Almost unnoticed in the background, the computer that controlled the Kite blinked steadily as the orbiter poured gigawatts of raw power onto an insignificant patch of grasslands in the hills of Tennessee.
When the disk eventually finished, Sheffield turned the machine off and walked to the barred window to watch the sun rise over the craggy mountains of the valley.
“My mountains,” he whispered, and slowly began to smile. “My valley, my continent!”
There was a crackle from the intercom. “Sir?” a voice asked in concern. “I heard a shout. Is everything all right, Major?”
“Everything is fine,” the mutie replied. “And the next time you call me ‘Major,’ I’ll rip out your guts and feed them to the dogs!”
“S-sir?”
“I am Baron Sheffield!” he roared. Then he added softly, “The new ruler of North America.”