Into the Guns

CHAPTER 6

SOUTHEAST TEXAS

Swamp water churned, and arms thrashed as the men fought. Sloan’s handcuffed hands were positioned in front of Short Guy’s throat, and as he pulled them back, the connecting chain bit into the security officer’s throat. Die, son of a bitch, die! Sloan thought to himself.

But Sloan’s lungs were on fire… And as he began to lose consciousness, he had no choice but to give up and kick with his feet. Their heads broke the surface together. And, as Sloan struggled to suck air into his oxygen-starved lungs, he found himself in the powerful downdraft caused by the Huey’s whirling rotors.

The downward pressure flattened the water around him but started to ease as the helicopter drifted sideways. That was when Flattop appeared in the open doorway above. Geysers of water jumped up in front of Sloan as the man opened fire. Sloan felt Short Guy jerk as a 9mm round struck his body. Holy shit! Flattop didn’t care who he hit.

Sloan tried to take Short Guy with him as he ducked below the surface. It didn’t work. All Sloan could do was slide in under the other man and use the security officer’s body as a shield while he kicked his feet and struggled to breathe. Fortunately, they were close to shore, which meant Sloan was able to tow Short Guy in under the thick foliage that hung out over the water.

The chopper vanished from sight as Sloan felt mud under his shoes and attempted to stand. But that wasn’t possible without lifting his arms up off Short Guy first. Once on his feet, Sloan saw that the other man’s face was blue. Had he been dead before Flattop shot him? That’s the way it looked because the bullet hole was in Short Guy’s left shoulder. Sloan looked up through a tangle of branches as the helicopter passed overhead. Then it was gone. Would Godbee send people to find him? Hell yes, he would.

After securing a firm grip on Short Guy’s collar, Sloan dragged the dead man up onto the muddy bank. His hands shook as he searched the security officer’s pockets. The key, he needed the key, and was thrilled to find it in a pants pocket.

It took three tries to get the key into the lock and turn it. Then, as the cuffs fell away, Sloan felt a profound sense of relief. He could use his hands freely now… And that felt wonderful.

Sloan set about the task of recovering everything else the corpse had to offer. That included Short Guy’s Glock, an extra magazine, and a pocketknife. There was a wallet, too… With 118 bucks in it! Plus a photo of a little girl. She was smiling. Sloan swore. Short Guy was a father—and his daughter was never going to see him again.

That was the moment when Sloan realized he was a killer. Not a pathological killer, he assured himself, but a killer nonetheless. He felt a terrible sense of guilt. But there was fear, too… Fear of being caught. And that was enough to get him moving.

It would have been nice to take the other man’s clothes and rid himself of the jumpsuit, but there was no way that Short Guy’s duds were going to fit. So Sloan pushed the body out into the water, where it soon sank below the surface.

Did the Huey pilot have an exact fix on the spot where the two of them hit the water? That seemed unlikely. So by getting rid of the body, Sloan hoped to make it that much more difficult for searchers to find the starting point.

Think, Sloan told himself, as he used a piece of driftwood to erase his footprints. What should you do next? The answer was obvious. Put a lot of distance between himself and the spot where he was standing. But how? He couldn’t swim from place to place. Not without winding up inside an alligator. I need a log, Sloan concluded. Anything that will keep me up out of the water.

That realization began a search that took him halfway around what turned out to be an island. People had been using the swamp for a long time, so plenty of plastic bottles and chunks of styrofoam were washed up along the shoreline. But it wasn’t until twenty minutes into the search that he located a section of what had been a dock. It consisted of three planks nailed to crosspieces. A raft!

But when Sloan pulled it down into the water, he soon discovered that the planks weren’t enough to support his weight, which meant that they were partially submerged. Not only that, but his feet were hanging off one end and might look good to a hungry gator.

That couldn’t be helped, however. Sloan had to get going and do so quickly. Darkness was still hours away—and Godbee would send boats to find him. Sloan chose the tallest tree on the far shore as his target and began to paddle. It was easy at first. But then, as the adrenaline started to fade, his arms began to tire. All Sloan could do was grit his teeth and keep on.

Eventually, the trees grew taller, details became clear, and the tall marsh grass took him in. As the bottom came up, Sloan stood, pushed the raft in farther, and made his way onto the shore. And not a moment too soon. Sloan heard the airboat before he saw it… He hurried to find a place to hide, remembered the footprints he’d left behind, and went back to smooth them over. He was barely out of sight when the propeller-driven boat appeared.

There were three men in the boat. One sat on a raised seat with the rudder stick in one hand and his foot on the gas. The others were up front, rifles at the ready. Water surged away from the squared-off bow as the driver cut power, and the riflemen used their scopes to search the shoreline.

All Sloan could do was hunker down and wait. According to Short Guy’s Rolex, only ten minutes passed before the engine noise increased, and the airboat departed. But it seemed like an eternity. Sloan felt a sense of relief as he watched it go. But that emotion was short-lived. He needed to do something, but what?

It was tempting to choose a direction and start walking or wading. But that would consume valuable calories, and for what? Chances were that he’d find himself standing in a similar spot two hours later, and with darkness closing in.

No, Sloan decided, it made sense to stay where he was for the night. He’d been a Boy Scout. So he was familiar with the bow-and-drill method of starting a fire, and he knew how difficult the process could be, even in the backyard.

That’s why he decided to build a debris shelter before tackling anything else. There were plenty of fallen branches to choose from, and while going out to gather them, Sloan discovered that he was on a narrow finger of land that jutted out into a lake.

After half an hour or so, Sloan had a large pile of construction materials. The next hour was spent turning them into a small but serviceable hut.

The light was starting to fade as he went to work on a fire. The raw materials had been set aside during the hut construction process—and included a green branch, a stick, fireboard, drill, and socket. With dry tinder at the ready, Sloan turned the branch into a bow by adding one of his shoelaces. The drill consisted of a stick, a concave rock that would serve as a socket, and a piece of dry driftwood for the fireboard.

A legion of mosquitoes began to feast on Sloan as he went to work. And when darkness fell, he was still working, with only a single wisp of smoke to show for his efforts. Eventually, after what might have been an hour, he gave up in disgust.

When it started to rain, Sloan left the hut to tilt his head back and drink as much as he could. Then it was time to go back inside and watch the lightning zigzag across the sky. It lit up the point the way a flashbulb would… But that was comforting in a way because it allowed him to see his surroundings for a moment.

As the thunder died away, Sloan was left to sit in complete darkness as the swamp dwellers came out to eat and be eaten. Sloan heard a cacophony of grunts, what sounded like human screams, and the occasional splash out in the pond. There were hoots as well and, way off in the distance, the intermittent barking of a dog. And that was interesting because dogs usually live with people. Those sounds, combined with the constant whine of the mosquitoes, meant that Sloan didn’t get a wink of sleep.

When daylight returned, it did so gradually as if reluctant to chase the night away. Sloan was hungry by then, his skin was raw from scratching bites, and he was shivering. Not a good start to the day. Get up, Sloan told himself, and move around. You’ll feel warmer then.

That’s what Sloan was thinking about when he heard the distant but unmistakable sound of a chain saw. It was coming from what he thought of as the east, so he dashed across the point to try to get a fix. He was facing a body of water, and the sound seemed to be coming from a point beyond an extremely tall tree, which would give him something to aim at.

Thus began a long, torturous day. It was difficult to steer a straight course as he traveled through a maze of channels. On two occasions, it was necessary to slide off the raft and duck under the surface of the water as the Huey passed overhead. And Sloan saw numerous boats but always in the distance. Were they searching for him? Or did the speedy outboards belong to swampers, who were out doing whatever swampers did? There was no way to know.

All Sloan could do was head from one reference point to another and try to keep the sun behind him. At one point, he tried to will the person with the chain saw to start the machine up but with no success. Finally, hungry and exhausted, Sloan was forced to stop. As the light began to fade, he went ashore and set about the business of gathering materials and building a second hut. A water moccasin slithered away at one point, but the process went more quickly than it had the day before, and Sloan was grateful for that.

There were two potential sources of water, the stuff straight out of the swamp and what could be found in puddles. Sloan was desperately thirsty by that time and decided to take a chance on a pool of rainwater. He took care to filter it through the fabric of his undershirt and into a plastic Coke bottle that had washed up onto the beach. Of course, that was something of a joke because thousands of evil microorganisms might be living in the bottle—or could pass through the weave of his shirt. But it was the best he could do.

After slaking his thirst, Sloan sat down in front of the hut determined to start a fire. But after assembling another bow-and-drill set, and working for what must have been half an hour, he was forced to give up again. The long, cold night began, complete with the usual symphony of nerve-wracking noises.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sloan woke to the realization that he had fallen asleep at some point, the sun was up, and he could hear a chain saw! He burst out of the hut, launched the raft, and began to paddle. The noise stopped after ten minutes—but the sound was enough to restore his morale.

Splash, pull, splash, pull… The work went on and on. There were times when Sloan had to veer off course and circle an island before homing in on whatever tree he was using as a target. He saw alligators from time to time… But none were close.

As the hours passed, Sloan fell into something akin to a trance. His chest was raw by that time, and his shoulders were on fire, but he was only dimly aware of the pain as the battle continued. Finally, as Sloan rounded a point of land, he saw something that caused his heart to leap. A long pole was sticking up out of the water—and a length of bright pink surveyor tape was tied to the top of it! And another marker could be seen farther on! It didn’t take a genius to realize that the carefully placed poles would lead him somewhere. To the person with the chain saw? That seemed like a good bet.

But Sloan knew how vulnerable he was. Maybe the person at the other end of those markers would help him. But it seemed more likely that they’d take one look at the orange jumpsuit and turn him in. And, in the wake of Short Guy’s death, that would be the equivalent of a death sentence.

As Sloan passed the first marker, and closed in on the second, he prayed that no one would happen along in a boat. Because if they did, he’d be at their mercy. Yes, there was the Glock to turn to, but he wanted to avoid that.

To improve his chances of escaping detection, Sloan propelled his raft in under the bank of thick foliage that hung out over the water. It was dark under the greenery, and he would be hard to see there. The next half hour or so was spent working his way into a well-marked side channel. That led him into the lagoon, where a shabby houseboat was moored. It was positioned up against a muddy bank, with a plank to serve as a footbridge.

Sloan stopped paddling at that point and was careful to stay under the foliage. He could see the flat-bottomed skiff that was secured to the houseboat and the motor on the stern. That was his way out if he could steal it. And what other choice did he have? He couldn’t throw himself on the mercy of a complete stranger who, assuming he had a gun, might take one look at the orange jumpsuit and open fire. Where was the swamper anyway? Inside? Or out in the mangroves?

Sloan learned the answer about fifteen minutes later when a man and a hound dog emerged from the trees adjacent to the houseboat. The swamper’s head was bald, but he had a bushy beard to make up for it and was naked except for khaki shorts and rubber boots. He’d been fishing, judging from the pole that he carried in one hand and the bucket that dangled from the other.

The dog was dashing to and fro, sniffing the ground, and pausing to pee every now and then. The plank bounced as the pair made their way aboard the houseboat and disappeared inside. The dog is a problem, Sloan decided, but darkness will fall in a few hours. Maybe I can steal the boat without making any noise.

It wasn’t much of a plan. But it was all he had. So with at least four hours of daylight left, Sloan had no choice but to lie on the raft, let the mosquitoes have their way with him, and drift in and out of consciousness.

Eventually, he woke to discover that it was dark. Sloan eyed the Rolex. It was five to ten, and he could see a square of buttery light through a window, which suggested that the owner was up and about. With that in mind, Sloan resolved to paddle in closer, but not too close, and wait for the light to go out. Once the man was asleep, he’d make his move.

Water gurgled as it swept along both sides of the raft, and Sloan gave thanks for the chorus of swamp sounds. Taken together, they were more than enough to cover his approach.

When Sloan was about fifty feet away from his objective, he brought the raft to a halt with some stealthy back-paddling. At that point, he could hear country-western music emanating from what he assumed to be a battery-powered radio.

Sloan felt a stab of fear as a door opened, and the man emerged. Because the swamper was backlit, all Sloan could see was a silhouette. There was the distinctive rasp of a zipper followed by the unmistakable sound of water hitting water as the man emptied his bladder into the lagoon. That was followed by a throaty growl as the dog emerged to test the night air. “Whatcha smell, boy?” the animal’s owner inquired. “You got a coon?”

The dog yawned and went inside. Sloan released a long, shallow breath and was surprised to learn that he’d been holding it.

The door slammed, the light went out shortly thereafter, and Sloan had the darkness to himself. After counting to five thousand, Sloan paddled in next to the skiff. It would have been impossible to enter the boat from the water without making a commotion. But with the raft for support, he managed to enter the boat with a minimum of fuss.

The next step was to free the skiff from the houseboat and, thanks to Short Guy’s knife, Sloan had the means to cut the painter. The houseboat was so close that he could reach out and touch it. So Sloan put both hands on the hull and gave a push. The boat slid out into the lagoon stern first and coasted to a stop.

At that point Sloan had a fresh set of problems to deal with. Which way to go? And how to proceed? Would the motor start easily? And, even if it did, would he run aground in the darkness? Sloan feared that he would, and set about the process of deploying the oars. The oarlocks rattled but couldn’t be heard over the racket being made by the creatures of the night.

Sloan had the oars out and was pulling away when the dog began to bark. Because of him? Or in response to something else? There was no way to know. A light appeared inside the houseboat, the door opened, and a powerful beam shot out to probe the lagoon. It missed the skiff at first but soon came back to pin the boat in its glare!

Sloan was momentarily grateful for the light because it told him which way to go. The man shouted at him and waved a fist before ducking into the cabin. Then he was back with a rifle. But, because the swamper had to hold the weapon and the big flashlight, his aim was off. Geysers of water jumped up around the skiff as Sloan pulled with all his might.

Then the houseboat was gone as the skiff entered the main channel. Sloan permitted himself a whoop of joy. The rifle shots, plus his celebratory shout, were enough to silence the denizens of the darkness for a moment. But they were in full cry seconds later. Sloan laughed out loud. He was alive… And he was free!

As Sloan pulled on the oars, darkness ruled the swamp, and ominous noises could be heard from all around. He couldn’t see. So it wasn’t long before the skiff ran into what proved to be a tangle of mangrove roots—and Sloan decided that it would be foolish to continue on. After securing the boat to a branch, he searched it for food. That was difficult in the dark, but the cooler produced two cans of beer, one of which went down straightaway.

The alcohol entered his bloodstream quickly, and Sloan was feeling light-headed when he found a large ziplock bag. It contained a Bic lighter, a Hershey bar, and a grimy map. Sloan didn’t fully appreciate the find at the time, however, because he was too busy consuming the candy bar. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

After that, all he could do was stretch out on the middle seat with his feet sticking out over the side. A rain poncho served to protect his upper body from insects and conserve heat. What followed was a long, uncomfortable night spent drifting in and out of sleep as the night creatures conspired to keep him awake. And those moments were spent worrying.

What if the swamper had another boat hidden away? Or possessed the means to summon help? Sloan hadn’t rowed far… No more than half a mile. So was the man closing in? Preparing to shoot him? And who could blame the swamper if he did?

Sloan wished there was some way he could compensate the man for the boat but couldn’t think of one. As soon as there was enough light to see by, Sloan consulted the map. And he was sitting there, wishing for a compass, when the sun appeared! Not for long… But the brief glimpse was enough to get oriented.

The motor had its own integral gas tank, which was half-full. Sloan hoped that it, plus the fuel in the two-and-a-half-gallon auxiliary tank, would get him to neighboring Louisiana.

The motor started with a single pull of the rope and ran smoothly as Sloan followed pole markers to what he thought was an eastbound channel. It was a dead end. Fifteen minutes had been wasted going in, and fifteen minutes had been wasted coming out, not to mention some precious fuel.

Thus began a frustrating day. But by the time the light began to fade, Sloan had found his way into Stark’s North Canal and entered Black Lake. During the journey, he had seen vehicles driving along the tops of dikes and spotted boats in the distance. That’s why he was wearing the poncho over the jumpsuit. Not only was it an obnoxious shade of orange; it had the word PRISONER printed across the back and would leave no doubt as to his status. Sloan needed to find clothes and food. His stomach growled in agreement.

As the sun set, Sloan beached the boat in a hidden cove and built a fire for warmth. Ironically, given the fact that he had a fishing boat, there wasn’t any gear in it.

In hopes of finding something edible along the shoreline, Sloan removed his shoes and began to wade through the mud. A long shot, or so he thought, until he stepped on what felt like a rock. But the rock wasn’t a rock! It was a fine specimen of Corbicula fluminea!

Sloan knew that because the so-called Asian clams had a propensity to clog intake pipes and were the bane of power plants. As Secretary of Energy, he’d been in charge of the effort to eliminate them.

Sloan was tempted to eat the clams raw… But, rather than risk it, he resolved to steam them instead. He brought double handfuls of the bivalves over to the fire he had started using the Bic, placed carefully chosen stones in among the coals, and went out to gather additional driftwood. Fifteen minutes later, Sloan placed six shells on top of the improvised cooking surface and waited for them to open.

It didn’t take long. As soon as a clam was ready Sloan was there to grab the shell with a pair of rusty pliers and remove it from the fire. As he ate, Sloan washed the clams down with sips of lukewarm beer. It was one of the best meals he’d ever had. And for the first time in days, he went to sleep feeling full, mostly warm, and free from fear.

When Sloan rose the next morning, he was hungry but filled with hope as he launched the boat. Fuel had started to run low by then… So Sloan kept an eye out for a boat or fishing camp that might yield what he needed.

He hugged the south end of Black Lake because, according to the map, that would allow him to reach the Intracoastal Waterway through a connecting channel. There was an industrial complex on the right. Sloan gave it a wide berth, knowing that there would be people around.

Channels ran every which way at the southeast corner of the lake, and Sloan lost the better part of an hour making wrong turns. Finally, after starting over, he fell into company with a small tug. It had a barge in tow and was headed east. To the Intracoastal? Probably. So Sloan followed along behind. The tug entered the larger waterway an hour later, and that was Sloan’s cue to turn left, knowing that the Intracoastal would take him north to the city of Lake Charles, Louisiana.

There was a lot of boat and barge traffic on the waterway and, much to his surprise, some of it was clearly recreational. What about fuel? Why did everything look so normal? It didn’t make sense. Most of the traffic was commercial, however, so he ran the boat along the eastern shoreline, where there was less chance of being hit. Even so, some of the larger vessels produced wakes so powerful that Sloan had to turn into them. That was a worrisome waste of both fuel and time.

Meanwhile, the little five-horse was about to run out of gas because all of the fuel in the auxiliary tank had been transferred to the motor by that time. So when a pontoon boat appeared up ahead, Sloan took notice. It was a yacht in all truth but riding on pontoons rather than a conventional hull, which created a lot of deck space. The boat was moored to a pair of trees and seemed to be deserted. But maybe the owner was inside taking a nap. With that in mind, Sloan gave a shout. “Ahoy there! Is anyone home?”

Having heard no response, Sloan pulled over in front of the larger craft, tied the skiff to a sapling, and called out again. After a minute or so, he jumped the gap. The door to the cabin was in front of him and a handwritten sign was posted in the window: MECHANICAL PROBLEMS… BACK SOON.

That meant the owner could return at any moment. Sloan felt his heart beat faster as he took a rock out from under his poncho and broke the window. After knocking the remaining shards of glass loose, he reached in to open the door. Be quick, Sloan told himself. Get in and get out.

Broken glass crunched underfoot as Sloan entered and went straight to a nicely equipped galley. A canvas tote was stored in a cubbyhole, and after dumping half a dozen cans into it, Sloan remembered to grab a pot, plus a pair of salt and pepper shakers. The bottle of Riesling was an afterthought.

Then he went forward. A closet was located next to the head—and Sloan had lots of clothes to choose from. He appropriated a pair of jeans, two tee shirts, and a Tommy Bahama jacket. They went into a nylon knapsack along with two pairs of boxers and some black socks. Hurry, Sloan told himself, don’t screw around.

Blood was pounding in Sloan’s ears as he grabbed a box of Kleenex to use as toilet paper and returned to the galley. Then with a bag in each hand, he went outside and jumped over to the riverbank. After placing the loot in the skiff, Sloan grabbed the auxiliary gas tank and returned to the yacht.

The pontoon boat was equipped with a pair of humongous four-cycle outboard motors. That meant they, unlike the five-horse, could use straight gas. But if Sloan could find a quart of oil, he could add some to the fuel—and use it in the little motor.

Sloan went to the stern, where he opened storage lockers until he found part of what he needed. That included a well-equipped toolbox and half a quart of Honda Marine engine oil. The next step was to open a deck hatch and access the plastic tubing that ran every which way. The last thing Sloan wanted to do was cut a fuel line.

Sloan spent three minutes isolating a water line, clamped it off, and cut a section free. After dividing the hose in two, he set about the process of siphoning gas into the auxiliary tank. A skill perfected on the family farm. The process seemed to take forever, and Sloan felt jumpy. Was the distant speedboat turning his way? No, thank God, but the next one might.

Finally, the auxiliary tank was full. Sloan removed the tubes, screwed the cap onto the tank, and lugged it over to the side of the boat. After heaving the heavy container across the narrow strip of open water, he followed. Then he carried the container to the skiff, put it in, and cast off. No way in hell was he going to sit there and refuel the motor when the pontoon boat’s owner could arrive at any minute.

Sloan felt guilty as he got under way—and refused to make excuses for himself. He knew what his father would say: “Stealing is wrong regardless of the circumstances, son… You need to make it right.” But Sloan couldn’t make it right… And he could feel the weight of his father’s disapproval as he motored north.

Sloan glanced back over his shoulder from time to time, fearful that a vengeful yacht owner was after him. When a side channel opened up on the right, he took it. The bottom came up quickly, but the skiff drew very little water and entered without difficulty.

As the waterway curved to the left, Sloan realized that he was circling a small island. That was good since there were lots of trees on it, and they would screen him from the Intracoastal.

The moment a small cove appeared, Sloan cut power, pulled the outboard up out of the water, and rowed to shore. The hull made a scraping sound as the bow ran up onto a gravelly beach. Then it was a simple matter to ship the oars, get out, and wade ashore.

The next hour was spent taking a bath and donning clean clothes. Sloan got rid of the orange jumpsuit by digging a hole and burying it. As soon as that was accomplished, he built a small fire, knowing that if someone happened along, he’d look as innocent as a man with a scruffy beard could.

Sloan’s loot included a can of stew. After dumping it into the stolen pot, he was forced to wait. To kill time and slake his thirst, he opened the bottle of wine. And, lacking a corkscrew, he made quite a mess of it. I should have selected a red, Sloan thought to himself as he pried the last chunk of cork out. To go with the stew.

Sloan’s stomach rumbled ominously as he took the bubbling brew off the fire and went to work. He ate, using a cooking spoon and pausing occasionally to take sips of wine.

Once his stomach was full, Sloan was faced with a choice. It was midafternoon, so perhaps he should remain on the island and get an early start the next morning. But the sooner Sloan arrived in Lake Charles, the sooner he’d be able to travel north, where he hoped to find some support.

With that in mind Sloan put everything back in the boat, poured water on the fire, and rowed out to where he could start the motor. The channel led him into the main waterway, where he fell in behind a heavily loaded barge. With the motor running full out, Sloan could keep up—and was content to do so as day gave way to night.

Clusters of lights appeared, marking the locations of small communities and signaling the fact that the power was on. How could that be? But what was, was.

Finally, after an hour or so, Sloan made the decision to go ashore. He was tired and concerned lest the motor run out of gas while on the Intracoastal. And the last thing he wanted to do was to try to refill the internal tank in the dark. He saw some lights and took aim at them.

Fifteen minutes later, Sloan arrived at a small town. He had some money, but should he spend it? Especially in a little Podunk town where strangers would stick out. No, Sloan decided, it would be best to hold out for a larger town.

The waterfront park was equipped with picnic tables and metal barbecues. There was no way to know how the local police force would look on overnight camping, so Sloan chose the spot farthest from the parking lot, hoping to escape notice.

There wasn’t much firewood to be had, but Sloan managed to scrounge enough fallen branches to build a small fire and heat a can of chili. That, along with what remained of the wine, was sufficient to warm his belly.

After washing up, Sloan put on every piece of clothing he had with the rain poncho on top. Then, with no good place to sleep, he was forced to hunker down on a much-abused cushion that was enough to keep his butt up out of the water in the bottom of the boat. The incessant moan of a distant foghorn, the occasional barking of a dog, and a sudden rain shower kept him awake. The night seemed to last forever.

Dawn came eventually. But with no dry firewood, Sloan left as soon as there was sufficient light to see by. He figured he was north of Moss Lake and likely to reach the city of Lake Charles by evening.

The sky was blue for once, and Sloan hoped that was a good omen, as an endless succession of whitecaps marched down from the north. Spray exploded sideways as the boat smacked into the waves, and droplets of water flew back to wet his poncho.

There was no warmth to be had from the wan sunlight. All Sloan could do was sit in the stern and shiver, as the tireless five-horse pushed him past Prien Lake and into Lake Charles.

It was necessary to refuel shortly thereafter. Sloan had to hurry as waves hit the skiff broadside and threatened to swamp it. But he got the job done. And it wasn’t long before Sloan saw two office buildings and a TV tower on the horizon. The city of Lake Charles! He was close.

Forty-five minutes later, Sloan could see the town’s mostly low-lying buildings and a well-developed waterfront. And that raised a question: Where to leave the boat? The obvious answer was with other boats—in the hope that no one would notice it for a while.

It took about fifteen minutes to find a small marina, collect his scant belongings, and walk away. Maybe the authorities would be able to trace the boat back to its rightful owner via the registration decal on the bow. Sloan hoped so. The marina was located near the intersection of Bor Du Lac and Lakeshore Drives.

As Sloan entered town, he was surprised to see how many people were marching about, waving flags, and shouting slogans. A man carrying a Confederate flag was flanked by picketers armed with “New Order” signs.

Meanwhile, a hundred feet away, those waving American flags had the support of a costumed flutist who was playing “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Most of the bystanders were cheering for the Confederates, so it appeared that Huxton and his friends were making progress. Having failed to recruit him, what would they do next?

But politics would have to wait. Sloan had more pressing problems to deal with. Thanks to Short Guy he had enough money for some basic toiletries, a decent meal, and a night in a cheap hotel.

He awoke feeling hungry. But before Sloan went looking for breakfast, he wanted to take full advantage of the shower and the opportunity to shave the scruffy beard off.

Sloan had no choice but to put the same clothes back on. Clean now, for the most part anyway, he made his way to a nearby café, where he ordered the “Sunrise Special.” It consisted of two strips of bacon, two eggs any style, and two pancakes—plus all the coffee Sloan could consume. He ate every bite and consumed three cups of coffee.

Then it was time to hit the streets and look for an affordable way out of town. The first thing Sloan noticed was the number of people on the streets. And the way they were congregated around various speakers. By listening in, it soon became apparent that a referendum was under way. Should the state of Louisiana secede? Or remain with the “old” government, which, according to the propaganda being bandied about, was intent on subverting the Constitution on behalf of “the takers.” Takers being those on social security and public assistance.

That was bullshit, of course, and some of the “patriots” stood up to say so. One such person was a thirtysomething black man wearing a well-cut business suit. He was standing on the bed of a bunting-draped pickup truck and holding a bullhorn up to his mouth. “This is the time to rally behind our country,” he told a small crowd, “not to tear it down. Do you really believe that rich people are going to look after your interests? Of course they won’t… The only thing they care about is themselves! That’s what ‘security through self-reliance’ means. It’s another way of saying, ‘I have mine, and you can kiss my ass!’”

The man might have said more… But a dozen men armed with baseball bats chased the onlookers away. They lined up along both sides of the truck and began to rock it back and forth. Sloan took a look around. Where were the police? Deliberately missing in action. The beleaguered speaker had little choice but to jump off the back of the vehicle and run. Two thugs gave chase, caught up with the man, and hauled him around a corner.

Sloan pushed his way through the crowd. There was a construction site to his left, and he paused long enough to grab a four-foot length of two-by-two from a pile of scrap, before continuing on. The Glock was at the small of his back, but Sloan wasn’t planning to use it unless forced to do so.

When Sloan rounded the corner, he saw that the thugs had the man down, and were kicking him. Their backs were turned, and that was fine with Sloan, who came up behind them. After planting his feet, he took a swing. He felt the impact of the blow as the stick hit the man’s head. The thug fell as if poleaxed and lay motionless on the ground.

As the second attacker turned, the two-by-two was falling again. Sloan missed the thug’s head and struck his shoulder. The man uttered a scream as the force of the blow broke his left clavicle. He stumbled away, fell, and lay moaning on the ground.

The patriot was back on his feet by then, dusting his suit off. The kick was an afterthought. “Asshole.”

“Come on,” Sloan said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Recommendation accepted,” the other man said. “‘The better part of valor is discretion.’ Henry IV, Part 1, act 5, scene 4. Reginald P. Allston at your service.”

“You’re an actor?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

“An amateur,” Allston replied. “I make my living as an attorney.”

“I liked your speech,” Sloan told him. “That took balls.”

“Thanks. And you are?”

“Samuel Sloan.”

Allston frowned. “The name sounds familiar.”

“I was the Secretary of Energy until recently,” Sloan replied.

“If you say so,” Allston replied.

“No, really, I was.”

“Was?”

“Well, according to what I’ve been told, the president, which is to say Marilyn Wainwright, had a heart attack and died. And, since all of the officials who outranked me were killed, I’m the president.”

Allston laughed. “That’s absurd. You’re delusional.”

Sloan stopped, causing Allston to do likewise. He wanted the attorney to take him seriously. But how? Then he saw the building on the opposite side of the street and realized that the solution was waiting inside. “Can I call you Reggie?”

“Everyone does.”

“Good. Follow me, Reggie… I’m the President of the United States, and I can prove it.”

The sign on the front of the building read, CARNEGIE MEMORIAL LIBRARY. Once inside, Sloan led Allston to the information desk, where a young woman with purple hair looked up at him. “How can I help you?”

“Where are the periodicals located?”

“Prior to the meteor strikes, most people went online to access periodicals,” the woman said, as if explaining the concept to a child.

“But you have copies stored here, right?”

“In some cases, yes.”

“How about the New York Times?”

“We have copies predating the meteor strikes if that’s what you mean… But the Times has been added to the proscribed list, so if the paper still exists, we won’t be able to obtain new copies.”

“Proscribed list?” Allston demanded. “What’s that?”

“It’s a list of publications that the state legislature considers to be counterproductive,” the librarian replied expressionlessly. Did she approve or disapprove? Sloan would have been willing to put money on the second possibility.

“That’s censorship,” Allston said. “And it’s a violation of the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.”

“You aren’t in the United States,” the woman countered. “You’re in the state of Louisiana.”

Sloan was afraid that Allston was about to deliver another speech and hurried to cut him off. “Thanks for your help. Where can we access the periodicals that you still have?”

The librarian pointed, and Sloan escorted Allston back through the stacks to a corner of the library. A sign said PERIODICALS, and four terminals were located immediately below it. “I appreciate what you did for me,” Allston said. “But I don’t have time for this.”

“Five minutes,” Sloan said. “That’s all I need.”

“Okay,” Allston said reluctantly. “Five minutes. Then I’m out of here.”

Sloan sat down, worked his way through a menu, and selected “New York Times.” Then he entered a date. The article he wanted was on page one above the fold. “There,” Sloan said, as he stood. “Take a look.”

Allston sat down. And there, right in front of him, was a photo of Sloan standing next to the President of the United States. The headline read: “New Secretary of Energy Sworn In.”

Allston looked at Sloan and back to the screen. “Holy shit… It’s you!”

“Yes, it is,” Sloan agreed. “And, assuming that all of the people who outranked me were killed, then I’m the president.”

“Hell yes, you are,” Allston said enthusiastically, and hit PRINT. A printer began to whir, and Allston was there to receive five copies of the article as they slid into the tray. “Do you realize what this means?” he demanded. “We can prove who you are! And we can pull the country back together. That’s what you want, right?”

“That’s what I want,” Sloan assured him. “I want to restore the government.”

“Then I’m with you,” Allston assured him. “Come on… Let’s see what those bastards did to my uncle’s truck.”

Sloan followed Allston past the reception desk and outside. Sirens could be heard, and greasy black smoke was spiraling up into the sky. And when the men rounded a corner, they could see that the pickup was on fire. The police were nowhere to be seen, but an aid unit was pulling away, and firemen were working to extinguish the flames. “Uh-oh,” Allston said, “Uncle Leo’s gonna be pissed. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we headed?” Sloan inquired, as they hurried away.

“We’re going to rent a car,” Allston answered. “And drive it to Shreveport.”

Sloan knew that Shreveport was to the north, so there was no reason to object. It took the better part of an hour to find a rental agency and complete the necessary paperwork, all the while wondering if someone would recognize Allston and refuse to serve him. No one did. The attorney had to pay half the fee in advance and used silver coins to do so. Sloan made a note to learn more about them later. As soon as they were in the car, Allston made his way onto Highway 171 and drove north. “We’re going to meet with some friends of mine,” Allston said. “They saw this day coming—and are ready to fight.”

“Sounds good,” Sloan said. “Where are they?”

“They’re going to meet at a location in the Ouachita National Forest,” Allston replied. “And I was planning to join them there. So,” he continued, “how did you wind up in Lake Charles?”

Sloan told him about Mexico, about paddling north, and being held prisoner. And when it came to the meeting in Houston, Allston was incredulous. “So they knew who you were? Damn, that’s amazing. So what happened?”

Allston listened intently as Sloan told him about jumping out of the Huey, stealing the boat, and making his way up the Intracoastal. Allston shook his head in amazement. “You are one persistent son of a bitch, Mr. President, and that’s a good thing.”

The highway took them through Moss Bluff and Gillis before transforming itself into Highway 190. Then, just north of DeRidder, Highway 171 signs appeared again. From that point on, it was a straight shot up through Leesville and Mansfield to the city of Shreveport.

But what should have been a three-hour trip was transformed into a four-hour pain in the ass, as Allston was forced to deal with a succession of military convoys all headed north. “Eyeball those markings,” Allston said, as they passed a column of olive drab trucks. “Do you notice anything?”

“Yes, I do,” Sloan confirmed, as he eyed the wind-whipped Confederate flags that were flying from aerials, and the handwritten words on doors. They read, ARMY OF THE NEW CONFEDERACY. And the meaning was clear. At least some of the military had broken away and aligned itself with the South.

“The bastards are moving quickly,” Allston observed.

“Yes, they are,” Sloan agreed. Was it too late to catch up? The thought frightened him.

They entered Shreveport half an hour later. “This is home sweet home,” Allston said. “I need to drop by my apartment—and you need everything. You only get one chance to make a first impression. That’s what my daddy told me—and you look like a bum. So we’re gonna go shopping. How ’bout it, Mr. President? Is that okay with you?”

“Yes,” Sloan answered. “Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”

“Good,” Allston replied. “I’d hate to sue the POTUS.” Both men laughed.

Sloan had been to Shreveport once before but only briefly. He recognized the Regions Tower, however, if not the lesser buildings that surrounded it. Allston guided the car through the streets with the expertise of a native—and it wasn’t long before they entered an area called Country Club Hills. “This looks like a nice neighborhood,” Sloan observed. “What kind of law do you practice?”

“Alternative Dispute Resolution.”

“Which means?”

“Which means trying to resolve disputes through the use of mediation, arbitration, and old-fashioned common sense.”

“And it pays well?”

“Very well… And that’s why I can afford to pimp the president out. Or at least I think I can. Businesses won’t accept credit cards anymore, but I have a supply of new coin.”

“New coin? What’s that?”

“Look in the bottom of the cup holder… You’ll find some new coins in there.”

The strange-looking coins were made of silver, and had the likeness of a man on both sides. No, as Sloan looked more closely, he realized that he was looking at the Libertarian icon Ayn Rand! A dyed-in-the-wool believer in the sort of free-market, laissez-faire capitalism that the fortunate few loved but would leave everyone else to beg on the streets.

And sure enough, the words SECURITY THROUGH SELF-RELIANCE could be seen chasing each other around the rim of each coin. Sloan felt a rising sense of desperation. Huxton and his friends were issuing money, while the President of the United States was trying to make his way north. Sloan sighed. There was so much bullshit to counter and so little time to do it in.

Allston’s home was located in an attractive five-story apartment building. We’ll have to leave the car out here,” the lawyer explained, as they pulled into visitor parking. “I have a single slot, and my car is in it.”

“Your sports car.”

“Damned right my sports car… And it’s a righteous ride. Come on.”

Allston’s two-bedroom apartment was on the top floor and looked like an ad for Restoration Hardware. “Nice,” Sloan said, as they entered, “very nice. And you aren’t married.”

Allston frowned. “How could you tell?”

“Someone left a bra hanging on the telescope.”

“Oh that,” Allston said dismissively. “It’s a good thing that Mom didn’t drop by. Okay, do what you need to do, and we’ll leave in ten.”

It was thirty minutes later when they left. Allston chose to drive his BMW 2-series sports car rather than the rental car. It was dark by then, but the lights were on, and there was plenty of traffic. “Okay,” Allston said. “We’re headed for the mall, and if things go the way I hope they will, a lot of people are going to meet you during the coming months. And since you’re a farm boy, not to mention a man of the people, you should dress accordingly. That’s why we’re going to buy you a couple of ball caps, a barn coat, plaid shirts, Levi’s, and hiking boots. Some camping gear would come in handy, too, since we’ll have to hoof it up north.”

They were inside the mall by then. The lights were on, but the crowd was thin. “Did you say ‘we’?” Sloan inquired.

“I’m going with you,” Allston said.

“What about the law practice, the apartment, and the BMW?”

“Screw that stuff,” Allston replied. “Our country comes first.”

Sloan stopped, forcing Allston to do likewise. The younger man had short hair, a high forehead, and wide-set eyes. Sloan extended his hand. “Thanks, Reggie. And congratulations.”

Allston had a firm grip. “‘Congratulations’? For what?”

“For being appointed Attorney General of the United States of America… That’s subject to confirmation of course—but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Allston grinned. “Momma’s gonna be proud.”

After two hours of shopping, and dinner at a chain restaurant, they returned to the apartment. Allston pointed the way to the guest room. “Make yourself at home and grab some sleep. You may hear me going in and out. I have a lot to do, including stashing my personal records in a safe place.”

“So you won’t be back?” Sloan inquired.

“Not until we win the war,” Allston replied.

“You think it will come to that?”

“I think it’s under way,” Allston said.

The foreboding words were still echoing through Sloan’s mind as he carried his new possessions into a nicely furnished guest room and set about the business of removing tags. Then it was time to pack everything he wouldn’t need the following day.

After brushing his teeth, Sloan took a shower and went to bed. It was comfortable, and he was tired. Sleep claimed him. It was still dark when Sloan heard a knock on the door. “Get up, Mr. President,” Allston said from the hallway. “You have work to do.”

Sloan rolled out of bed, entered the attached bathroom, and spent the next twenty minutes getting ready. It felt good to put on clean clothes. He was tying the laces on his boots when Allston entered. “Good morning… Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. How ’bout you?”

“It was tough saying good-bye to Mom. Fortunately, there’s plenty of family to look after her.”

“Good,” Sloan said. “Did you tell her about the new job?”

“Yes, but she doesn’t believe it. Hell, I don’t believe it.”

“I know how you feel,” Sloan said as he hoisted the new backpack off the floor. “Let’s get going.”

Rain was falling from a lead-gray sky, and the occasional clap of thunder could be heard off in the distance, as the men placed their packs in the Beemer’s tiny trunk. “What about the rental car?” Sloan wanted to know.

“I told my uncle to come over and take care of it. And I gave him my furniture,” Allston replied. “He isn’t happy, mind you—but I hope to make it up to him later.”

Allston departed Shreveport on Highway 3. It turned into 29 as it left Louisiana and entered Arkansas. They had breakfast at a restaurant in Bradley before making their way north through Lewisville to the town of Hope.

After a pit stop, Allston followed I-30 up to Arkadelphia, where he left the interstate for Highway 8. “This will take us into the Ouachita National Forest,” he predicted. “And that’s where we’ll ditch the car.”

Sloan looked over at him. “That’s gotta hurt.”

Allston’s eyes were on the road. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sloan nodded. “Got it.”

Allston had a map, which he gave to Sloan. “X marks the spot, Mr. President. We’ll walk from there.”

Sloan looked up from the map to the rain-smeared windshield. There were forests of oak trees, the occasional glimpse of a lake, and streams that flowed under the highway. About ten minutes passed before Sloan spotted what he was looking for. “There it is,” he said. “Walker Road. That’s where we turn right.”

Allston made the turn, and Sloan eyed the map. “Watch the odometer,” he advised. “We’re supposed to drive for ten miles and turn off onto a road marked by a large boulder.”

“Got it,” Allston replied. The gravel road forced him to keep the speed down, but it wasn’t long before they hit the ten-mile mark and saw a garage-sized boulder up ahead. And there, what looked like a wide path led off into the woods.

Allston turned onto it but the BMW had very little ground clearance, and it wasn’t long before he had to pull over and park. “This is as far as we can go,” he announced. “Everyone out.”

Once the trunk was open, Sloan got into the rain gear acquired the day before. Then he shouldered a pack. Allston did likewise. “I left the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition,” he said. “Who knows what the authorities will make of that.”

The next two hours were spent following trails that frequently split into more trails, forcing Sloan to repeatedly consult the hand-drawn map. Was it accurate? He hoped so because they were wasting a lot of time and effort if it wasn’t.

In spite of the rainy weather, others were out and about as well. Because according to the calendar, it was summer and time to go camping. Something the locals were determined to do regardless of the circumstances. The men exchanged greetings with other hikers as they continued to follow a succession of well-trod paths in a generally northeasterly direction.

The terrain, which had been flat to begin with, began to slope upwards as time passed. And Sloan could see a mountaintop ahead. Unlike most ranges in the United States, the Ouachitas ran east and west instead of north and south.

At one point, the Ouachitas had been as tall as the Rockies. But erosion had taken a toll over thousands of years, and once-craggy peaks had been reduced to softly rounded summits. And that’s what Sloan could see in the distance.

As they followed the map off a well-established trail, and up through stands of red, black, and white oak trees, Sloan saw some loblolly pines to one side, flanked by native shrubs. Sloan had begun to feel the climb by then. His breath came in gasps, his shoulders ached from the weight of the pack, and his boots felt as if they were made of lead. Allston was suffering, too. “How much farther?” he inquired, as they paused to rest.

Sloan consulted the map. “See the rockslide? And the cliff beyond? The cave is located at its base. Assuming we’re in the right place.”

“I hope we are,” Allston said fervently. “Let’s get moving.”

It took a long time to negotiate the rockslide. The scree was loose and had a tendency to slide, which forced the men to scramble. So a climb that should have taken half an hour lasted twice that long. But, eventually, they arrived at the top of the slope, where a cluster of pines marked the base of the cliff. “We’re there,” Sloan announced. “Or we should be. Come on.”

As Sloan led the way to the pines, he felt as if something, or someone, was watching him. And sure enough, when he looked up, Sloan saw an eagle circling above. “Put your hands on your head,” a voice said. “And turn around.”

The sentry had been hidden behind a pile of boulders. He was a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and an AR-15. It was aimed at Sloan and wavered slightly. “Don’t shoot him,” Allston said as he arrived. “He’s one of us.”

As the man turned to look at Allston, the assault rifle turned with him. That gave Sloan the perfect opportunity to pull the Glock and fire. And that, he realized, was the problem with a volunteer military force. Especially if they had to fight trained soldiers like the ones who’d gone over to the New Confederacy. “Reggie!” the man said enthusiastically. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Allston replied. “Sam… This is Frank Garrison. He’s a gentleman farmer, a cutthroat bridge player, and a stamp collector. And that’s why he wants to reconstitute the government. So there will be new stamps.”

Garrison chuckled and was careful to point his weapon at the sky as he came forward to shake Sloan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam… Any friend of Reggie’s is a friend of mine.”

“The pleasure is mutual,” Sloan assured him while he shook a callused hand.

“The entrance is up there,” Garrison said as he removed a walkie-talkie from a pocket. “I’ll let ’em know that you’re coming.”

Sloan heard the sound of Garrison’s voice as Allston took the lead. The entrance to the cave was concealed by bushes that had clearly been planted there. A vertical crevice opened onto a passageway that led into the mountain. Sloan had to bend over to make his way forward—and felt the pack scrape on the ceiling as he did so.

The passageway delivered them into a dimly lit cave. What illumination there was came in through a hole in the roof combined with the light from a small fire and two battery-powered lanterns. They threw shadows onto the wall as people gathered around.

Allston was quite popular, as evidenced by hugs and the enthusiastic manner in which the others received him. Then it was time for introductions. Cindy Howell presented herself as a marathon runner, a high school science teacher, and a future bomb maker. Sloan got the feeling she was looking forward to blowing things up.

Lester Jenkins was AWOL from his job as a deputy sheriff. The combination of brown skin and light blue eyes made his face memorable—and Sloan marked him down as a man who would be useful in a fight.

Sam McKinney was the strong, silent type, who, according to Allston, had spent eight years in the army and left it to care for his gravely ill wife. It wasn’t clear what happened thereafter—but his presence seemed to speak volumes.

Doyle Besom was fortysomething, at least twenty pounds overweight, and wore his hair Ben Franklin–style. He’d been a public-relations manager before leaving his job to join the patriots.

Finally, there was Marsha Rostov who introduced herself as Deputy Commissioner of the IRS. She was short, dumpy, and had eyes like lasers. Sloan knew the type. He figured Rostov for a professional bureaucrat who, thanks to hard work and political acumen, had risen as high as one could go without being a political appointee.

And while it was tempting to dismiss her based on appearances, Sloan knew that could be a costly mistake. It was reasonable to assume that Rostov knew everything there was to know about collecting taxes, and the government was going to need money. Where was the commissioner anyway? Dead or alive? Sloan did his best to turn on the charm. “Ms. Rostov! This is a pleasure. I know the commissioner… Did she survive the strike on D.C.?”

“It’s hard to be sure,” Rostov replied cautiously, “but there hasn’t been any word of her. Have we met? You look familiar.”

“And that brings me to Sam’s status,” Allston interjected smoothly. “I forgot to mention the fact that he was the Secretary of Energy back on May 1. And, in the wake of President Wainwright’s death, that makes him President of the United States.”

Rostov blinked. “Holy shit… Really?”

“Really,” Allston replied. “It seems safe to assume that if a more senior official had survived, he or she would have come forward by now.”

That led to a spirited discussion, in which Besom took the role of cynic. “We need a new president, that’s for sure,” he said. “But how do we know this man is who he claims to be?” Besom turned to Sloan. “No offense… But have you got a driver’s license or something?”

“I was in Mexico when the meteorites struck,” Sloan said. “And I lost my ID during the trip north.”

“How unfortunate,” Besom said.

“I suggest that you take a look at this,” Allston said, as he removed a piece of paper from a coat pocket. There was a rustling noise as he held it up for people to look at. Jenkins made the article readable by aiming a flashlight at it. Then he read the headline out loud. “‘New Secretary of Energy Sworn In.’”

“That’s where I saw him!” Rostov exclaimed. “On TV! Testifying in front of Congress.”

All eyes turned to Sloan. McKinney was the first to speak. “Congratulations, Mr. President. The job won’t be easy.”

Sloan felt the full weight of the presidency settle onto his shoulders. “Thank you… And no, it won’t. The people down south have a big head start.”

“That’s for sure,” Jenkins agreed. “Take the defense towers for example. Once they’re complete, a curtain of steel will divide North from South.”

Sloan frowned. “Defense towers? Tell me more.”

So Jenkins told him. The rebels were building what amounted to a high-tech Maginot Line that was going to run east–west between the northwest corner of Texas and Norfolk, Virginia. And according to patriot sympathizers who were working on the project, the towers would be connected by fiber-optic cable, topped with landing pads for helicopters, and armed with missile batteries. The idea being to wall the South off from what the New Order stalwarts called “the takers.”

“But there’s more to it than that,” Jenkins added. “According to the New Order’s propaganda machine, the profligate Yankees will run out of fuel soon. And once they do, their cities will go dark. That’s when the barbarian horde will head south in an effort to seize control of the so-called Confederacy’s oil reserves. Except they aren’t the Confederacy’s oil reserves, they’re our oil reserves since they belong to all of us.”

Sloan felt something heavy land in the pit of his stomach. Of course! He should have thought of it. Would have thought of it if he hadn’t been so busy struggling to survive. The Strategic Petroleum Reserve fell under him. Or it had in his role as Secretary of Energy. And the last time he’d seen a report, there’d been something like 700 million barrels of oil stored in five locations, all of which were located down south! That equated to roughly forty days’ worth of oil for the predisaster United States. Of course, that period of time could be greatly extended through conservation measures and by dividing the country in half!

Especially since the Southern states were producing energy using a variety of technologies including solar and wind. In fact, despite its reputation for relying too heavily on an oil-based economy, Texas was producing a lot of energy via wind and solar. So much so that they might be able to get along without the petroleum reserves as long as they didn’t have to share with the North. What did that imply? Were Huxton and his cronies planning to keep some of the oil for emergencies and sell the rest? Taking the money for themselves? Sloan wouldn’t put it past them. “I want to see one of the defense towers firsthand,” he said. “And I need to go north.”

McKinney nodded. “Yes, sir… We’ll leave first thing in the morning.” The war had begun.