you are answering the questions. Therefore, my question. Who are you, and why are you here?" His voice rose as he snapped out the last few words.

"Like I said—" he began.

"'Like I said, sir,'" Sergeant Bentley interjected sharply, still standing by Pelligrino's side while a medic was cutting open his sleeve to examine his wound.

Pelligrino cast a sidelong glance at the sergeant, who was still holding on to his .45 with his good hand and then back to Scales. "Like I said"—he paused for a few seconds—"sir. I am the head administrator for Site R."

"And Site R is…?"

Pelligrino hesitated, which provoked Sergeant Bentley to pivot slightly. The .45 was still down at his side, but the threat was apparent.

"Answer General Scales completely," Bentley directed, articulating each word slowly and clearly. "We already know this is Site R. What is this place for now, today, Mr. Pelligrino? And no more game playing."

"It is a designated civilian emergency relocation center," Pelligrino finally replied, his voice barely above a whisper as if conveying a great secret.

"Sir," Bentley again interjected.

"Sir," Pelligrino whispered, head slightly lowered.

"Then let's take a look at this emergency relocation center, shall we?"

"You can't!" Pelligrino cried. "This facility has the highest level of security requirements, which I doubt you are qualified for. I am ordering you to turn around, leave now, and we can just call what happened a tragic mistake that I won't report."

Bob looked at him with absolute contempt. "My security clearances existed long before you most likely crawled out of your frat house at some Ivy League hole. I've put up with shits like you for over forty years, but not this day. If you want to debate it further, look around you. These men with me have as much security clearance as I do after the hell they've been through for the last two and a half years and every right to see what is down at the end of that road."

Pelligrino started to bluster, and Bob, contempt obvious, stepped past him. "Someone drag this bastard along," he snapped.

John, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, could not help but smile as Pelligrino was shoved to one side, a trooper grabbing hold of him by his collar and pushing him along. He had endured far too many like him during his brief stint at the Pentagon, some of them in uniform, who were just ticket-punching their way up the career ladder and to hell with what was actually right or how many got hurt or even died as a result of their actions.

The tunnel began to widen out. The troopers keeping pace with Bob along either side advanced with weapons raised but not positioned to fire, but could do so swiftly if need be. If there was danger around the corner, Bob did not seem to show the slightest concern, walking down the middle of the paved road that leveled out and then went into a curving turn to the left at the bottom. Half a dozen troopers ahead of him reached the corner where the road turned left and came to a stop, raising weapons and shouting at someone unseen to drop their weapon and keep their hands visible.

Bob motioned for the trooper pushing Pelligrino along to bring him forward.

"Now listen carefully, Mr. Pelligrino. Do you have more armed personnel around that bend?"

He hesitated, and again Sergeant Bentley was menacingly by his side.

He could only nod.

"Then you go forward and tell them to lay their weapons down and come out with their hands up, that the fight is over and no one gets hurt. But if one of my troopers gets shot, Sergeant Bentley or my friend John Matherson here will gladly put one into you. The fight is over, Pelligrino; let's make sure no one else gets hurt."

The thoroughly frightened administrator was shoved forward. He cautiously advanced the last few dozen yards, turned in the middle of the road illuminated by several floodlights, and squeaked out a command for those waiting on the far side to give up.

What sounded like an argument started until Pelligrino shrieked out that they were outnumbered and everyone would die if they didn't surrender immediately.

Seconds later, the first men and women of what John hoped was a final line of defense emerged, hands over their heads. Bob's troopers, weapons pointed high but still aimed in their direction, shouted out for them to move up the road on the double.

Several dozen emerged, and as they were moved up the road, John could see the looks of fear.

It was the medic who was trying to follow Bentley and work on him who helped defuse the tension, walking in among them, offering reassurances, announcing that if any were hurt they should fall out and she would take care of them; otherwise, they should just keep moving up the road toward the exit. To John's amazement, one of them was actually smoking a cigarette, the scent of it wafting around him as they passed him.

A cigarette? Here? Just what kind of place is this really?

"Any more?" Bob shouted. A trooper at the very front of the ground turned, looked back, and replied with a hand gesture that all were cleared, but John could see there was a look of confusion from the other troopers who were standing at the bend in the road.

"Let's see if all of this was worth it," Bob said softly, starting out again.

Whatever they were about to see, John could not get out of his mind that his friend Lee was dead. Whatever they were to find, was it worth Lee's death?

And then he turned the corner of the road dug half a mile down into a mountain and came to a stop in silent amazement.