However, reconnaissance found a pile of destroyed metal where a bridge should have been and a road in impassable condition.
No, the only feasible path went through New Winnabow and its resident idealists.
Gordon Knox offered several suggestions, the most polite of which was to fly the New Winnabow council to the countryside retreat The Empire had established outside of Honesdale, Pennsylvania for the insane “survivors” from the town of Jim Thorpe, the ones who lived in the webs of a brood of White-Terrors for a year. Those hostiles actually fed off fear and suffering like milking dairy cows.
Trevor often thought about the fate of those people. He thought about them whenever anyone suggested a pause in the fighting. Now he thought about them as he considered the pacifists of New Winnabow.
By the morning of Wednesday, August 26, it became apparent General Shepherd had hit a formidable roadblock, the likes of which none of them had encountered to date.
He hated leaving the estate with the threat from Blacksburg lurking in the shadows, but the great cause always came first and that cause called him to North Carolina. Intelligence indicated the Hivvans showed signs of reconstituting their strength; some enemy supply columns had made contact with their brethren inside the half- sealed pocket.
In other words, the clock ticked.
The people of New Winnabow went about their late afternoon business.
Farmers tended to crops. Some hunting parties scoured the swamp and woods while others cleaned kills already made. Entertainers prepared for that night’s performance of Taming of the Shrew in the outdoor theater. A doctor bid goodbye to a patient succumbing to illness. A maintenance man re-pointed a brick wall.
For the residents whose business brought them along Governor’s Road near the edge of town or who returned along Rt. 17 from fishing up in Town Creek, they saw a sight that had become familiar in recent days; the sight of the strange man in the General’s uniform.
On that particular afternoon, the General stood at the outskirts of town with Chief Robert Parsons and council member Elizabeth Doss, a tall woman with short black hair who represented the northwest district of the colony.
As they spoke, a woman in her late twenties approached the group. A six-year-old boy with straight dark hair and wide brown eyes accompanied her, nearly dragged along as his mother marched at a determined pace.
“Father? Is there anything I can help with?” She asked as she neared, but her voice sounded less helpful and more confrontational, as if intending to break up an argument.
Robert Parsons reacted, “Everything is fine. But since you are here, Sharon, there’s someone I would like you to meet.”
Sharon reluctantly stepped amidst the small group. The six-year-old boy gaped at the General with a mixture of awe and fear.
“This is General Jerry Shepherd. General, this is my daughter, Sharon.”
Shep mustered every ounce of chivalrous charm he could find and funneled it into a warm smile and a polite nod.
“Greetings, ma’am.”
She offered no charm. “Why are you still here, General?”
“Sharon! I apologize General, my daughter can be blunt.”
“Oh now don’t go apologizing,” Shepherd maintained his smile. “I tend to be blunt, too. I find it speeds things up.”
Shepherd addressed the woman while her son gazed at the grandfatherly officer. “I’m still here because we’re trying to work out a compromise; a deal that will work for everyone. Seems to me that’s all anybody wants, right?”
“No,” Sharon shot. “We just want to be left alone. I don’t understand why that’s so difficult. We want to be left in peace.”
“Peace,” Shepherd rolled that around on his tongue. “I reckon when it comes to other people, all we want is peace, too.”
A rumble came over the treetops. The ground shook.
Sharon Parsons sneered at the General a split second before the planes appeared.
“Peace? Is that what you call this?”
Two A-10 Thunderbolt jets-big and heavy tank killers-circled the golden field surrounding New Winnabow, and then flew southwest.
The town stopped and the residents collectively gasped.
Before the roar of the jets subsided, a new sound grew from the northeast above Route 17. A heavy thump-thump-thump chopped the air.
A moment later, a pair of Apache attack helicopters appeared overhead. They hovered and examined the scene, then split in different directions to sweep the wilderness around the town.
“I presume your Emperor is coming,” the elder Parsons remarked calmly.
Sharon, less calm, growled, “Shall we get out the tapestries?”
Her son, the six-year-old, held his hands to his ears to block the noise.
Then a much quieter aircraft appeared; one of the Eagle ships. It hummed and whirred as it drifted in from above. Despite its anti-aerodynamic shape, it moved as if a bird, at one with the sky and having formed some sort of amicable deal with gravity.
The craft descended to the grassy field. A short ramp slid from the undercarriage and the side door opened. Two green-camouflaged soldiers disembarked first, then Trevor-dressed in a simple gray tunic-emerged with Tyr the Elkhound at his side.
“Oh my God,” Sharon Parsons chuckled. “He’s just a man. Why look, he walks no more gallantly than the rest of us.”
This time Shepherd did react.
“A man who’s pulled half a million people out of slavery or saved them from starving; a man who turned this whole thing around.”
“Sharon,” Robert Parsons said. “Perhaps you should take Tory and go back to town.”
Shepherd saw that Parsons, unlike his daughter, had received the message sent by the planes and helicopters.
Sharon huffed and dragged her son away.
Shepherd understood how Trevor could be underestimated. With shoulder-length hair and a fit but not exactly muscular physique, from a distance he appeared to be an average guy in his late twenties. What in the old world Shepherd would have thought of as a ‘kid’.
Up close, the determination in his eyes and a rough edge to his skin-like dented armor-told a different, more rugged story.
Trevor nodded to Shep and then addressed New Winnabow’s Chief Councilman. “You must be Robert Parsons.”
“Yes. Yes, and this is Elizabeth Doss, a prominent member of our council.”
Trevor smiled as friendly a smile as such a worn and battle-weary face could muster.
“My name is Trevor Stone, but you already know that. And you also know we have some talking to do…”
…After a brief walk through town, Shepherd followed Trevor, Parsons, and Doss into the main council chambers.
Having stood for less than a year, the room smelled of fresh wood, particularly pine. Hand crafted tables and chairs-without stain or paint-comprised the furnishings making for a simple yet stately atmosphere. Long afternoon shadows stretched in through windows overlooking the tight streets of The Commons area.
Shepherd noticed-but did not think their hosts noticed-that Trevor’s dog Tyr no longer accompanied the group.
In any case, Parsons pointed the conversation in the necessary direction.
“So are you here to give us an ultimatum, Mr. Stone? Or should I call you something else? Lord
