Ashen Winter

After skipping through five or six machine transmissions, Ken happened upon a person talking. “. . . bales of chain-link fencing, 850 pounds of coiled 8-gauge wire, 410 16-foot posts . . .”

When the guy took a short break from reading his list, Ken broke in. “KJØB.”

The radio hissed. “QLR.”

“That means he’s busy,” Ken explained. “QRA,” he said into the mic.

“QLR.”

“Rude bastard. I asked him for his call sign, and he basically told me to buzz off.”

I took the mic from Ken and mashed the switch. “We have an emergency.”

“I repeat, QLR. This block of frequencies is reserved for interagency coordination. Clear the frequency.”

“Interagency—like, the government? That’s great, I need to speak to someone high up in FEMA.”

“Under the Federal Emergency Recovery and Restoration of Order Act, I am authorized to confiscate your radio and place you in summary detention if you do not clear this frequency immediately. QLR.”

I shot a worried look at Ken. He shook his head. “They’d need a sophisticated triangulation setup to even find you.”

“This is life and death,” I said into the mic. “We’re in a refugee camp. The DWBs are kidnapping people. The guards know, but they aren’t doing anything—they’re getting paid off by the DWBs. We need help.”

“What sector?”

“Sector? We’re in the refugee camp in Maquoketa, Iowa.”

“Hold.” I heard papers rustling for a moment. “Call 18,160 kilohertz in one hour. I’ll notify the coordinator for your sector. QLR.”

“Thank you,” I said, but he was already reading another list.

We shut off the radio to save the batteries. Ben went to find Dad and tell him about our success. I started counting off an hour, one boring Mississippi at a time.

Dad joined us just as I hit 3,600 Mississippi. I turned on the radio and double-checked the frequency selector dial—it was still set to 18,160, where Ken had left it. I picked up the mic and offered it to Dad.

“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll just listen in.”

I mashed the push-to-talk switch under my sweaty palm. “Alex at Camp Maquoketa, calling the sector coordinator.”

“Say ‘CQ, CQ from KJØB,’” Ken said. “It’s proper radio etiquette.”

I was tempted to say “Thank You, Miss Ma

Finally someone responded. “KJØB here is N7ØVF. This is George Mason with the CBO’s FERROA Oversight Committee.”

“What’s the CBO?” I said.

“Congressional Budget Office. I was told you wished to file a complaint?”

“I thought I’d be speaking to the sector coordinator?”

“She’s busy. And anyway, we control their appropriations. What’s your complaint?”

“So what does that mean? That you control their appropriations?”

“It means that if we don’t give the say-so, they don’t get paid. Well, next year, anyway.”

Dad was making a rolling motion with his arm. “Get on with it,” he mouthed. So I launched into the story—how people had been disappearing from the camp, especially young women. How we’d captured some of the Dirty White Boys. I glossed over the way Dad had gotten Shawn to talk and didn’t explain what had ultimately happened to Shawn.

Talking on a shortwave radio had a huge advantage. The CBO guy couldn’t interrupt me. So long as I kept the transmit lever depressed, there was no way he could break in.

Finally though, I’d said everything I needed to and lifted the transmit lever.

“Those are serious allegations. Can you substantiate them?”

“There are dozens of witnesses.”

“Physical evidence?”

I looked at Dad, not sure what to say. “Blood stains,” he whispered, “captured knives and other gear. Black Lake buried the people who died in the attacks. They could be dug up.”

I passed on that information to the CBO guy. “Very serious allegations,” he added. “Monitor this frequency for instructions. N7ØVF.”

I wiped my forehead. I was sweating despite the cold. Dad clapped his hand against my shoulder. “You did good, son.”

“Thanks. So that guy was from Washington?”

“The location code in his call sign was zero,” Ken said. “That’s the code for Iowa, Mi

“Hmm. Maybe he’s a field agent or something?”

Ken shrugged.

We had a long wait by the radio. More than an hour, I guessed. The light was starting to dim when the radio crackled back to life, “CQ, CQ, this is N7ØVF to Maquoketa inmate station.”

“This is Alex. Inmate?”

Ken was cringing, and I realized I’d messed up the radio etiquette again. But it didn’t seem to matter.

“Sorry. Just jargon. Fortunately there’s an inspector not far from you. Congressional Liaison Orley. He’s in Rock Island. I’ve issued orders for him to move to Maquoketa tomorrow.”

“Great. When will he be here?”

“When the other inmates, um, refugees gather for di

“Got it.”

“Good. N7ØVF.”

• • •

We spent much of the next day debating who should meet with Congressional Liaison Orley. If the corrupt Black Lake perso

At di

We waited quietly for fifteen or twenty minutes. We were all tense—nobody seemed to feel like talking. A Black Lake guard in camo BDUs strode up to the gate guards and said something to them I couldn’t hear. They stepped away from the gate. The new guard called out, “You here to see Orley? He’s waiting for you in the vehicle depot.”

I glanced at Mom and Dad. They were trying to keep their faces impassive, but I could tell they were worried. Maybe as worried as I was. But if there was any chance at all of keeping the DWBs out of the camp, we had to take it. If we solved that problem, maybe Mom and Dad would try to escape with me. I marched slowly through the gate with Alyssa, Ben, Mom, and Dad right behind me.

The guard led us to a huge tent directly adjacent to the highway. Inside, the front part of the tent was clear; the back was packed with vehicles: bulldozers, snowplows, Humvees, and modern military trucks Ben said were FMTVs.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light coming through the open tent flaps behind us, a figure stepped out from among the parked trucks. “Orley?” I said.

Then I saw his face. It was the bastard who had run Camp Galena when Darla and I were imprisoned there last year: Colonel Levitov.

Chapter 70

I stepped back and shouted. But a dozen more guys in camo were already emerging from amid the trucks. They carried jagged-looking black assault rifles.

Dad sighed heavily, burying a word I’d never heard him use before under his breath. Five of the Black Lake guys detached from the rest, moving behind us. If we turned to run, they had clear shots. If we fought, some of us were going to get killed.