[h1][center]Virginia, Confederate Border[/center][/h1]

[i]Shit.[/i]

Thomas' heart pounded as he ran through the forest, clutching his revolver close to him. His torn suit did him no favors, especially not in the exceptionally cold night. To make matters worse it was a full moon, and rays of moonlight illuminated the entire forest as if God himself had lent the Confederates a searchlight. The last time he had eaten had been two days ago, and after having the dry heaves for all that time he was pretty sure that the water he drank was contaminated. All in all, it was shaping up a pretty shitty night.

The roaring of an engine came from the direction of the road, which he had kept close to due to his total lack of a compass or any other useful navigational tool. A light from the road hit the trees near him, which only made him try to run even faster. For a split second he saw the ray of light illuminate the dust in the air in front of him, then it hit his right eye with blinding power. He ducked, but the car's engine got quieter and the light stayed on him. They'd seen him, all right.

[i]Shit![/i]

"We got 'im!" Yelled a man from the road as a bullet flew through the leaves a foot or so away. Thomas' self-preservation instincts kicked into overdrive and give him a second wind as he picked up his pace. Flashlights reflected off the trees and leaves all around him, as if the light itself was a monster that would consume him the moment it came into contact. His old body wasn't made for the stress of the running, but adrenaline has a way of making you ignore the fact that you're sixty-nine years old.

"Don't let that fucker across the border!" Yelled another man as a hail of gunfire slammed into the trees. Thomas took a moment to thank God that Tommy guns weren't anywhere near accurate. He wasn't quite sure why the man had said what he did, however. One would think that everyone chasing a wanted man would know damn well that they can't let said man cross the border into another country.

Machine gun fire from in front of him told him exactly why the man had yelled.

A bullet hit his leg and he fell face-down into the dirt, a situation even adrenaline couldn't get him out of. Still, though, he tried. His old bones strained to push himself upright, just in time for a boot to meet his torso and drop him to the ground on his back. A man in a gray confederate uniform stood staring back at him, holding a revolver of his own and pointing it right at Thomas' head.

"Thomas Felts..." Said the uniformed man, a smile growing on his face. "Never thought I'd be the one ta' do the honors."

"No, please! That's all in the past!" Pleaded Thomas, a reasonable response to having a gun pointed at your head. "I disbanded the agency!"

"Disbanding the agency don't mean the men you killed get brought back to life, detective. I was a coal miner, I know goddamned well the hell you put us through. You ain't gettin off the hook."

"I-I'll do anything! Please! You don't need to kill me! Just get some handcuffs and-"

"Well my orders were to bring you in alive." Said the man, who then fired his revolver. The bullet went straight into Thomas' brain, bringing the old man's life to an end. "Shame that I missed your leg."

[hr]

[center][h1]Jacksonville, Florida[/h1][/center]

The red flag of the Confederacy fluttered over the building that housed the Confederate Council. At least, that's how it would look in the newspaper article about the meeting being held within. In reality, it just wasn't a very windy day and the flag was hanging down in a gloomy sort of fashion. And that, of course, just simply wouldn't do for the picture that would accompany the grandiose announcement that would grace the breakfast tables of people all across the Confederacy come next morning.

"Mr. Ford!" Screamed a man in the gray military uniform of the state, which would have hearkened back to that of the original Confederacy if not for the glaringly large hammer and sickle that was displayed on its helmet. "You have to look beyond the numbers! We've got plenty more soldiers, but there ain't enough good guns to supply them all!"

"But we do have enough [i]working[/i] guns, don't we?" Said Ford, his speech accompanied by multiple hand motions that did little to actually help him convey his message. "It don't matter if it's a hunting rifle that a man's firin', he's still firin' a bullet that's still got the capability to kill someone."

"That's not all, though!" Continued the man in uniform as if nothing had been said. "Their air forces are vastly superior! Our boys have been keeping tabs on those new German planes they've got flying around the border, and they're goddamned monsters! Take a look at this!"

He nodded to a woman in the center of the room, who was sitting by a bulky projector taken from a movie theater. She turned on the device just as someone else in the room flipped off the lights, allowing the image it was displaying on the wall to be seen clearer. Everyone turned to get a look at the grainy photograph of an aircraft.

"This is a German monoplane." Said the man. "Full metal fuselage, enclosed cockpit, and we believe it to be capable of counting a cannon. It's got astounding maneuverability, and likely survivability. We can fight it, but I'm afraid that we just don't have enough planes to take their force on. We need either better planes, or more planes."

"Well that's good, because we can do both." Said Ford. "We've already secured a lend-lease deal with the Soviet Union for some of their fighter aircraft, specifically the I-15 and I-16 models."

"You would send I-15 biplanes against an air force made up entirely of monoplane aircraft? Besides, those are both open cockpit planes! Perhaps that's more planes, but certainly not better ones! How can we be sure that they'll be capable of combating these new fascist planes at all?"

"Because they already have in Spain. Both've been proven to be highly effective. Hell, there's been talk of producing them in Spain as well. We've also got engineers already working on a new prototype, the CW-37 Kitty Hawk. It's set for its first flight in October of next year. We're hoping to remedy the rest of our armament problems by then too, as Director Saltsgaver can tell you."

Saltsgaver stood up from his seat next to Ford. In contrast to both men, he was wearing the simple clothes of a working man. He always did. As he was keen to say, anything fancier put a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I guess that's my cue." He said. "We've been doin' well with the economic expansion. The conversion of the entire Brightleaf complex is complete and pumpin' out armaments, including those shiny new Soviet planes y'all was just discussin'. I oughta' mention that production of BT-7 cavalry tanks has increased substantially. Only problem's that our steel stockpile's startin' to run low."

"Will it last?" Asked Ford.

"Oh, it'll last well enough. But we need ta' get some more mills operational, or at least convert somthin' quick. Otherwise we'll have ta' half construction on some ships. And I'm right certain that haltin' production on ships'll do nothin' good for the Navy."

"Can it be done?"

"We'll need ta'... improvise a bit, but yessir it can. I've got some floorplans in my briefcase right now for the govner's mansion in West Virginia. Place'll make a right fine steel mill."

"Good, you be sure that it gets done. God knows what those Yankees're doin' right now. I'd rather deal with 'em sooner rather'n later. Well then, how're the oil wells down in Texas holdin' up?"

As it happened, the frontpage of the newspaper the next day didn't bear the perfectly doctored photograph of the Council building. Instead, upon the frontpage of every newspaper in every mailbox of every household in the Confederacy was an I-15 Chaika biplane in all of its glory. The headline read "New fighter plane enters production in Durham!"