Steve knew security assignments bored his people. They wanted to blow things up, not protect them. But the day was coming soon when they would have to defend installations against guerrillas. His accession to power in Virginia would be resisted. Not least of all by surviving government loyalists. But he understood he'd also have to face a lawless element that had simply been waiting for something like the Tomiko affair to seize power. And in the days to come, the only protection civilized life would have against the inevitable wilderness thugs was going to be the Jefferson Legion.

Tad was still pinned within the six-square-mile training area. There were two roads and two bridges by which he could leave, and all had been sealed off. But the security forces had failed to bring him to ground, losing several more people in the effort. Not a particularly good demonstration. "Did I explain about methodical?" he asked Jack. "Did we talk about how important it was that operations be systematic?"

His brother nodded. "Doesn't look like it took, Steve."

"No, it doesn't." The colonel looked at his watch. It was twelve o'clock. "Okay. Let's call it a day. Send the troops home and we'll get the officers in. We need to talk for a bit."

Legion headquarters was located in the east wing of the colonel's rambling frame house. There were seven officers all told, not counting himself. They were good, well trained, intelligent, loyal. A hell of a lot better than his critics knew.

A large family room in back served as his conference area. When Jack signaled that everyone had arrived, Colonel Gallagher entered from the side. They jumped to attention. "As you were, men," he said, and took his place at the lectern. (Actually, one of the captains was a woman, but no distinction in gender was ever noted, nor did she seem to object.)

The aroma of coffee filled the room. Someone handed the colonel a cup, and he began the proceedings by inviting Tad to explain how he'd evaded the security forces all morning. Wickett, who was only a captain, irritated his colleagues by observing it had been simple, that the security units hadn't been coordinated. He showed why, drew arrows on maps, and suggested alternate strategies. Wickett was one of the two people in the room with actual military experience. The colonel himself had never worn the uniform of his country. But no one other than his brother Jack knew that. To the rest, Steve Gallagher had served a dozen years with combat infantry and the Rangers. That he was able to carry off this imposture was a tribute to his extensive interest in, and ability for, military techniques and technology.

There was something cold and vaguely reptilian about Tad Wickett. Jack listened to him speak, watched his eyes move smoothly around the room, saw his tongue occasionally brush his upper lip, noted the sense of ongoing calculation about the man. He never missed a chance to make his colleagues look incompetent.

When Wickett finished, Steve invited comments, listened dutifully, and then added his own observations. Peterson's unit had been slow to react when their planning went awry; Barber had failed to anticipate several possibilities; as a result, the terrorist force had been completely successful and had escaped with only one casualty. It was, he implied, a pathetic demonstration by the security force.

If Steve Gallagher had never served, it hadn't been for lack of desire. He'd struggled with asthma and a multitude of allergies, and they'd kept him from the colors. The asthma was gone now, long since outgrown. He'd learned a lot since those early days when he wanted nothing so much as to qualify for the Rangers. Mostly he'd learned that the United States was governed by a small cabal of families who pretended to squabble but who kept power in their own hands and milked the nation's working people dry. Today he would never have considered defending the dictators.

He'd found a better way to serve the American Ideal. He'd founded the Thomas Jefferson Legion, a group of God-fearing, country-loving men and women dedicated to preserving liberty at home against the assorted shadowy manifestations of an oppressive government that was itself an arm of a world body whose only interest was to maintain its grip on power.

The colonel owned the Potluck Restaurant in downtown Staunton. The Potluck, founded by his grandfather, had been in the family thirty-eight years, and had thrown off a sister establishment in nearby Harrisonburg.

But the Potluck was not as profitable as it should have been. Unlike most Americans, whose tax money vanishes without their ever seeing it, the colonel was burdened with actually paying out substantial sums each month to an increasingly onerous and corrupt government. But that wasn't the worst of it. Regulators were everywhere. Inspectors from all levels of government, following the example set by the feds, harassed him continually with safety and health inspections, demanded licenses, controlled how much he paid his help, dictated whom he should hire and what medical plan he should provide. All the money went to support the vicious practices of a decadent nation, a nation that forbade God to enter the schoolroom, that allowed women to murder their children, that had so distorted the reproductive process that men were no longer necessary.

He had become over the years a fiery enemy of the invisible hand that weighed so heavily on his fortunes and on those of his countrymen. Right-thinking men and women across the state of Virginia had flocked to him, and the Jefferson Legion now had units in a dozen counties.

It wasn't only the godlessness and the corruption that enraged Steve Gallagher, much less the money or even the inspections. Rather, it was the condescension of the official agents, their obvious belief that he was not a man of honor, that he could not be trusted, that it was necessary to keep him on a leash.

… In order to… secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity…

It hadn't happened.

Tom Jefferson had lost to the federalists, and his ideals had been sacrificed to Hamilton's notion of an oppressive central government. The colonials had exchanged one set of chains for another. But because the second set was emblazoned with an eagle, they hadn't noticed.

"Gentlemen," said the colonel, winding down his remarks and wanting to send them home with something to think about, "I'd like to talk with you for a moment about something other than the exercise." He drew himself to his full height. "As you're aware, last night was a disaster for the dictators. The people of this nation have finally seen their government for what it is, and the potential for revolt is everywhere. All that's needed now is a spark.

"Be aware that I've been in touch with our brothers-inarms around the state and in other parts of the country. We're almost ready to move. When the moment comes, and I can tell you that it's very close, we'll be ready to seize the power brokers and give the nation back to the real Americans."

They applauded, assured him they were with him, and went home. Afterward he sat alone in his kitchen and listened to the lazy hum of insects.

The horse is prepared against the day of battle. But when, O Lord? When?