Valentine's Rising (14 page)

“How'd you get a captured gun?” Ahn-Kha asked, touching Post's holstered .45. It was a duplicate of Valentine's; Post had given him one while they served together on the
Thunderbolt
.

“It's not Southern Command issue.”

“Letter of the law,” Ahn-Kha said. “A few dozen guns between all of us.”

“For a column a half mile long.”

Valentine turned his attention back to Martinez, still arguing with Meadows. “You think you can move this many through the hills? You're throwing away the lives of everyone here. I'll offer an amnesty. We can bring the command back together.”

Meadows unhooked his pistol belt and handed it over to Martinez. “That 9mm is Southern Command issue. Wouldn't want to set a bad example.” He looked at the men holding the horse teams. “Five minutes!” he shouted. “We get going in five minutes!”

“Don't be a fool, Colonel,” Martinez said. “We need you. And these good men.” His beady eyes glanced up and down the files of men. It seemed that those who still shaved and cleaned their uniforms were all lined up with Valentine.

“Martinez,” Valentine said, “you don't have a command. You have a mob. They way things are going in this camp, you won't even have a mob much longer.”

Martinez sneered. “Think so? I'll give you a prediction in return. We'll outlast you.”

 

“Bullfrog's been at it again,” Finner said. “Sumbitch never could spell.” He and Valentine crouched in the thick bush bordering the improvised horse pasture, examining the bodies from a stand of wintering lilac bushes, the western wind blowing the stench the other way. The rest of the column sheltered in the deeper woods a kilometer away, eating the midday meal out of their packs. The screening Wolves had been exploring the more open ground around the old office park and came across what looked like an inhabited office building. When they found the bodies they had summoned Valentine.

“Bullfrog?” Valentine asked.

“Sergeant Bill Frum. Top sergeant in the Guards, or so the men in his old unit say.”

“A guerilla?”

“In a manner. He and his men joined up with Solon's crew in Little Rock and they gave him a commission. Only he's playing double agent or whatever you want to call it. He's got twenty or thirty diehards, twice that in part-time guerillas in the farms east of here, and about two hundred men scattered around who are supposed to be hunting guerillas. What they mostly do is look the other way.”

Valentine reread the block letters on the sign. “So what about the bodies?”

“Camouflage.”

“What's that mean?”

“His guerillas aren't really going up against the KZ forces. More like sneaking around and hitting the folks who cooperate. That burned-out farm we passed yesterday; I bet that was his work.”

The scouts had reported bodies in the ruins, Valentine remembered.

“He's a good source of intelligence about the roads between the Rock and Hot Springs, for all that. Sometimes he sends a messenger, trades information or supplies he's been issued. In the last swap he told us they'd open the rail line south from the Rock again.”

“He went to some effort to preserve the bodies. I wonder why?” Valentine asked.

“Shows any inspection groups that he's killing guerillas. I know he shoots deserters trying to get back home to Texas or Oklahoma. Picks off an occasional wildcatter come in from Illinois or Tenesseee to set up shop, and then burns down an empty house or two in fake ‘reprisals.' Bullfrog likes a good bonfire. He burns anything used to trade with the enemy—from a cart to a farm, and buries locals who join up and are carrying arms.”

“Buries?”

“Buries alive, in a coffin with an airhole of old pipe, so they have time to think about what they did. Then claims the guerillas did it. That's what Major Rojo used to say, anyway.”

Valentine found himself feeling less contemptuous toward General Martinez and his moonshine-sotted camp. He'd rather have his men drunk and disorderly than burying people alive. Valentine squatted and crept away from the bodies through the new grass. Finner and his patrol rested among the newly mature trees that had sprung up in old landscaping.

“You said this is was pretty quiet area, Jess.”

“Quiet's relative, Val,” Finner said.

“Let's visit this setup,” Valentine said.

“What, everyone?”

“No. Keep the column hidden in the hills. I want to visit this Bullfrog's lily pad and find out for sure which side he's hopped on.”

Valentine crouched alongside a wrecked pickup covered in kudzu, and moved his hand as though he were throwing a dart three times. He could hear Styachowski's quick breaths behind. She'd vouched for the authenticity of Bullfrog's intelligence; as far as she knew his information had never led to the capture or destruction of Southern Command forces. Nail, looking back at him from twenty meters ahead, whipped his wiry arm in a wheeling motion forward and his Bears rose out of the ditch in front of the chocolate-colored office building—Valentine guessed it had once held a decorative pond—and entered, two remaining behind to cover. At another wave from Nail in the doorway, they ran in after him.

His old Wolf senses took over and he listened to the footsteps, the low calls, the crash of something heavy overturning.

“Blue Tick! Blue Tick! Blue Tick!” Nail called. The Bears had reached the door of the office building. Some boarded-over windows had STATION 26 stencilled on them.

“Running! They're running,” Nail shouted.

Valentine rose and another thirty men rose with him. They trotted inside the swept-up but still water-damaged reception foyer; it stretched up through the building's three stories to paneless skylights, and dispersed to cover all sides of the building. Years' worth of plant life had established itself on the floors above so that roots and old extension cords and recent phone lines shared space on the wall. Valentine and Styachowski followed a pointing Bear named Ritter down a flight of stairs. Finner waited for them at the bottom. The landing was cluttered with suspiciously fresh blown leaves.

They stepped down an electric-lit corridor just in time to see Nail fling himself at a vaultlike door that was being closed.

“Open up, Sergeant Frum,” Nail called. “Southern Command. Operations verification Squeak-Three.”

“That's out of date,” Styachowski said, coughing after the run.

Valentine examined the cinderblock walls. Heavy girders supported a concrete ceiling above. This Bullfrog had chosen his panic room, or hideout, or bomb shelter well.

“Southern Command hasn't set a new code for this year,” Nail said. “It's the last effective password.” Then, to the door: “C'mon, Sergeant, Squeak-Three. This is Lieutenant Harold Nail, Volmer's Bears.”

Valentine pressed his ear to the cool metal and listened. If anyone stood on the other side of the door, he or she remained silent.

Finner pounded on the door. “Jess Finner here. For chrissakes, Bullfrog, gimme a break and open up. These Bears is just gonna blow you out otherwise. I'm not shitting you, ol' buddy.”

Valentine heard an authoritative click from the door and breathed a sigh of relief. They had no explosives to make good Finner's threat.

The door opened and a brilliant beam of light filled the corridor. It hit Valentine's eyes like a knife, giving him an instant headache. Valentine could just make out light-frosted outlines of heads and gun barrels.

“Whoa there!” he said, holding out his hands. “Friends, okay? I'm codename Ghost, Cat of Southern Command.”

“No Southern Command no more,” argued a deep voice, smooth as buttermilk being poured.

“You call me ‘sir,' Sergeant, and get that light off.”

“Just making sure.” The light went out and Valentine could see a dozen hard faces, guns ready, set against nondescript gray-green office décor.

“Just making sure, sir,” Valentine corrected.

“I'm not blowing your head off, and I'm not calling you ‘sir.' I might change my mind about one. Like I said, no Southern Command to say ‘sir' to. They sold us out, just like they did my granddaddy in '22.” A man proportioned a little like Ahn-Kha stepped forward, filling the doorway, and held up his hand, palm out. “Howdy, Jess. Had to make sure there wasn't a gun to your head. I'm Bill Frum. What can I do for you boys?”

It turned out Bullfrog was willing to do almost nothing.

Valentine sat among silent machines in the dusty basement room. A single candle made more shadows than light. He stared at the six dark boxes. Each about the size of an upended footlocker, the old computers—netservers, or so the tiny chrome letters next to the main power button said—stood like a squad of soldiers on parade. Bullfrog's men avoided this small, stuffy corner room, like Visigoths afraid to enter the heart of a Roman temple, fearing ancient, half-understood wrath. A little dusting and some power, and it would be hard to tell the past half century had even happened—

Except for some long-ago philosopher who'd written THE JOKE IS ON US on the wall, using a permanent marker to form the two-foot block letters.

He had to think.

His command was divided; the rest of the column was resting in the woods just under a mile away, while the team that penetrated the old office building stayed and mixed with Bullfrog's men, with orders not to reaveal anything about their numbers.

Bullfrog had taken the handful of guests on a tour of his domain, made cozy by gear plucked from the dead organs of Southern Command or issued by the Kurians. Crates of supplies covered with stenciled letters were stacked floor to ceiling along with guns, leather goods, bolts of cloth, camp gear, cooking pots, and medical and commissary supplies. The sergeant organized his command with a professional NCO's eye to detail and a mind for long-term operations. His men were clad in a variant of the old Louisiana Regular outfits Valentine had an intimate knowledge of from his days posing as a Kurian Coastal Marine in the Gulf.