The command helicopter made the journey from Albuquerque to El Refugio in forty-five minutes. He was met by a young woman who showed him around for a few minutes until Manuel Quintana could catch up with them. Manuel was finishing the morning satellite up-link operations, but the brief delay allowed Al Augustus to get the lay of the land, and what he saw amazed him.

Tents had been erected in neat rows along well-drained and carefully graded streets. Other streets were lined with white-washed stores and shops. He was surprised to see both a high school and an elementary school. In many ways the place had the feeling of a frontier town, with a thriving and bustling community doing business and carrying on their lives. There was an obvious spirit of harmony and cheerfulness among the people. Everywhere he walked, people greeted him. But this was also the most high-tech frontier town anyone could imagine. Everywhere he looked, Al saw computers and other advanced electronic equipment.

Underground cables carried power from a central generator to provide electric power to key locations in the complex. There were larger structures built of adobe and wood at various locations. These were combination kitchens, dining halls, and places of community worship. The presence of ultramodern communications equipment stood in marked contrast to the rustic simplicity of the rest of the complex.

The order, cleanliness, and the utility of the place all bore silent witness to the strength and organizational abilities of El Refugio’s founder, John Edwards.

To Al Augustus, one detail seemed particularly surprising. At El Refugio there were no weapons: no pistols, no rifles, no automatic weapons, and no artillery. Are these people pacifists? Al wondered. Do they have hidden caches of weapons that aren’t visible to the casual observer?

“Mr. Secretary,” someone called to him. Al Augustus looked around and saw a handsome man in his late thirties jogging across the road from the communications complex. As the man drew closer, Augustus recognized Manuel Quintana from photographs he had seen. Archie Gladstone had briefed him—must have been years ago!—about Manuel’s incredible story of courage and survival.

“Sorry to get delayed, Mr. Secretary,” Manuel said, shaking hands with Al Augustus. “We lead a simple life here,” he added, slightly winded, “but not everything we do is very simple.”

“I can see that.” Al Augustus beamed. “This whole place is remarkable,” he said, “but I’m especially pleased to meet you, Mr. Quintana. I’ve never met anyone with such an incredible story of survival. You are a true American hero.”

Manuel shrugged off the compliment. “My wife and boys are the heroes,” he said. “I’m just a fellow who was protected by the hand of God. But, come on. Let’s walk up the road and meet the founder of El Refugio, the man we call Pastor Jack. I think he’s up there just beyond that clump of trees taking care of some new arrivals.”