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* * *

The ringing of firebells had been the decided-upon method of warning all the ranchers and farmers, although everyone acknowledged the method’s shortcomings. So what if the bells do ring, they’d argued, where the hell do we go? If smoke was visible or gunfire could be heard, the answer was easier, but there still had to be a place for everybody to gather, especially if a ranch was under attack. Showing up piecemeal was a recipe for disaster.

They decided on Kirsten’s place since it was roughly in the middle of the Raleigh area. Kirsten reluctantly agreed. She thought it would be nice to know what the problem was and where they might be going before congregating, but she had to admit that it might be expecting too much.

She recalled reading something that the term “firebells in the night” might have been written by Thomas Jefferson and was something about a slave uprising. Of course, they didn’t have slaves in California, although some of the landowners treated their Mexican and occasional Indian workers as little more than slaves, which was the landowners’ loss. She’d found that people—and Mexicans and Indians were people—worked harder, smarter, and better if you treated them with respect and didn’t destroy their pride.

The firebells rang at three in the morning. Kirsten jumped out of bed and looked out her window. Flickering lights glowed off in the distance and she thought she heard thunder. And all of it was coming from the south, the direction of Raleigh and Mexico.

More bells added to the distant din. She dressed quickly, this time in her functional jeans, got her rifle, and went outside to wait. She’d been wearing her late husband’s pajamas, which had scandalized her cousins the first time she’d done it. Not only were they more comfortable than the traditional nightgown, but they reminded her of her husband. Sometimes, she felt she could still sense a hint of the smell of his body, and it then awakened longings.

Her cousin Ella had awakened and said she’d make coffee. Might as well do something, Kirsten thought. Too bad Leonard was spending the night in town. He’d said it was a card game with friends, but Ella thought it was because he’d had a fight with Ella and Leonard just wanted to get drunk. She didn’t think he’d gone there to get laid. There were no hookers that she knew of and there were precious few women in town who weren’t married or who might be interested in Leonard.

In a surprisingly short while, riders began showing up. All eyes were on the south. The thundering seemed to have stopped, but the flickering lights continued. Fire, was the consensus, and it was in Raleigh.

With about a dozen men gathered, Roy Olson took the lead and they headed out. They’d gone only a mile or two in the growing light when they saw a Model T racing towards them and being steered erratically. Leonard, Kirsten thought, and she was right. Her cousin braked the car sharply and nearly fell out.

“The town’s being bombed,” he managed to gasp. He could hardly stand. His eyes were wild and crazy.

Olson glared at him. “You’re drunk. What the hell do you mean? Ain’t no planes bombing anything.”

Leonard returned the glare. “Damn right I’m drunk and maybe the bombing’s coming from cannon and not planes, but Raleigh’s being destroyed. Buildings are being blown up and people are being killed. That and I think I saw soldiers coming up from the border.”

“Mexicans?” asked Olson, slightly abashed. Leonard was indeed drunk but who could deny that something terrible was happening to the town?

“You just wish,” Leonard said. “Naw, I saw those lances and funny headgear silhouetted by the fire. They weren’t greasers, they were Germans.”

* * *

Martel stared at the information on the notes before him. Once was an incident. Twice could be a coincidence. But three times was a pattern and he was looking at a developing pattern. He walked to the base’s telegraph station, made a few inquiries, and confirmed his suspicions. He picked up his notes and went to Colonel Nolan’s office only to be told that the colonel was in conference with General Liggett. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, Luke thought.

An astonished civilian clerk tried to stop him, but Luke ignored him and knocked firmly on the general’s closed door. He entered, closing the door behind him. Let the damn clerk wonder, he thought. He’d find out soon enough. Nolan and Liggett looked up at him in mild surprise.

“You have a good reason for this, I presume,” Nolan said, not ungently.

“General, Colonel, I think it’s beginning.”

Liggett gestured him to sit. “Go on.”

“Sir, there’s a pattern developing. Telegraph and telephone lines are down between here and the east. Also, there are reports that railroad bridges are down on at least three of the tracks connecting us to the rest of the country. My bet is the rest will report they’re out before the day is finished.”

“Conclusion, Luke,” ordered Nolan.

“Sir, I’m sadly confident that German saboteurs are striking as we talk and that they are isolating us from the rest of the United States by destroying the rail lines running eastward. They are also severing communications by cutting telegraph and phone lines. It’s a logical immediate precursor to an actual invasion.”

“Are you certain telegraph lines are down?” Liggett asked.

“Sir, before coming here I checked with our telegraph office and they said they can’t get through to the east. Of course, they said it has happened before and could be the result of the weather, but, coupled with the rail problems, makes me believe the Germans are finally on the move.”

They looked at the map of California that was pinned on the wall. Only six rail lines connected California to the east and two were so close together that they might as well be one. In the south, there was a line running from Yuma, Arizona, but it was so close to the border with Mexico that it would never be of use and would be quickly overrun if the Germans crossed the border.

Farther north, lines ran from Albuquerque and Salt Lake City to San Francisco, and other lines ran from Salt Lake City and Spokane and over to Portland and Seattle.

There was silence. Liggett finally spoke. “I agree, Lieutenant. It is now time to notify Governor Stephens that his state of California is in terrible jeopardy and that he should call out the Guard.”

“General, will you be informing the naval stations and coastal batteries?” Luke asked.

Liggett chuckled bitterly. “It may be a little too late, Luke. What we were discussing before you barged in was reports that saboteurs have already struck at the Army’s coastal batteries and done a marvelous job of destroying them. Quite a welcoming for Admiral Sims, I dare say.”

Rear Admiral William S. Sims had arrived only the last week as the newly appointed commander of the United States Pacific Fleet, replacing Admiral Hugh Rodman. The sixty-two year old Sims was considered by many to be a genius for his part in developing an electronic range finder that had vastly improved the accuracy of American gunnery. Prior to its development, accuracy had been a joke in the Navy. Ninety-eight per cent of shots fired in the Spanish American War missed their targets entirely. It was even more humiliating when it was realized that the Spanish ships in the Battle of Manila Bay had been anchored. The electronic range finder had greatly resolved the issue. Some people were beginning to call the calculating device a “computer.”

It was also rumored that Sims had angered his superiors for making disparaging comments about draconian cost cutting and the future of battleships, and had been sent away from Washington as a form of penance. It was also understood that this would be Sims last posting before his retirement.

“Yes, I will do that as a matter of courtesy. Of course, Sims doesn’t report to me nor I to him, so we’ll see what good that does. But you are right again, Lieutenant, if the German Army is out, one can only wonder what the German Navy is up to.”