I've been working on this for a few months now. Hopefully y'all will enjoy it.


Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death ~ Harold Wilson


Chapter 1


The stalls were cleaned, the stock fed and watered and she had walked the southern fence with Jake. No troubles there, which was a relief; it was mighty cold for October and she didn't much fancy pulling out the post-hole digger even if the ground wasn't frozen yet. The breakfast dishes were washed, the fire tended then she swept, put a load of laundry out on the line and put a pot of coffee on. Her morning's work was well-begun.

The hours passed in comfortable familiarity - the boy's schooling, sorting out the pantry, doing up the bills, lunchtime. The baby's naptime was nearly her favorite part of the day, surpassed only by that moment after the children's bedtime when she hung up her dishtowel and realised the house was quiet. That moment was magic. Naptime was a good second best though. She scooted the boys off to their room with dire threats of the fearful retribution she would wreak for waking the baby, set a chicken fresh-killed yesterday in salt water to soak, refilled her cup of coffee and - bless it - sat down. Her chair - her "throne" - was an old squashy armchair, fitted to all her kinks and corners and just perfect. The color was awful and the fabric across the arms were shiny with age, but you couldn't buy comfort like this. She wiggled her back against her chair just to emphasize how comfortable she was and, exhaling loudly, flopped her head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Just a moment, mind you; staring off into space doesn't get the work done.

Kate rummaged in her basket at the foot of her chair for the afghan she was working on. Finding her place, she set the hook in and turned the television on. Crocheting left the mind free while the fingers were busy, and this was her time to watch the news.

Double-chaining straight across in a nice navy blue, half an ear cocked to the reporter - half an ear was all they would get, the tripe they insisted on spewing half the time - it took a good many minutes for the hysteria in the reporter's voice to interrupt her thoughts. She paused in her work and gave the television her full attention. Moments later, the afghan dropped forgotten in her lap, she was watching raptly with wide eyes as the cameras panned to video footage of a mushroom cloud over New York.

She laughed weakly. Papa had always told her the world would end and she wouldn't notice until her chores were done. She noticed the half-hearted giggles sobbing from her throat and took a deep breath. Get a hold of herself, that was the ticket. The children. Mustn't act weak in front of-

Oh good grief, what was she going to tell the boys?

Never mind that now. Information, that's what she needed.

She turned the volume down and perched on the edge of her chair, listening as hard as she could. The sudden wave of sickness in Atlanta and New York is now believed to have been the work of biological weapons. The CDC assures us that what we had been told were road closures and shipping problems were, in fact, quarantine measures and that their precautions were effected early enough to prevent the spread of the infection. Tragically, that is now a moot point for New York as of early this morning. No word yet on who was behind these attacks, no terrorist groups have come forward to claim responsibility. We would like to remind our viewers that this is a developing story-

The television reporter, seated behind his desk with that silly sheaf of papers in his hands - as if that ever fooled anyone - stopped speaking. His mouth, with its perfect teeth for the televised smile, gaped open and for long moments she watched his eyes move slowly from left to right until she cottoned on that he was reading a teleprompter. Someone off-camera coughed hard and the reporter came to, stammered and shuffled his papers. He looked up at the camera.

This just in... Atlanta is gone. Large-scale evacuation measures are being put into effect immediately for the nation's metropolises and possible targets of concern. Everyone else, if you are watching this, you are advised to remain in your homes. Stay off the phones, stay off the roadways. Stay tuned for further instructions.

Well, bugger that. If she was going to start taking her cues from the government, she'd wait until the evening news when maybe they'd figured out their behinds from a hat stand. She flipped off the television, mind racing. Think, think, think. In Virginia, midway between New York City and Atlanta. Would fallout reach as far as that? She hopped over to her computer chair and fired the computer up. They'd said to stay off the phones but they hadn't said anything about the internet.

A few clicks of the mouse were all she needed to find out that the prevailing winds would keep anything nasty well away from southern Virginia. She sent out some emails and took a sip of her coffee, which had gone stone cold. That wouldn't do at all. Another pot was put on and she wandered around her kitchen, aimless, waiting for the coffee to brew. So much to do. What to do? Where to start?

She wandered back into the front room with vague thoughts of getting pen and paper from her desk to make lists of some sort, and something out the front window caught her eye. It was a van. A church van, pulling up her drive. All vagueness and discombobulated shock left her. Kate's spine snapped to attention. Her eyes narrowed. She grabbed her coat from the rack and slid open a desk drawer, pulling out her revolver. This house wasn't easy to find and she had no relatives in the area. Strangers never came here, had no business here. Her gaze flicked to the walkway through the kitchen; she kept the shotgun by the backdoor. No, best not to be too obvious. She added extra rounds to her coat pocket; discretion didn't mean stupidity. Hollering for the boys to stay in their rooms, she put on her coat and stuffed the revolver, comfortably gripped in her right hand, into the other pocket, and went out to greet the approaching van.

Her stride was easy, her stance relaxed but her eyes didn't stop cataloguing. The van was unmarked, a plain blue-white with no front plate. There were occupants in the back, besides the driver and passenger; how many, she couldn't tell. It halted well away from the front porch and parked. A tall, straight man got out of the passenger side. His hair was cut very neatly, and he pulled his dark wool overcoat closer about him before reaching back into the van. She stiffened, then relaxed her grip on her gun as he only pulled out his hat and settled it firmly on his short hair.

Oh, wait just one cotton-pickin' minute. She knew exactly what this was.

"Ahoy, the duty van," she called out. The fellow and his highly polished black shoes halted as he made his way towards her, ever so briefly. Just enough to confirm her conclusions.

"Ahoy, the house," he called back. "I'm unarmed."

"I'm not."

His smile was strained and he held his hands out in the universal gesture for surrender. He stopped a little ways away from her, hands still spread. "I'm OSSC Hockley. I'm just here to talk."

Kate took a better bead on him and shifted unobtrustively until he was shielding her from the van's line of fire. "What's a Navy senior chief doing on my property, Mr. Hockley?"

"Negotiating, hopefully. It's a bit cold and this might take a while. Could we step inside?"

"I don't think I'm comfortable with that, Chief. Keep talking, I might change my mind."

She assumed it was years of dealing with junior enlisted which kept him from sighing in exasperation. It still showed though. "You're right, Mrs. Jameson, we've no business being on your property and you have every right to be wary after what happened this morning. But this is war and the Navy needs you. Your country needs you."

"I've given the country ten years of service as a Navy wife," she retorted. Curious, in spite of herself, she blurted out, "What does the Navy need from me? I'm a housewife."

"Exactly. You're a Navy housewife in the middle of no where, fifteen miles from town. Pretty secure set-up you've got here." He paused to clear his throat. "We need to relocate some of our more sensitive personnel."

"Hide them."

"Yes."

"With me."

"Yes."

"That makes no bloody sense at all."

He cleared his throat again. "We're not asking you to understand it and it's probably better if you don't. All you need to know is that we would very much appreciate it if you would give room and board to one of my men."

She watched him, her face inscrutable. "Come inside and have some coffee. This might take a while."


OSSC Hockley was escorted inside and seated at her kitchen table. Kate fixed a plate of cookies and two mugs of fresh coffee and sat down across from him, placing her revolver on the table next to her mug. She curled her cold fingers around the hot ceramic to hide their shakiness.

"So," she began, "you want one of your men hidden in my house. What does this fellow do?" She smiled a bit as he shifted uncomfortably, and changed tack. "What is the Navy willing to offer?"

"We were hoping you would be eager to do your patriotic duty-"

"What you're asking is addressed in the Constitution, Senior Chief. Specifically disallowed. I've just heard of two bombs, there might be more. Goodness only knows what's going to become of any of us, or even whether I'm going to find anything in the shops on my next trip into town, and you're asking me to take on another mouth to feed." She took a sip of her coffee and waited for that to sink in. The shaking had stopped and this pleased her. "I'll need some compensation, and I'm fairly sure you came out here authorised to give it."

She had him and she knew it. "We've warehoused crates of supplies. One of those crates will be delivered to you." She began to object and he interrupted her smoothly. "Plus, he will be some compensation himself. He's a government employee with secure pay. He's qualified with the M-16 and a Beretta, they're standard weapons, and he has both plus some ammunition. Mrs. Jameson, you can't tell me a man such as him wouldn't be a relief to have around right now, you and your family out here all alone."

Her chin jutted out stubbornly. "I take care of things just fine on my own."

"Obviously you do. But you can't tell me he wouldn't come in handy. Mrs. Jameson," he said with a slight air of desperation, "he's one of my best men, a hard worker. Please, just say yes."

She thoughtfully sipped at her coffee. "Has martial law been declared yet?"

"It will be later tonight is the word we're getting."

"Yes, then. He can stay."