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    “I will be good God damned,” he mused. “Whaddaya know? The Vietnam ’era’ is finally classified as a for-real war.”
    The other vets chuckled. Quentin eyed Mike. “How ’bout me?” he demanded. “You going to insist on putting me in a uniform too?”
    Mike shook his head. “No offense, Quentin, but you were stationed on an aircraft carrier. I need men with combat experience on dry land. James was in the Marines, but he’s one of our only two doctors. Ed—”
    The short, stocky principal laughed. “Not me! Spent my whole tour of duty as a rear-echelon motherfu—” He broke off the vulgar term, glancing warily at Melissa. She responded with a grin and a wagging finger. “The closest I ever got to action was being caught in a shoot-out in downtown Saigon between the police and some black marketeers. You want a real combat vet like Frank.”
    Jackson made a sour face. “I was in the Eleventh Armored Cav, Mike. I haven’t noticed any tanks parked around town.”
    Nichols’ eyes widened a bit. “You were with the Blackhorse?” he asked. “Good outfit.”
    Frank returned the doctor’s compliment with a brief nod. “So were the Marines. By the way, which unit were you in?” He shook his head. “Ah, never mind. Later.”
    To Mike: “Sure, I had some experience with infantry tactics. But nothing like what we’re going to be facing here.” He snorted. “Can’t hardly call in an air strike.”
    “That’s still more experience than I’ve got, Frank,” retorted Mike. “The only combat I saw in the service was barroom brawls.” He scanned the other faces in the room. When he spoke again, his tone was deadly serious.
    “Building our army has to take first priority, people. Without it, we’re just another town ripe for plunder. I’m going to need every combat veteran I can get my hands on. That’s true of most of the middle-aged miners, fortunately. But—sorry, Frank—they’re getting a little long in the tooth for this sort of thing. I want to use them as a training cadre for the younger miners, and any of the younger men in town who aren’t absolutely needed for something else. And—”
    He took a deep breath. “We’re going to have to call for volunteers.” Another deep breath. “I’m going to pretty much want every boy in next month’s high-school graduating class.”
    The room exploded with protests from Ed Piazza and Melissa Mailey. Ed gobbled semicoherent and indignant phrases about
his kids
. Melissa neither gobbled nor was incoherent. She simply denounced Mike. She avoided the term
warmonger
, but precious little else.
    Throughout, Mike weathered the storm in suffering silence.
When the protests began to die down, he opened his mouth to speak.
    Greg Ferrara cut him off. “
Don’t be stupid, Melissa.
You too, Ed. I agree with Mike completely. Most of the miners are getting on in years, you know that as well as anyone. The mines have done only a trickle of new hiring for the last decade.” Bitterly: “
Downsizing.
Hell, at least half the working miners in this area are Frank’s age. Late forties and up. You can’t expect men that old to do all the fighting. Not for long, anyway.”
    Ed and Melissa were staring at their fellow school teacher, jaws open. Their thoughts were obvious:
Benedict Arnold.
    Seeing their expressions, the science teacher smiled ruefully. “Sorry. But facts are facts. Every country in history, when the fighting starts, depends on its youngsters. I can’t see where we’re any different.”
    He turned to Mike. “I know those boys, Mike. Every one of them will volunteer. Even the kids in the special education program.”
    He waved down Melissa’s gathering storm of renewed protest. “Relax! We’re obviously not going to put someone like Joe Kinney into the army.” Mike nodded his firm agreement. Joe Kinney was a sweet-tempered eighteen-year-old boy. But he had the mental age of a five-year-old, and was never going to get any better.
    Greg nodded at Nichols. “Dr. Nichols and Dr. Adams can screen out the boys who are just plain unfit. But most of them can serve, and all of them will.
For the duration
—just like in World War II.”
    He squared his slender shoulders. “And some of the male teachers should volunteer to lead them in.
Just like in the Civil War.
Let’s start with me. I’m sure Jerry Calafano will volunteer also. And Cliff Priest and Josh Benton.”
    Half-unconsciously, the school principal nodded his agreement. Priest and Benton were the two younger coaches for the high school. Calafano was a math teacher in his late twenties. He and Ferrara were close friends, as well as mutual chess fanatics.
    Melissa started to say something—a protest, from the sound of the initial stuttered syllables. Then, her shoulders slumping, she heaved a great sigh. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “Oh, dear God.” Her eyes filled with sudden moisture. There was nothing of politics in either the words or the wetness. Just the grief of a woman who had helped to raise another generation of children, and must now see them march toward the dogs of war.
Cry havoc!
Like so many generations before them.
    Mike gave that grief a moment’s respectful silence. Then, squaring his own shoulders, he pushed on to new business.
    “All right. Greg, I appreciate the offer and I accept it. It’ll help if several of the teachers volunteer along with the kids. Help a lot.” For a moment, his mind sped off at a tangent. Ferrara, he knew, had organized a rocketry club with some of the science-oriented students in the high school. He could see possibilities—
    
Later
. He looked at Willie Ray. “Willie, I want you to get all the farmers together and draw up a plan for food production. Inventory our resources, figure out what you’re going to need—” He broke off. Hudson had started nodding before Mike had finished the first sentence. The old man was a natural-born organizer. Mike could let him handle it from there.
    To Quentin: “Frank will talk to Ken Hobbs and some of the older miners. We’ll also see if we can get some retirees back to work. Break into that abandoned mine and see where we stand. Transporting the coal will be a problem, too. We got rail tracks leading most of the way from the mine to the power plant, but as far as I know there isn’t a locomotive anywhere around. We may have to haul it by truck.”
    To Dreeson: “That brings up the problem of the gasoline supply. We need to inventory how much fuel we’ve got sitting in the underground storage tanks of the town’s gas stations. Diesel and kerosene also. And anywhere else it can be found. Which will mostly be in the gas tanks of everybody’s cars and trucks.”
    He paused, pursing his lips. “I can’t see any way around it. Starting immediately, we’ve got to put a complete stop to people using their vehicles for personal transportation. As of
right now
, all motor vehicle fuel is a vital military resource.”
    Quentin nodded. “Absolutely!” He looked at Willie Ray. “How hard is it to convert to natural gas?”
    Before Hudson could respond, Ed piped up. “Yeah! We could convert a couple of the school buses. Provide the town with a bus service.” Apologetically: “Some of the old folks can hardly be expected to walk all the way to the grocery stores.” His quick mind seemed to have a life of its own, tripping from subject to subject. “And that brings up the question of groceries. We can’t keep the freeze on buying much longer. But how are we going to ration the food? And what do we use for money? I’m not sure U.S. currency’s worth much anymore. And—”
    Dreeson pitched in immediately, with a proposal to use the town’s only bank—
85% community owned, remember?
—as their new financial clearing house. Quentin agreed. Melissa snapped something about protecting the town’s poorer residents. Quentin snapped back. Before that argument could get started, Nat Davis chimed in with a concern for the town’s resident businessmen.
Not the absentee owners, of course. Hell with them. Nationalize all that stuff. But I worked all my life
— Ed and Dreeson immediately assured him arrangements could be made. Property rights would be respected, but the demands of the common good—
    On and on. Mike leaned back in his chair, almost sighing with relief. He had picked this team on the spur of the moment, driven more by instinct than conscious thought. He was pleased to see that his fighting instincts seemed to be as good in this arena as they had been in the much simpler environment of a boxing ring.

    The meeting broke up three hours later. There was still a lot to be done—all of the actual work, and most of the planning—but at least they’d agreed on an initial division of labor.

 

    Overall command of the political and military situation:
Mike Stearns.

 

    Army Chief of Staff:
Frank Jackson.

 

    Coordinator of all planning and general factotum:
Ed Piazza
. The school vice-principal, Len Trout, would assume Ed’s old duties in the interim.

 

    In charge of drafting a proposed permanent constitution for the new—nation? Whatever it was.
Melissa Mailey.

 

    In charge of the town itself, rationing, finance, etc.: The mayor, who else?
Henry Dreeson.

 

    Medical and sanitation:
James Nichols
, with some help from Greg Ferrara when Greg wasn’t too busy being the unofficial “Minister of the Arms Complex.” (Which wasn’t, of course, all that complex at the moment.)

 

    Power and energy:
Bill Porter
and
Quentin Underwood
.

 

    Agriculture:
Willie Ray Hudson.

 

    That left only—

 

    Rebecca had been silent throughout the entire meeting. The refugee had simply listened intently. It was obvious that much of the discussion passed by her completely. But the one time that Mike began to explain an unfamiliar term, she simply shook her head and, with a firm little gesture of her hand, urged him to continue. Clearly enough, Rebecca had an excellent grasp on priorities.
Explain later. Right now, let’s stay alive.

 

    Mike was pleased and gratified by that hand gesture. Quite powerfully, in truth. Charm and exotic beauty are all fine and good in a woman. So, of course, is intelligence. But, like many men born and bred in poverty’s hills, Mike treasured hard-headed practicality even more. He could feel his attraction toward her deepening by the moment. Whether the sentiment was reciprocated, he had no idea. But he made the decision, then and there, that he was going to find out.

 

    Rebecca Abrabanel did not speak until the very end. Then, softly clearing her throat, she asked: “I am uncertain. What is it, exactly, that you desire
me
to do?” Her English had a distinctive accent, a strange blend of Germanic harshness and something of Spain, but her command of the language was fluent and grammatically precise.

 

    Mike hesitated, trying to explain. He blurted out the whimsical thought which first came to him:

 

    “Basically, Miss Abrabanel, I need you to be my National Security Adviser.”

 

    Rebecca frowned. “I understand the words. Taken separately, I mean to say. But I am not certain—” She cocked her head slightly. “Can you explain what I am supposed to
do
?”

 

    Melissa Mailey snorted. “That’s easy, Miss Abrabanel. Just do the same thing every National Security Adviser I can remember always does.” She pointed a finger at Mike. “Whenever he asks you what to do about any problem, just tell him:
Bomb it.
”

 

    The answer confused Rebecca. But not half as much as the uproarious laughter which filled the room. When the laughter died down, Mike stood up and extended his hand.

 

    “May I walk you home, Miss Abrabanel? I can explain on the way.”

 

    Smiling, Rebecca nodded and rose. By the time they had passed through the door and taken three steps down the wide corridor of the school, Rebecca’s hand was tucked under Mike’s arm.

 

    Frank sidled over to the door and peeked after them. Then, chuckling, he turned back and spoke to Melissa. “In that new constitution of yours, I’d suggest you run a little lightly on the matter of separation of powers. We don’t need another scandal in high places, right out of the gate.”

 

    Melissa arched her eyebrows. “Whatever are you talking about, Frank Jackson?
I
certainly don’t see a problem with the chief of state walking his national security adviser home.” She scowled. “In fact—might be a good idea to put in right there in black and white. The National Security Adviser
must
be female.”

 

    Greg Ferrara curled his lip. “Yeah, the gentle sex. Like Catherine the Great, or the Medici women. Or—what was her name? You know. The English queen who had everybody burned at—”

 

    Melissa waved her hand airily. “Details, young man. Details! You can’t get everything perfect. But at least we’d have a modicum of good sense.” She scowled. “Not that I don’t imagine Miss Abrabanel won’t be advocating a certain amount of bombing.”

 

    The scowl deepened. “So would I, come down to it. We could start with half the palaces in Europe.”
Scowl, scowl
. “I take that back. Let’s start with
ninety percent
—and work our way up from there.”
Chapter 9

    When Rebecca and her companion reached his exotic vehicle perched on the flat expanse before the school—the
parking lot
, they called it—she watched him reach into his pocket for the keys. As if suddenly remembering something, he stiffened.
    Rebecca heard him mutter. A suppressed curse, perhaps. She had noticed that American men seemed to avoid the use of obscene terms in the company of women. Quite reticent, they were, compared to the Londoners of her childhood and the men who swarmed in Amsterdam’s streets. But she had also noticed how casually they allowed themselves to blaspheme. She found that combination odd.
    Odd, and—
And what?
she asked herself. A bit frightening, of course. But, for the most part, Rebecca had decided that the casual blasphemy was reassuring. Men who did not seem to fear either the wrath of God or—more to the point—the wrath of their God-fearing neighbors, were men who would be less likely to persecute others for their own beliefs. So, at least, Rebecca hoped. And was even beginning to believe.
    Michael was speaking to her. An apology, it seemed. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to walk. We just approved a decision to restrict gasoline to military use, if you remember.”
    She smiled. “Yes, we did. So? It is not far. The walk will be pleasant.”
    Rebecca almost laughed, seeing his little start of surprise at her answer. So strange, these Americans. They seemed to view the simple exercise of walking as the labors of Hercules. Yet they were quite healthy—much more so, in fact, than any other people of her acquaintance. They appeared to be physically fit, too, other than being even more corpulent than Dutch burghers.
    On average, that is. Michael—
    The man standing next to her was not fat at all. No more than any hidalgo of legend. Over the past three days, talking with the Roths, Rebecca had come to understand that Michael was not an hidalgo. Not of any kind, it seemed. Among their many other peculiarities, the Americans had a ferocious commitment to what they called “democracy.” They reminded her of the old Anabaptists of Munster, without the bizarre excesses.
    Not an hidalgo. But Rebecca, standing there, knew that she would always think of him as such. The knowledge brought a sharp sensation to her heart. Sharp, and confusing. The sensation was partly fear, of course, and partly uncertainty. But she would no longer hide from the rest.
    She saw that Michael had, once again, crooked his elbow in a subtle invitation for her hand. Just as he had done, to her surprise, in the school’s hallway. Her response then had been timid. Now—
    An instant later, her hand was tucked on his arm and they were walking away from the school.
    
No longer hide from the rest. There is a reason, Rebecca, you are feeling that sensation in your heart and not in your head.
    Understanding the risks and dangers involved—
he is a gentile, stupid girl!
—but not wanting to dwell on them, Rebecca hastily brought up a new subject.
    “The ’gasoline’ you seemed so concerned about. I spoke to Mister Ferrara on the subject. For a few minutes only, during one of the recesses in the meeting. If I understand him correctly, I think it is just purified naphtha. Distilled, perhaps. Am I correct?”
    She was expecting him to be startled again. That was the normal reaction Rebecca got from older men—any men—when she asked one of her many questions about the natural world. Instead, to her surprise, the expression which came to his face was—
    
Pride?
    “That’s just about exactly right,” Michael replied. “The distilling process is pretty complicated, you understand.” He frowned. “Probably more than we can manage here, I’m afraid. In any large quantities, at least. But—yes, that’s what gasoline is. Simple, really.”
    “And you then burn it inside the—
motors?
Is that the right word?” At his nod, she added: “And that is the source of the power which drives your horseless carriages.”
    Again, he nodded. And, again, that odd expression came to his face. Smiling very broadly he was, too.
    
Yes. It
is
pride. Why, I wonder?
    
 
    The distance was almost three miles, from the school to the house owned by the Roths where Rebecca was now living. It took them well over an hour to make the journey, as slowly as they were walking. Most of the time—almost all of it—was spent with Rebecca asking questions. Michael answered them, of course. But his answers were usually brief. He was a good listener, and Rebecca more often than not managed to answer her own questions with new ones.
    By the time they reached the Roths’ home, that peculiar expression of pride seemed to have become permanently fixed on Michael’s face. So had his smile.
    But Rebecca no longer wondered at the reason. She knew. And found the knowledge as exhilarating as it was unsettling.
    At the door, standing on the porch, she began to knock. Then, pausing, she turned to face Michael. He was very close to her.
    
This is insane! Insane, Rebecca—do you hear?
    She lowered her eyes, staring at his chest. He was wearing a linen shirt today, well-made and dyed in blues and grays. But she knew that she would always see that chest in white silk, drenched by sunlight. For one of the few times in her life, Rebecca Abrabanel was utterly at a loss for words.
    Michael spoke softly. “Rebecca.”
    She raised her eyes to meet his. He was still smiling. Not broadly, however. The smile seemed—
understanding
, she thought.
    “This is difficult,” he said. “For both of us, I think.” He chuckled. “Sure as hell for me!” Chuckled again. “Dinner and a movie just doesn’t seem appropriate, somehow.”
    She did not comprehend the precise meaning of that sentence, but she understood the logic. Quite well. She felt her cheeks flush, but fought off the urge to lower her eyes. She even smiled herself.
    Michael spread his hands in a gesture which combined amusement, momentary exasperation, and—most of all—patience. Rebecca was dazzled by the charm of it. Relaxed, humorous—
confident
.
    “Time,” he said. “I think—yes. We need some time.”
    Rebecca found herself nodding, and fiercely tried to restrain the impulse. Hopeless.
Idiot girl!
The image of a rabbit came to her mind, sniffing the world’s juiciest cabbage. The image, combined with her nervousness, caused her to burst into sudden laughter.
    Then, seeing the quizzical expression on Michael’s face, she placed her hand on his chest. “Please,” she whispered. “It is not— I am laughing at myself, not you.”
    The humor faded. Staring into his eyes, now, Rebecca fought for the words. So hard, to speak those words, in a world of confusion and chaos. Too hard.
    
Time, yes. I am not ready for this.
    “Do not be angry with me,” she said. Softly, pleading:
“Please.”
    Michael smiled and placed a hand on her cheek. She responded by pressing her cheek into the hand, as if she were an automaton. She did not even try to stop herself.
    “Why should I be angry?” he asked. And that, too—that simple question—seemed as dazzling to her as the sunlight. His hand was very warm.
    He was turning away. “Time,” he said, still smiling. Very broadly, now. Very cheerfully—almost gaily. “Time, yes.”
    Rebecca stared at his departing figure. When Michael reached the bottom of the small flight of stairs, Rebecca blurted out his name.
    He turned and looked back at her.
    The words came, finally. Some of them, at least.
    “I think you are the most splendid man in the world, Michael. Truly I do.”
    A moment later she was knocking on the door. Almost frantically. She did not look behind her, afraid of what she would see. Or, perhaps, she was simply afraid of her reaction to what she knew she would see. A smiling face can be the most frightening thing in the world. Her world, as she knew it.
    The door opened, and she vanished into the safety beyond. Out of the sunlight.
    For a time.
    
Time, yes.
    
Time—yes!