“So if you take it,” someone from the back cried, “half our kids and kin are exempt, and from what happened at the town meeting last week, there’s more than enough volunteers to fill the quota! John, I think the answer to our dilemma here is obvious.”
Again there was a flurry of comments and arguments, some even shouting for John that, for the good of the community, he had to go. He lowered his head, and finally it was Ernie who cried out for everyone to shut the hell up and listen to what John had to say in reply.
John finally looked back up, eyes fixed for a moment on his family. He separated out one sheet of paper from the others and held it up. “This is addressed to me personally. I’ll not read it word for word; it’s basically the same as the letters received by 113 others here. It states that rather than a request for my volunteering for national service to enter at the rank of major general in the ANR, I’ve been drafted for service.”
“I thought it was a deal!” someone from the balcony shouted. “You volunteer and half our young people are exempt from call-up.”
John shook his head. “I have now been drafted the same as so many of you and ordered to appear in the same manner as the rest of you, three days hence at 9:00 a.m. at the courthouse for induction. But yes, this notice I am holding still states that, though drafted, I will return to service with the rank of major general, and upon appearing to do so, half of those mobilized are exempt and need not report while the other half accompanies me to Bluemont. At least that is what I’ve been promised.”
“Then do it, John!” someone outside in the parking lot cried. “And let my daughter stay with us!”
John stood silent, looking about the room as the shadows of evening began to lengthen. No one else picked up the cry.
He took a deep breath, held the letter up, and tore it in half. “I refuse to comply.”
And now the room did erupt, some coming to their feet cheering, others cursing him, crying that he was a coward, others that he was damning their families to hardship, others shouting that he was a traitor, and yet others that he was a patriot standing up to a bureaucrat trying to turn the community against itself so that he could sneak in after John was gone and assert control.
Throughout it all, John stood silent, as if waiting for a firing squad to do the deed and end his misery. He kept his eyes fixed on his family, on Makala with tears of pride for him in her eyes, and on Elizabeth, as well, and Jen, who nodded approval, and poor little Ben wailing in fearful distress over the uproar of the adults around him.
Finally, it was Reverend Black stepping forward, holding his hands up and shouting for silence so John could explain his reasons for his decision.
“Thank you, Richard,” John whispered, turning again to face the group. “You have the right to know my reasoning for my decision since it directly affects fifty-seven families in our community.”
“You’re damn straight we have a right to know!” someone shouted, but the rest of the gathering hushed the voice of protest.
John nodded his thanks and cleared his throat. “More than three decades ago, I gladly decided to serve my country and swore my oath to defend the Constitution of the United States. In that time, even when I disagreed with the decisions of my supreme commander, I nevertheless followed all orders, because they were moral orders, fitting within our Constitution and the military code of justice.
“I will admit here publicly for the first time that I hold our so-called federal director in Asheville, Dale Fredericks, in disdain, and from the first time we met, I felt uneasy about his ability to hold such an important position.”
So it was out in public, at last. Makala actually smiled and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up.
“I welcomed the concept that our national government was coming back into power to reunify our nation after the most deadly blow inflicted upon any nation in modern times. When a battalion of our army came to this area a year ago, we greeted them with open arms and found in them so many of the traditions that had once bonded our country together. I had hoped for the same after they shipped out to Texas, and I went to meet the federal administrator who came to Asheville. I hoped his arrival was a clear indicator that our nation was finally coming back together, the first steps in what we all want—national recovery.
“Instead, I have come to disdain and loathe Fredericks. I saw far too many like him in the halls of power before the Day. Nevertheless, at the start, I felt I must accept his authority, which can be a tough decision for any man or woman at times, but the guiding principle was always the code I lived under as an officer and the same code I tried to teach some of you as students on this campus. It comes down to a profound question: Are the orders I receive lawful orders, and beyond even temporal law or the laws of Caesar, as some define that, are the orders given to me moral orders?
“Over the last week, I have reached the conclusion he lacks that moral authority, and sadly, by extension, I must include in that now those who appointed him to his post. They are not lawful orders, and most certainly they are not moral orders.
“The orders that this Mr. Fredericks attempted to impose on me and our community this morning are in violation of the traditions of military law—to turn over prisoners who had not just been captured in the field of action but had actually come to us for compassionate aid for noncombatants, placing themselves under our protection. That order I could not abide with and accept.
“If that were the only issue, I might still have accepted this juggling act of what should be apparent to all as an opening move of outright bribery to remove me as a troublesome thorn in the federal administrator’s side—that if I enlisted, half of you would be exempt from federal service.
“Can you not see the hand moving behind this? Exemption for how long? I did ask that question the first time it was raised, and the answer was vague. A day? A week? A month or a year? Anyone capable of such sleight of hand I do not trust to hold to his word, and I suspect the rest of you would be drafted, anyhow, once I am gone. It is a game as ancient as recorded history. Promote a troublesome thorn up and out of the way if you cannot crush him, and then, once gone, impose whatever was planned in the first place. I refuse to play that game even though it was a decision that my action will result in twice as many of you being called to national service.
“I am not saying this as some sort of justification to cover my own personal decision. But how many of you now honestly believe that Fredericks will keep his word? What will prevent him, a week after I and the first contingent are gone, from sending out draft notices to those who stayed behind—or, for that matter, draft notices for two hundred more—and in so doing strip our community clean not just of our able-bodied defense force but even our ability to provide ourselves with a proper harvest this fall, thus forcing us onto the federal weal in meek submission to its authority?”
There were many nods of agreement now with that argument.
“But that is not my main reason for refusal,” John quickly continued. “I assume most of you know of some means of accessing outside news. In the last few weeks, there have been reports via the BBC but noticeably lacking from Voice of America of a major offensive action to wipe out the gangs, similar to the Posse that controls Chicago. Several days back, the BBC reported that an entire battalion of the ANR was overrun, at least a hundred taken prisoner and later that day executed either by crucifixion or were hurled to their deaths from the top of the Sears Tower, which seems to be a favorite method of death for the madman Samuel who is running that place.