1632

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.'