John did not comply by opening it. “What is it?”
“Your formal orders to report for federal duty in three days, John Matherson. It is no longer voluntary. You have been drafted, as well, for the good of the country. A transport is coming down from Bluemont for you. You have the choice of taking your wife with you or not, though I advise that you do, since the terms of the draft are for, and I quote, ‘the duration of the national crisis as defined by the Secretary of the Office of National Reunification and the President of the United States,’ so it could be for years. The second notice in that envelope is for the mobilization of fifty-six draftees, to be selected by you as your first official act as a major general in the service of the Army of National Recovery. Said draftees to report at the same time you do. I’m still willing to forego the other fifty-seven for the moment, so you can still play the hero one last time. I therefore expect you and your people in front of the courthouse at nine in the morning, three days hence. If not, you know the consequences.” Dale smiled. “Show up, and I don’t report this incident today. Don’t show up, and you know the consequences. Ball’s in your court now, John,” he said, and without waiting for a reply, he headed back to the Humvee, actually waving in a friendly fashion to Grace and the troops on the roof of the fire station and then motioned for his own troops to get back in the truck.
The vehicles turned about, pulled out onto Montreat Road, and headed back to the interstate. John could sense a collective sigh of relief from the crowds that had gathered along the sidewalks in the center of town.
Clutching the envelope, he slowly walked back to the town hall, trying to act nonplussed, though that last maneuver by Dale had indeed put the ball back into his court.
Once inside the building, the town council swarmed about him, some slapping him on the back and bombarding him with questions, but Makala could sense something was still amiss.
John looked at Don King, president of the college. “I’ll need Gaither Chapel this evening, Don. Let the kids up there know that all those who received draft notices are to report for the meeting. Let’s make it for six while we still have plenty of light. Richard, could you go tell Elayne to call around town and let everyone who has a draft notice to please come to the chapel?”
Makala did not say a word. She knew him well enough that there were times it was best just not to ask.
CHAPTER TWELVE
John walked into Gaither Chapel of Montreat College, a place of so many beloved memories. Some of the weekly chapel services were a bit tedious at times; others were so moving they left him in tears, especially when Reverend Black—or his old friend Reverend Abel, who had died in the battle against the Posse—preached a service that could reach college kids and his intellectual soul, as well. There had been many a concert, recital, and guest lecture in it, and in the weeks after graduation each year, there was a flurry of weddings for students who had fallen in love, sometimes in the very classes he taught, in this cherished building. When the chestnut blight had hit the mountains in the 1930s, dying trees had been harvested off, the rich textured wood shaped into this building, right down to the pews. A group of chestnut enthusiasts would tour it every year, and as a historian, he enjoyed participating in their visit and hearing of their yearly pilgrimage to visit hallowed buildings like this one.
A month or so after the Day, it was the place where he had felt the first real stirrings of interest in Makala beyond that of gratitude for a nurse who had saved his life when he was hit with a deadly staph infection from—of all things—a cut finger. Elizabeth, holding Ben, was behind them. Grandma Jen walked slowly by Elizabeth’s side; even then, she felt it necessary to walk with pride—erect, ramrod straight—and leave the cane in the car, though she would pay for it afterward with a painful backache. The chapel was packed with nearly all of the 113 who had received notices, as well as their families. John noticed Kevin Malady, the former head librarian who, due to his massive build and long black hair that was straight cut just above his shoulders, had the nickname Conan the Librarian. Kevin could, in happier times, even do a decent imitation of the famed actor—yet another icon of the prewar society that had disappeared, no one knowing of his fate.
John was startled when Kevin stood up, smiled, faced the gathering, and shouted, “Commanding officer present! Battalion attention!”
Those who had served in the Posse conflict and in the defense force afterward leaped to their feet. It troubled him that the display was taking place in the campus chapel, a place of prayer, meditation, and peace. He looked to Reverend Black for guidance in this, but even he was standing and smiling at John as he came down the aisle, motioning for him to take the podium. John stopped and asked him to first lead the gathering in a prayer, and after it was spoken, John stepped to the podium.
“Two traditions we have that we must never forget because it is one of the core values we believe in.”
John turned toward the American flag, raised his hand, and started to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, and all joined in, some barely whispering the words in this time of confusion, others saying them forcefully. He had a terrible voice for singing, but Grace picked up the first words of the national anthem, and all joined in, John struggling to get through it since it hit him at such an emotional level. It always amazed him how some could be cynical about the song or would mock the fact that his community had embraced it with renewed vigor ever since the Day. For several months after 9/11, people heard it wherever they went, and then a cynicism seemed to take hold with some who mocked it and said it should be changed because it was too warlike or just expressed hatred of the country in general and turned their backs on any patriotic display. At least here, even in this current crisis, such had not taken hold.
The song finished, and John turned to face the gathering, scanning his audience for a moment, the upturned faces of kids who had sat in his history classes two years earlier, flashes of memory of so many who, in a different world, would have been standing here now or already graduated and getting on with their lives, buried instead up at veterans’ cemetery.
For this meeting, so many members of the community had made the trek up to the college campus that it was standing room only, and at least a hundred or more stood outside in the parking lot, windows opened for a cooling evening breeze and so that they could hear what he was about to report.
John felt a bit nervous as he waited for the finish of the national anthem. Though he was a trained officer and felt he had been a rather good professor who knew all the tricks of public speaking and keeping an audience with him, what he was about to present to his neighbors and friends would be a bitter pill to swallow. It was not a rally cry to war, such as the one he gave when word arrived that the Posse was heading their way. This was far different, with so many shades of gray and not just simple black and white.
He looked to Makala and his family, who had taken seats in the front row, someone having saved them as a gesture of respect. He cleared his throat.
“My friends, I bring difficult news, and it is a time to make difficult decisions. I’m going to ask this of you. I’ll say my piece, but after that, I am leaving so that you can freely debate things more without me present. I ask that our friend Reverend Black moderate after I leave.”
He forced a smile and looked at Ernie Franklin and his contingent of family and kin, who filled a couple of pews. “And this time, a two-minute rule, Ernie, and no one can transfer their time to anyone else.”