One Year After

CHAPTER EIGHT

John got out of his Edsel, the sun just breaking the horizon beyond the Swannanoa Gap, the air perfectly calm and clear, and he could not help but grin and whistle an old-fashioned wolf whistle at the beauty that was in front of him.

It was Don Barber’s old Aeronca L-3B World War II recon bird, fully restored. The plane had served as the crucial all-seeing eyes of their community in the months after the Day. With no electronics in it whatsoever, to start it, one had to pump an old-fashioned primer, with a brave soul out front grabbing hold of the propeller and throwing it to bring the engine to life. The plane had played a crucial role in first monitoring the approach of the Posse, providing recon on their attack deployment and flanking moves up Swannanoa Gap. Against strict orders, Don had tried to provide close air support during the battle by dropping pipe bombs, and he was shot down. Don was killed, and the canvas-fabric plane burned, one entire wing gone. And he had assumed, as had everyone else, that it was a write-off.

Rare indeed was the private plane that had survived the Day and the chaos afterward, but there were still more than a few old pilots alive who, like any pilot, felt only half alive if he didn’t get his hands on a plane on a regular basis. Billy Tyndall was such a pilot, and Maury Hurt, the owner of the WWII-era Jeep—though not a pilot—was a master mechanic with equipment from that war. They were joined by Danny Mullen, an airplane mechanic from the Vietnam era who had serviced B-52s, who said if you work on one plane, you just get a feel for any type of plane. They had hauled the wreckage back to an abandoned warehouse by the Ingrams’ market. They scrounged up tools, canvas, and even spruce spars from the garage of old man Quinten, who had been working on a homebuilt plane but had died from heart failure in the first weeks after the start of things.

Now, two years and a couple of thousand man-hours later, she was ready for her checkout flight. The paint job was army green, taken from Maury’s workshop, with the original touch of white and black stripes from aircraft that had flown on D-day. They towed the plane up to the interstate as their landing strip, the test postponed for several days until finally dawn revealed clear skies and no wind.

It had become a source of concern for John that word might leak beyond Black Mountain that they were rebuilding a plane, and he made sure, as best as he could, that all were sworn to secrecy as to what was going on in “hangar one.” It was something Dale had not picked up on during his visit, and John was pleased that the hangar crowd had kept their mouths shut.

The alleged secret project was now public when they towed the plane out of its hangar. Word rapidly spread that the big day was at hand, and several hundred spectators had come down to watch and definitely pray.

The team who labored so hard for this moment now stood in a tight circle, quietly arguing about the next step. Danny, Maury, and a couple of others who had flown were saying that Billy should just stick to what was called “crow hopping,” getting a few feet off the ground and then gliding back to a landing.

“It’s the way the FAA used to insist upon it being done,” someone said.

Billy sighed. “There ain’t no FAA anymore.”

There was a time when one mentioned the FAA and most pilots started to mutter under their breath, but at that moment, there were no certified inspectors to check the work, no professional pilots to take on the risky job of the first test flight. This was yet another throwback to a long, long time ago when those who wanted to reach the clouds built a plane in their barns from some basic designs in an old magazine, rolled it out, said a prayer, and took off.

“Look, either it flies or it doesn’t. And there’s only one way to find out.”

The circle around him fell silent. Danny finally extended his hand and patted Billy on the shoulder.

“Okay, but if you kill yourself, I’m going to be really pissed that you wrecked the plane again.”

John knew better than to go over and stick his head into it. His own military experience had taught him a way for a colonel to get a royal chewing out from a sergeant was to interrupt a pilot and ground crew during a preflight check.

Billy’s wife was obviously not happy in the slightest with the entire routine, running up to hug him fiercely before he finally broke loose and climbed into the narrow cockpit. She looked back at John, the gaze conveying that if something went wrong, she would hold him personally responsible.

Danny went forward, calling to Billy to check that the magnetos were off, and then he turned the prop a dozen rotations to work oil into the pistons and called for three shots of primer.

Danny now ran down the brief checklist yet again, Billy checking that ailerons, rudder, and elevators were clear and the primer closed. “Mags hot! Contact! Clear prop!”

Danny threw the propeller downward with his right hand, stepping back to one side and away as he did so, and the engine started to fire up on the very first try. There was backfiring, and black smoke blew out with the exhaust, and it nearly stalled. Billy eased in the throttle. There was more backfiring, and then it settled down to a steady low roar. A cheer erupted from all, John thrilling to the sound of it. Yet another connector back to the world before the Day, coming back into their lives.

Danny was around to the side of the door on the starboard side of the plane. He pulled it half open and talked with Billy, the engine running up, checking oil pressure and temperature, and switching mags on and off amid the occasional backfire. Dan finally stepped back, latching the door shut. He leaned down low and pulled out the wheel chocks.

Billy looked over at the crowd with a boyish grin of delight. He had taken to sporting a handlebar mustache and goatee, looking like an aviator of the First World War. He raised his hand and saluted. Dan, John, and Maury, all vets, formally returned the salute.

Billy revved the engine up, and there was more backfiring and dark smoke exhaust, the aircraft trembling as if eager to be away. Billy looked over at Dan and held up two fingers and then one.

“Twenty-one hundred RPM,” Maury announced. “Would like a hundred more, but what the hell. He’s got miles of runway ahead of him.”

Billy released the brakes, and the plane seemed to leap forward as if alive and eager to get back to where she truly belonged, as if the follies of foolish humanity had kept too many planes grounded for far too long.

Dan was absolutely rigid. “He’s at twenty… twenty-five…” There were a couple more backfires, Dan wincing with each, now cursing steadily.

The tail of the plane was up, and the plane swerved a few feet off the centerline of the highway.

“Dance on those pedals, damn it,” Danny snarled.

And then, ever so gracefully, she was up, leveling off a half a dozen feet above the highway, gaining speed now that she was free of the ground. The crowd cheered and swarmed around Danny and Maury, slapping them on the back, Danny yelling for everyone to get back, still intent on following Billy, who was easing the stick back, beginning to climb, still flying straight and level until nearly out of sight.

Danny suddenly gasped as Billy pulled the stick back even more and pushed the plane into a turning bank of at least thirty degrees or more.

“Damn him!” Danny shouted. “Take it easy!”

Billy continued the turn, banking around, disappearing behind the trees for a moment where the highway curved to the north on the far side of town. There was a moment of silence and then another rousing cheer as he reappeared a hundred or more feet up, flying level and straight back toward them. He came straight on, and then a couple hundred yards out, he nosed over as if going into a dive, leveled off ten feet above the crowd gathered on the highway, and roared over them, everyone now cheering wildly.

“Stupid son of a bitch. There was a time when he’d lose his license for that dumb trick!” Dan cried, but no one was paying attention; even John was caught up in the moment. Billy continued to climb, and then, in a moment that drew nervous comments from some, he pulled the nose up higher and higher, engine still running full out.

“Stall check, damn it, not this time, Billy,” Dan whispered. The plane appeared to hang motionless for several seconds, nose pitched high at over forty-five degrees, and then it suddenly dropped, one wing dipping a bit. It leveled out, the throttle cut back to idle.

“Keep this damn road cleared!” Danny shouted. “He’s coming in to land. Clear the road!”

Danny muttered suggestions that only he could hear as the plane drifted down, gliding past where John, Maury, and Danny stood, still up by half a dozen feet.

“A bit too high, too high,” Danny groaned. “Let her settle, let it settle—don’t flare yet.”

Still several feet off the ground, the plane appeared to just fall, bouncing hard, tires squealing in protest. The plane bounced back up several feet.

“Don’t fight it!” Danny shouted. “Just let her settle!”

The plane leveled off, the nose a bit high again, easing down a hundred yards farther on. With two small puffs of white smoke from the tires and a slight swerve to port side, it straightened out and then rolled to a stop.

Billy hit hard rudder, turning the plane around, taxiing back the several hundred yards to where the crowd waited expectantly and then shut the engine down. He had the door open and was grinning like a kid, the way so many pilots grinned after a flight and a safe landing.

“Damn you!” Maury and Dan shouted at the same time, launching into separate tirades about taking off in the first place, pulling such a sharp bank, going for a power-on stall, and the bounced landing. Billy just stood there smiling, taking it in.

“She flies, and she’s a beauty,” was all he said before finally lapsing into a review. He suggested that the replacement wing was most likely causing the plane to yaw to the left, the fabric under the starboard wing was fluttering, and he couldn’t get the engine up above 2,200 RPM even when flying straight and level, but he did apologize for the sloppy landing—it had been well over two years since he had last flown.

“We have an air force,” John said with a smile, looking over at Reverend Black. “Guess I should get back home and get ready to find out what the hell is really going on in Asheville.”

“The meal was excellent, thank you,” Makala said politely, sliding her chair back slightly and putting her napkin on the table.

John had been filled with barely contained excitement for most of the day because of the successful test flight, trying not to think too much about the meeting with Fredericks. He had taken a cold bath, plunging into the creek to clean up. Jen, still the matriarch of the house, had laid out his one good set of slacks and blue dress shirt, but he refused to wear a blazer. It might work for Fredericks but not for him. Makala had carefully shaved him, noting with disapproval that his cheek appeared to be swelling from the bad tooth. She reminded him that with the effects of the concussion clearing up, it was time for a visit to the dentist.

For John, this ritual of dressing up almost felt like they were going out on a date rather than a meeting that would most likely decide their futures. Following their routine of her driving while he kept careful watch—this time with a twelve gauge laid across his lap—they made their way to Asheville. He insisted the two of them take this trip alone; having his guards waiting outside just struck him as wrong.

Dale nodded his thanks for her compliment regarding dinner. “Amazing this long-term survival food that was being sold before the Day,” Dale said. “I thank heavens FEMA thought to buy up a billion rations before things went bad—beef stroganoff that tastes almost as good as I remember it once being and strawberries that you just add water to and chill.”

“What we would have given for just a couple thousand of these after the Day,” Makala said quietly, looking over at John.

John looked to Dale, wondering if he was picking up on his wife’s barely veiled rebuke.

“So where did these come from?” she asked.

“I managed to get two hundred thousand rations on order. They’re shipping them in now.”

“Oh? From where?” Makala asked.

Dale smiled. “I really wish I could tell you that, Makala, but it is still one of those classified things for now.” Dale stood up from the table, which was set up in a private side room to the courthouse dining hall, and he motioned for the door. “Let’s head over to my office where we can relax and talk a little business.”

“I think I’ll take a walk around town while you two have your meeting,” Makala announced.

“Mind if I have one of my security people tag along?” Dale offered. “Asheville is secure, but after dark, we still do have a problem now and again. And with you dressed as nicely as you are and obviously a bit better fed than most, it might be a concern.”

A bit better fed. John caught that one and wondered if it was a veiled insult. More than a few who had supposedly been running Asheville until the army arrived had obviously been more than “a bit better fed.” Most had disappeared when the army commander started to inquire into exactly how the city was managed after the Day, fleeing to God knows where in several well-stocked vehicles. Rumor was they had run afoul of a reivers community in the highlands along the South Carolina border, and no one expressed regret as to whatever their fate had been.

“I can take care of myself,” Makala replied as she reached into her purse and drew out a hammerless .38 revolver.

Dale looked at the gun, a bit surprised, and then he sighed. “I hate to remind you, but in the future, weapons really should be checked at the door when you come in the building. We’re trying to reestablish some rules, Mrs. Matherson.”

“Oh, but of course. Sorry. I just plain forgot.” Without further comment, she was out the door and heading for the exit.

John just smiled.

“She’s an interesting woman, John. Bet there is a tough side to her beneath all that charm.”

“There’s a tough side to any of us who survived out here,” John replied, still smiling.

There was silence as they headed to Dale’s office, the foyer dimly illuminated by a single fluorescent bulb overhead. Once into the office, Dale closed the door and threw the light switch, the fluorescent lights overhead winking on, a gesture that startled John a bit. For months after the Day, nearly everyone at times, when walking into a dark room, fumbled for the light switch and then stood there confused for a few seconds before reaching for a precious match to light a kerosene lamp—if they still had any fuel left—or just settling down into the darkness. The casual reality of just flicking a light switch was startling.

“We do run a little power at night to keep our communications gear online, and the fluorescent bulbs only burn a couple of dozen watts. It’s a luxury you are not used to, I know.”

What happened next really put John off balance. Dale sat down at his desk, reached to a cupboard behind him, and pulled out a real bottle of prewar scotch. Without asking, he took out two tumblers, pouring a couple of ounces into each and handed one to John.

“To the restored United States of America,” Dale said solemnly, raising his glass, and John could not help but follow. Memory of old traditions of the officers’ mess on formal occasions hit John, with toasts to the republic, the president, and whoever might be an honored guest.

John sipped the scotch and let out a sigh of pleasure. He had not tasted real twelve-year-old scotch since before the Day. Dale settled back in his chair, loosened his tie, and put his feet up on the desk. “Well, I guess folks down here call this next step ‘time to talk turkey.’”

“Where you from originally, Dale?”

“Massachusetts. Why?”

“I can’t recall a single soul here every saying ‘talk turkey’ when it was time to get down to business.”

Dale nodded, still smiling. “Thanks for telling me. I know I am seen as an outsider sent in by some distant entity. More than a few around here are grumbling that a local should have been appointed to run this administrative district. But I think you’ll agree with the report sent up by the army commander that was here before me that more than a few in this county office were not up to the job, and others were downright corrupt, taking care of themselves first and the hell with you folks stuck out in the boondocks.”

“You mean folks like me in places like Black Mountain, Waynesville, Brevard, and Canton? I could name fifty other towns, if you wish.”

“Well, yes, places like yours.”

“In that, I’ll agree. You undoubtedly read the reports. I turned in a few myself to the army. The crew that took over running this city had more than enough food for themselves while the rest of us were on our own. They tried to confiscate what we did have, and when the crap really hit the fan with the murdering gangs, they cut us off, sealed up the highway leading into the city, and just looked out for themselves without offering any help. So, yes, I can understand why some thought it was best to bring in new blood.”

“Good, I’m glad you see it that way. Thank you.” He extended his hand, which John took, and then he offered a refill of his glass, which John refused. Whether it was going to be talking turkey or down to real business, two ounces was enough, and the glass was not yet drained.

“John, I’ve been sent here by the federal government to reestablish overall stability to the entire region. My district encompasses all of western North Carolina, down to Interstate 77.”

“So that includes Charlotte, as well?”

“Eventually, but Charlotte right now is still a no-man’s-land. The few still living there are considered lawless, and once our strength is secured here, we’ll eventually head down that way to bring things back under control.”

“Who is we?”

“That’s a long way off. Right now, I got my hands full just with those border reivers you dealt with last week. John, I’ll be frank. Your town is a model of how to survive and then rebuild, and I’m not blowing smoke at you with that compliment. That’s why the administration up in Bluemont sat up and took notice when I sent in a report with the recommendation you go back into federal service as a major general, and they jumped on it. Your country, our country, needs damn near every skill possible to rebuild. You have those administrative skills, and I’m anxious to hear your decision.” He paused and continued to smile. “I heard there was a bit of an upset meeting yesterday regarding the draft notices.”

“How did you hear that?”

“People talk, and right now, the call for help from our country with the creation of the Army of National Recovery is the buzz conversation around here.”

Dale offered a drink again, which John refused, holding his glass up to show there was still some left. Dale poured another few ounces for himself and put the bottle back in the cabinet.

“I really haven’t seen a bottle like that since the Day,” John said. “The liquor store was looted clean within forty-eight hours, and those that had some kept mighty quiet about it after that. So where did that come from?” he asked casually.

“Oh, I traded for it just before coming here with the pilot who brought me and the rest of the administrative team up from the coast.”

“So the folks on the coast have such things again?”

“A lot more than here. England, as you know, wasn’t hit by the EMP. So some trade is back up, and thank you, dear Lord, quite a few cases of real scotch did come into Charleston several months back.”

“What else do they have down there?”

“Part of Charleston has power again, feeding off the carrier anchored at Patriots Point. John, you step foot on that carrier and you swear nothing ever went wrong. Computers still run onboard the ship, hot showers, real food, and not just emergency rations…” His voice trailed off as if sensing the frustration John was feeling.

“How about hospitals? And what about insulin?” John asked. “They ever run out of that?”

Dale hesitated for a moment, not sure of the meaning, and then he nodded, his features solemn. “Sorry, John, I did read about that in your profile report. And no, things were just as hellish down there during the first months after the attack, even more so with the summer heat than up your way until the navy arrived in force.”

“My profile report?”

“Sure. It’s been two years since the war started, but some things are slowly coming back online. They had some backup database systems in Bluemont; remember, it was always one of the fallback positions in the event of a major attack hitting the lower forty-eight and taking out Washington, D.C. When I put your name in, they said your dossier from your service in the Pentagon was still intact, and they mentioned that you had a daughter with diabetes. Damn all, John, if only you had been evacuated up to Bluemont when this hit rather than being down here, it might have turned out different.”

“Don’t go anywhere near there, Dale,” John replied. Whenever the death of Jennifer came anywhere near a conversation, he always felt something about to break inside. “We weren’t, she wasn’t, we had no insulin, and she died—and that was it.” He glared at Dale icily.

Dale lowered his head. “Sorry I mentioned it.”

John sat silent for several minutes. It was his weakest spot, and Dale had just touched it. Of course, he had thought of all the alternatives—one of the worse of them that, on the day things had hit, before everyone else began to catch on, he should have just stormed into the pharmacy and cleaned out their supply rather than accept the six bottles the pharmacist had offered him the day after. But then again, would he really have done that? He knew that regardless of his anguish, that was a moral boundary. Condemning others to death to save his own was not something he could ultimately live with.

“Perhaps we should talk about this commission your people want to give me and how it will affect the draft in my town,” John said, shifting the subject back to the main point of this visit.

Dale, who apparently regretted his misstep with his reference to Jennifer, looked back up, his pensive gaze gone. “Sorry if I hit a bad nerve, John. Just my clumsiness at times.”

“No harm done,” John replied. There was a moment of awkward silence, which John finally broke. “I think I asked where you were on the day the war started.”

“I was out in the field that day on an inspection tour for a government agency, fortunately near Bluemont.”

“What agency?”

“The White House,” Dale said without elaborating.

“Oh?” Again there was an awkward moment, as if both were stumbling to keep the conversation going, Dale obviously not yet feeling ready to push John further regarding the offer of a return to government service.

“So is it true that Air Force One was not sufficiently hardened and went down?” John finally asked, breaking the silence.

“Something like that.”

“Too bad.”

Dale stared at him intently for a moment, John returning the gaze unflinchingly. His tone had not conveyed horror at such news; it was a response of complete detachment. Where once the entire nation dwelled on the latest actions of the celebrity of the moment—and the president was definitely in that classification—now there was a distancing by all. Each had endured horrors unimagined before the electricity went down, and there was little room for empathy for what occurred outside of their sight and hearing.

When half, three-quarters, or more of your community dies, a death rate unprecedented in all of Western history since the great plague of the fourteenth century, survivors focused on their survival and that of their families, blocking out what was no longer part of their world.

“And the president now,” John finally offered. “You feel she’s qualified?”

“Constitutional line of succession. Secretary of Health and Human Services was the highest-ranking survivor, but you already know that. The vice president was the secretary of Homeland Security.”

“This is a presidential election year. What’s going to happen?”

“That’s a tough one, John. We first need a census. Do we stick with the Constitution as written and reestablish the Electoral College or just go with a national vote?”

“Electoral College,” John replied instantly. “The Constitution must stand untouched. That is a rock-solid bottom line for this country and for me personally. I will not serve a government that abrogates the Constitution. Yes, we had to move to martial law, but I pray those times are passing, regardless of the crisis that continues in many regions. If we tear out the bedrock of the Constitution, we will find ourselves on shifting sands that will eventually swallow all of us up into the darkness.”

“Easy to say, John, but think of the complexities—and then think of why you are being asked to come back to serve. May I just rattle off a few points?”

“Go ahead.”

“A year after the attack, we ran an analysis up in Bluemont and cataloged some classifications for the various states.”

“Classifications?”

“Rating each state from a level one—meaning fully stabilized based on a number of different criteria—down to a level five, which means currently occupied either by a hostile nation or a nation claiming it is neutral and alleging it is here to help—to complete anarchy into lawlessness, of which Florida is still the worst case.”

“And the results?”

“Not one state has reached what we define as a level one, with functioning local and state governments in conformity with federal law, as well.”

“Conformity to federal law?” He was a bit cautious now.

“Come on, John. You do recall the Thirteenth Amendment, right? Do you know there are places where slavery is back, one of them in what used to be Charlotte?”

John sighed, not really surprised, and then he sadly nodded.

“Twelve states are level five. We got a few zones at level one, but not an entire state yet as it existed prior to the attack. I’m proud to say a hundred-mile radius around Bluemont is level one, touching into four states—West Virginia, Maryland, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. The rail corridor of the B&O for a couple of hundred miles is actually up and running. They pulled out half a dozen old steam locomotives from museums and got them running since we’re smack in the middle of the coal region.”

What about all the anticoal rhetoric of several years back? John thought, but he decided not to throw that into the conversation.

“Anyhow, back to your original point about elections this year. I think you can see it’s impossible if we are going to do so within the proscriptions of the Constitution. We need a census—and out of that, a redrawing of congressional districts, most likely a significant reduction in total members of the House given the blow to our population. It has not always been 435, as you know. Some are saying we only need a hundred or so, the same as the Senate.”

“I got no thoughts on that right now,” John replied.

“And what about senators from level-five states? The vast majority of senators and members of the House were in D.C. on the Day with Congress in session. Not many made it to Bluemont.”

“Have either houses even met since the war started?”

“The thought of even reaching a quorum to make the meeting legal is of course absurd. There’s been advisory meetings with the president by surviving members of both houses who are now living in Bluemont, but that’s it for right now until we can hold legitimate elections.”

“What you are telling me is that elections have been postponed indefinitely?”

“Hopefully by next year we’ll be ready again,” Dale replied quickly. “John, it’s obvious by your questions you are passionate about the Constitution.”

“We all should be; it’s the only thing we have to hang on to if this country’s ever going to recover.”

“That is a major reason we need the Army of National Recovery and men with your convictions serving in it. We have to restore internal order, John. Once that is achieved, we can focus on containing the obvious expansionism of China. If need be, a redeployment to the West Coast by some of the ANR units will show China we mean business; they back off, and with the West Coast secured, Mexico will pull back, as well. Mission accomplished. We then move to a full restoration of our government under the Constitution.”

John nodded thoughtfully with that. This man fumbled more than one point over the last week, but he certainly must have studied my file well, John thought. While in the army, John had written more than one paper about the constitutional constraints regarding the use of military force, and though a strong pro-Union supporter when it came to the Civil War, he was more than a bit bemused at times with how Lincoln skirted the limits of his office to preserve the country as a single entity.

Lincoln made the tough decisions necessary to save the Union, and John believed that if Lincoln had lived, he would have relinquished his powers that transcended constitutional limits and restored proper balance in the months after the Confederacy collapsed. He was, ultimately, an honorable man.

Was this president, who did hold her office as defined by the Constitution, of the same character and moral fiber as Lincoln? If not, what might the ANR devolve into?

At this moment, he realized, perhaps the only way to find out for sure was to take the commission, go to Bluemont, and find out directly. I can always resign if not satisfied, he reasoned.

“If I enlist, your offer to cut the draft in half for my community stands firm?”

“Absolutely, John!” Dale cried. “Yes, absolutely, yes! Some of them can go with you to Bluemont—your daughter, of course, and even your wife and grandson, if you wish. Provisions like that are made for someone with your rank.”

“Oh, really?”

“Come on, John. I remember reading somewhere that Grant’s wife accompanied him into the field, sent there to help ease the migraines he suffered from. Lincoln had his son placed on Grant’s staff near the end of the war rather than see him go into a combat unit. Lee pulled his youngest son out of combat and had him moved to a staff position. Generals and admirals often did and still do such things.”

“And yet I recall that one of Teddy Roosevelt’s sons went down in flames over France in 1918,” John replied. “And though I don’t think much of some of the things FDR did, his son was up on the front lines and was in the thick of it on Midway Island when everyone figured the Japanese were going to overrun the island, and he’d have been killed or taken prisoner. So it does go both ways.”

Even as he spoke, John realized this man certainly had studied him to have so quickly pulled up examples of Lincoln, Grant, and Lee to assuage any guilt he might feel about favoritism.

“How soon can you report?” Dale asked, stepping around this debate with a historian.

“I’ll go in with the rest,” John said, “which, based on your offer of the other day, gives me about three and a half weeks to settle things.”

“We’re establishing some air transport this weekend, John. Think of it! Planes, transports coming in from an airbase near Bluemont and another air link down to Charleston. A lot of our assets that were positioned overseas are finally going into service back here in the States. We’ll most likely be able to fly you up there rather than risk road transport for you and yours.”

“Okay, that sounds fine.”

“And we now have air assets as I told you about when we first met. The government allocated two Apache helicopters and two Black Hawks, to be permanently based in Asheville.”

“I heard about that,” John replied, not revealing that it was Forrest Burnett who had told him of the arrival of the choppers. “Apaches. I think they’d be needed more in Texas, for starters.”

“Each district is getting at least a couple of aircraft for local security.”

He wasn’t sure how to react and did not reply.

“By the way,” Dale said, still smiling, “I heard about your own air force.”

“You seem to hear a lot,” John replied.

Dale shrugged. “It’s my job.” There was something about the way he said it, but John let it pass. “It’s a nice asset, John. I’d really like to have access to it at times.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the town council. I’m stepping back from those types of decisions.”

“Oh, of course, but please do mention it to them at the next meeting.”

“I’ll do that.”

Dale stood up, smiled, and extended his hand. “Can I make an official announcement of your decision to serve?”

“For the moment, Dale, let’s just hold on that. I still have to clear it with my family and the town council. So can you ride with that for several days?”

“Of course, John—or should I say General Matherson?”

John did not reply to Dale pinning the title of rank on him before he had officially signed. He sensed the purpose of their meeting was at an end and stood up.

They shook hands. John turned to leave, looked down at the glass with the ounce of scotch still in it, and with “talking turkey” done, he gladly downed the second ounce.

“You can take the bottle along if you want, John.”

John smiled and shook his head. “Wouldn’t think of it. Some people see that and they’ll think it’s a bribe.”

“Okay then. Let’s plan on meeting the middle of next week for an update. Before I forget, I was really impressed with the work your people have been doing with the phone and electrical systems. Could you ask those overseeing the work if they’d mind if they’d come see me and perhaps lend some advice for operations here in Asheville?”

“Will do.”

He was out the door and surprised to see Makala sitting in the dim light of the lobby, head bowed, nearly asleep.

“Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”

She stood up with a start, smiled, and leaned up to kiss him. “What in the hell have you been drinking?” she asked sharply.

“A scotch.”

“He actually had scotch, real scotch?”

He merely nodded. She was silent as they went for the main exit.

“Do you need to pick up your pistol on the way out?” John whispered.

“As if I’d actually obey that one? You are kidding, aren’t you?”

They went to the car, parked outside in the darkness, not commenting to the uniformed guards, who did not acknowledge their passing.

“You still have a concussion and have been drinking, so I’ll drive,” Makala announced, opening the door for him over his objections.

They drove in silence, John scanning intently, shotgun on his lap and pistol by his side, not relaxing until they reached the roadblock into their own territory near Exit 59. Once cleared, he finally relaxed.

“So what happened?” Makala asked.

“I took the job. I felt I had to.”

Not another word was exchanged during the long ride home. And for several hours after they slipped into the house, with Elizabeth, Ben, and Jen fast asleep, John sat alone in the garden by Jennifer’s grave. When he finally went to bed, Makala was asleep, as well.