His defense attorney, a U.S. major, got to his feet. "Since General Morrell has chosen not to contest our subpoena, I request permission to get his remarks on the record while he is here."

He faced a panel of five judges-a brigadier general sitting in the center, three bird colonels, and a lieutenant colonel. The general looked over to the light colonel who seemed to be the prosecutor. "Any objections?"

"No, sir," that officer replied. I'm stuck with it, his expression said.

"Very well," the chief judge said. "Come forward and be sworn, General Morrell, and then take your seat."

When Morrell had taken the oath and sat down, Potter's defense counsel said, "You are aware that General Potter is on trial for conveying the Confederate superbomb to Philadelphia while wearing the U.S. uniform for purposes of disguise?"

"Yes, I know that," Morrell said.

"This is considered contrary to the laws of war as set down in the 1907 Hague Convention?"

"That's right."

"Had the Confederates ever used soldiers in U.S. uniform before?"

"Yes, they had. Their men in our uniforms helped get a breakthrough in eastern Ohio in 1942. They even picked men who had U.S. accents. It hurt us."

"I see." The defense attorney looked at some papers. "Were the Confederates alone in using this tactic?"

"No," Morrell said.

"Tell the court about some instances when U.S. soldiers under your command used it."

"Well, the most important was probably the 133rd Special Reconnaissance Company," Morrell replied. "We took a page from the CSA's book. We recruited men who could sound like Confederates. We armed them with Confederate weapons, and put them into Confederate uniform."

"Where did you get the uniforms?" asked the major defending Potter.

"Some from prisoners, others off casualties," Morrell said.

"I see. And the 133rd Special Reconnaissance Company was effective?"

"Yes. It spearheaded our crossing of the Tennessee in front of Chattanooga."

"Surprise and deception made it more effective than it would have been otherwise?"

"I would certainly think so."

"Thank you, General. No further questions."

The chief judge nodded to the prosecutor. "Your witness, Colonel Altrock."

"Thank you, sir." Altrock got to his feet. "You say you were imitating Confederate examples when you dressed our men in enemy uniform, General?"

"I believe that's true, yes," Morrell said.

"Would you have done it if the enemy hadn't?" Altrock asked.

"Objection-that's a hypothetical," the defense attorney said.

After the judges put their heads together, their chief said, "Overruled. The witness may answer the question."

"Would I? Would we?" Morrell pursed his lips. "Probably. It's too good a move-and too obvious-to ignore."

"No further questions," Altrock said. One had done him enough damage.

"Anything on redirect?" the chief judge asked Potter's lawyer, who shook his head. The judge nodded to Morrell. "You are dismissed, General. We appreciate your testimony."

Clarence Potter spoke for the first time: "If I may say so, I appreciate it very much." His own accent might have inspired him to dress up Yankee-sounding Confederates in U.S. uniforms.

"I don't love you, General, but if they hang you it should be for something you did and we didn't." Morrell got to his feet. He nodded to the judges and left the courtroom.

John Abell wasn't waiting there any more. Morrell hadn't expected him to hang around. The driver was. "Where to, sir?" he said. "Wherever you need to go, I'll take you there."

"Back to the train station, quick, before somebody else here decides he needs me," Morrell answered. "By God, I am going to see my wife and daughter."

The driver grinned. "I know how you feel, sir. Let's go."

Two and a half hours later, Morrell was on a train bound for Kansas City. He traveled through the stretches of western Pennsylvania, Ohio, and eastern Indiana that had seen the hardest fighting inside the USA. Looking out the window at the devastation was like falling back in time. Down in the occupied Confederacy, hardly anyone looked out of train windows. What people saw there was too likely to hurt. The United States was luckier, but this one stretch of terrain had suffered as much as any farther south.

Morrell breathed easier when he neared Indianapolis. C.S. bombers had hit the city, but nowhere near as hard as they'd pummeled Washington and Baltimore and Philadelphia. And the only soldiers in butternut who'd made it to Indianapolis went into the POW camps outside of town. Some of them still languished there. Most had gone home by now. Some of the ones who had would make U.S. authorities sorry they'd ever turned them loose. Morrell was as sure of that as he was of the scars on his thigh and shoulder, but what the hell could you do?

St. Louis had taken a beating, and Missouri went up in flames whenever war broke out. Even three generations after the War of Secession, it had some stubborn Confederate sympathizers. Lines were fluid in the West, too; C.S. raiders had little trouble sneaking up from Arkansas and raising hell.

Kansas City and Leavenworth, as well as the fort nearby, had also suffered. But, as the war went on, the Confederates found troubles of their own closer to home. Morrell knew Agnes and Mildred had come through without a scratch. To him, selfishly, that was all that mattered.

They were waiting for him when he got off the train. Agnes was about his age, but her black hair showed not a streak of gray. Maybe that was a miracle; more likely it was dye. Morrell didn't care either way. His wife looked damn good to him, and she had ever since they met at a dance right here in town.

He was amazed at how shapely Mildred had got. She was nineteen now, but the years had gone by in a blur for him. He eyed Agnes in mock severity. "You've been feeding her again," he said sternly. "Didn't I warn you about that? See what happens?"

"I'm sorry, Irv." Agnes sounded as contrite as he was angry-which is to say, not very.

"Daddy!" Mildred was just plain indignant.

He gave her a kiss. "It's good to see you, sweetheart. You've grown up as pretty as your mother." That he meant. Mildred was certainly better off with Agnes' looks than with his own long-faced, long-jawed countenance. He wasn't an ugly man, but a woman with features as harsh as his wouldn't have been lucky.

"How long can you stay?" Agnes asked.

"They promised me a couple of weeks, but you know what Army promises are worth," Morrell answered. The rueful twist to his wife's mouth said she knew much too well. He went on, "We'll just have to make the most of the time, however long it turns out to be."

"Of course we will." Agnes looked at Mildred. "That's good advice any old time." She had her own bitter experience; she'd lost her first husband in the early days of the Great War.

Mildred wasn't impressed. With a toss of the head, she said, "I thought I graduated from high school."

Morrell started to give her a swat on the behind for sass, but checked himself. She was too big these days for a man to spank. He contented himself with asking, "Have you been giving your mother lip all the time I've been gone?"

"Every single minute," Mildred answered proudly. That took the wind out of his sails.

"Let's go home," Agnes said. "We have a lot of catching up to do." She winked at Morrell. He grinned. He looked forward to trying to catch up, anyhow.

All over the country-and all over the wreck of the CSA, too-survivors were trying to catch up with their families and trying to make them grow. Some reunions would be smooth, some anything but. Morrell put one arm around his wife, the other around his daughter. They walked off the platform that way. So far, so good, he thought.