"Am I still on for that meet later today?" asked the admiral.

"In one hour twenty minutes," Liao answered. "You have a video link to General Groves booked in five minutes, sir. Then you are scheduled to inspect the new Boeing plant and progress on the new lots at Andersonville."

"How many people are under canvas out there?" he asked as they hurried down the stairs and out into the surprisingly warm late afternoon sunshine.

"Eighteen thousand in tents. Another fifteen thousand are moving into the Quonset huts, which went up last week. And they're just the workers. Most haven't brought their families with them yet."

Kolhammer sucked air in through his teeth. It was an unconscious gesture he'd picked up from his old man. Whenever Dave Kolhammer popped the lid of the family car to tinker with the recalcitrant engine, he'd suck air in through his gritted teeth just like that. "Do we have any better estimates of population growth over the next six months?" the admiral quizzed his PA again.

"Nine percent a month, at present rates. But of course, the new factories will start coming online very soon, and that will pull even more manpower in."

Kolhammer nodded silently as they reached his Humvee.

This was not what he expected to be doing when he joined the navy.

As the heat leaked out of the day, he drove himself up to Mulholland Drive, pulling off the road and into a culvert just before the Hollywood Hills. The teleconference with Leslie Groves had gone as expected. The director of the Manhattan Project had huffed and puffed and demanded more resources and staff from Kolhammer. The admiral blocked and dodged and had given up about one tenth of what he'd been asked for. But that was it, he'd decided. The well was dry. There was nothing and nobody else he could send to Oak Ridge or Los Alamos that was going to appreciably speed up the process. Groves and Oppenheimer already had hundreds of his best officers and technical specialists. Indeed, the Clinton's fusion reactors were being run by a skeleton staff because so many had been transferred to the A-bomb project. And Groves had grabbed up more than his fair share of the IT systems that had been salvaged and stripped from all over the Multinational Force. His work was definitely of prime importance, given the Nazi's own accelerated nuclear programs, but it wasn't the only game in town.

That thought led naturally to his next meeting, an altogether more informal affair. He'd driven across the San Fernando Valley, with an escort, a Navy SEAL, ghosting him in a black Packard, watching for tails. Hoover's men were everywhere, but their field-craft hadn't been honed in a vicious twenty-year holy war. Chief Petty Officer Vincente Rogas was more than capable of seeing them off.

It hadn't been necessary, however. Kolhammer had driven through the flatlands north of Ventura, through remnant beet fields and walnut groves, past vast tracts of dry, coarse grassland and abandoned orchards, all staked out and fenced off for housing development in the coming months. He'd swung through the established settlements of Encino and Woodland Hills, tracked the whole time by both Rogas and a high-altitude surveillance drone that scanned for patterns in the thin traffic on the valley floor that might indicate he picked up a tail.

There was nothing.

They drove up through the foothills, weaving in and out of wild oaks and patches of sycamore and eucalyptus. He couldn't be sure, but Kolhammer felt that as they climbed the range he could taste clean air coming off the Pacific. He felt strung out and a little stale from overwork and lack of sleep. Even the hint of an ocean breeze was enough to revive him, although it fired memories of his wife and left him feeling sad and a little bewildered, an echo of the wild confusion he remembered from the first hours after the Transition.

He heard Rogas in the small earbud speaker he wore. "We weren't followed," the man reported. "But I'll keep an eye out, just in case."

"Thanks, Chief," replied Kolhammer.

They pulled off the main road into a canyon where millionaires did not yet tread. The road jinked back and forth a few times, overlooked by steep, crumbling hills that seemed to be held together with nothing but sagebrush and manzanita. The road curved left one last time and died at the base of a small, hard cliff.

His contact was waiting there. With blueprints spread out on the bonnet of his car, he looked more like an architect than a builder.

Kolhammer strode up to him. "You Donovan's man?" the admiral asked, referring to the Office of Strategic Services Chief.

"Uh-huh. Mitch Taverner's the name."

"Okay, why are we here, Mr. Taverner?"

The man picked up a roll of blueprints and waved it back up the canyon. "You guys have a lien over this land. You're going to build a signal relay station here, in time. But you've got problems with L.A. over it. Or specifically, with the local rich folks. So it gives you a reason to come up here for a meeting with your builder." He tapped himself on the chest. "And the long drive gives your man Rogas over there a lot of visible ground, to check whether or not you've been followed."

Kolhammer suppressed his irritation and forced himself to speak slowly, in a reasonable tone. "Okay, so you've proved to me that Wild Bill has almost as many feelers inside the Zone as Hoover. Is there any other reason for you to be dragging me up here?"

Taverner, a barrel-chested man with what sounded like a Texas accent, grinned broadly. "Admiral Kolhammer, Mr. Donovan is a friend. He's not like the others."

"Wonderful. Imagine my relief. But I still don't see the need for subterfuge. If you're as good as you think you are, Mr. Taverner, you'll know that I don't much care for spooks, and I definitely don't have time for this sort of bullshit. So tell me, exactly what are we doing here?"

But the Texan refused to be bullied out of his role. He reminded Kolhammer of somebody. The guy from that Walking Tall movie…

"Mr. Donovan wanted you to have this, but he had no reliable way of getting it to you. It's a list of all Hoover's agents, informants, and sources within your area, as best as we can tell."

Taverner handed over a couple sheets of paper. They seemed to be full of typing. A freshening breeze stirred the leaves of the Cyprus pine and eucalyptus that bordered the road.

Kolhammer took the list and pocketed it with barely a glance. "You tell Wild Bill I'm much obliged, but if he and Mr. Stephenson think I'm going to crank up a war against J. Edgar Hoover, then I'm afraid they should prepare themselves for disappointment. He's simply not my concern," Kolhammer said firmly.

Taverner pushed himself off the door of the Packard. Kolhammer saw Rogas start moving toward him in the reflection of the car's windscreen. He waved the SEAL back.

Taverner moved in close. The man smelled of cheap soap and breath mints. "He should be your concern," said the OSS agent. "That asshole has a lot of congressmen in his pocket. Roosevelt got the bill through, setting you up here, but he had to twist a lot of arms harder than he'd ever had to before. You know why? Because there was a little fairy flitting around, pouring poison into the ears of our honorable legislators. And he's still doing it.

"You got your Zone, Kolhammer, but the money to pay for it still comes out of Washington, and you do not have a lot of friends over there. You got enemies to spare, though. And you'll want to start paying attention to them, or else you're gonna get yourself cornholed in the town square, my friend."

Taverner didn't wait for a reply. He turned around and opened his car door, then looked back over his shoulder.

"Oh, and personally, I think the P-Fifty-one is a damn fine piece of fightin' technology." He winked, climbed in behind the wheel, and drove off, forcing the admiral to step aside.