Winter Duty (5 page)

A piece of Valentine’s brain translated the political farrago.

Archangel, of course, was the operation that ousted Consul Solon and the Kurians from his brief hold on the Ozarks. In the chaos following, Southern Command seized much of Texas and Oklahoma and a patch of bled-dry Kansas.

The United Free Republics, after a messy birth, had divided into two parties, the Concorde and the New Federalists. Other than their slogans—
Liberty and Justice through Thoroughgood
for the Concorde,
Starpe Can’t Be Stopped
for the New Federalists—he didn’t know much about platforms and so on, though the perpetually dissatisfied
Clarion
supported Thoroughgood through its editorial page and its reporting.

“Old DC” was a nickname for President Starpe, not because of some connection to the old United States capital, but because he earned the nickname Danger Close as an artillery spotter during the tumultuous birth of the Ozark Free Territory. He’d infiltrate Kurian strongpoints and called in artillery fire literally on top of himself. His opponent, Zachary Thoroughgood, was a scion of the Thoroughgood family, owners of the Thoroughgood markets and a several hotels and casinos in Branson. They also controlled a brewery that produced a fine spruce-tip ale that Valentine’s old CO in Zulu company had been fond of as well.

Valentine had first heard of Thoroughgood as a prosecutor who busted up criminal gangs operating from the borderlands and then for improving electrification and water supply across the UFR as a legislator. Thoroughgood’s friends and constituents called him “Lights,” and Valentine had heard him called “Lights, Camera, Action” here and there, for he was famously photogenic and traveled everywhere with a photographer.

As to the “Texas bloc,” Valentine knew that in the legislature there were constant fights between the representatives from the old Ozark Free Territory and the newer regions. Rules of seniority favored legislators from the Missouri and Arkansas areas.

General Martinez, of course, was an old enemy. Valentine had put Martinez on trial for the murder of a pair of helpful Grogs who’d followed him up from the Caribbean. Valentine had always suspected Martinez had, if not an entire hand, at least a pointing finger in his own arrest after the fight in Dallas that led to his exile from the UFR.

Lehman got up and dug around in a pile of newsprint next to a bureau with liquor bottles lining their little rail like spectators. He tossed down a copy of the
Clarion
.

STARPE STOPPED, read the headline.

“I suspect there’ll be changes once Martinez takes over. I won’t be running the Mississippi front and parts east. All these boxes and such, they’re not me getting set to move out; they’re from the new broom coming in. There’s been a suggestion of malfeasance on my part over Javelin. Preservation of evidence and all that.”

“How could you know it was all a setup? They fooled Brother Mark.”

Lehman chuckled. “You’ve changed your opinion of him, then? Back when we were organizing Javelin, I got the impression he was a stone in your hoof.”

“He grows on you. Even the men are starting to confide in him. He’s like the grouchy instructor nobody likes but still remembers ten years later.”

“Soon I’ll be a memory here. If I don’t get retired, I imagine I’ll be checking locks on empty warehouses and filing reports on other reports that’ll end up going into my superior’s report. General Martinez and I don’t piss in the same direction on any number of things, starting with Kentucky. He penned an editorial for the
Clarion
about Javelin, Valentine. Of course, all the paragraphs featured the word ‘fiasco’ with the same arguments, but then the
Clarion
only has two tunes in their hymnal. Everyone around here’s tight as a turtle’s ass with the soup pot bubbling.”

“What are our chances of getting some reinforcements into Kentucky? Garrison and training duty, until they can get themselves organized.”

“Somewhere on the short block between Slim Street and None Boulevard, I’m afraid, Major.”

Valentine stood up. “Whatever’s being said about Javelin, it wasn’t for nothing. Kentucky’s come in on our side, more or less. The Moondaggers, the ones who bled Kansas dry, they’ve left bodies scattered from the Ohio to the Tennessee.”

“That was just the first wave, son. The signals and intelligence staff thinks something’s brewing in the Northwest Ordnance. Beyond the usual dance of reinforcements for the river crossings, with armed rebellion just across the river and over Evansville way.”

Valentine wondered about Evansville. Technically it had been the extreme southwestern tip of the Northwest Ordnance, which encompassed the old rust belt states of Ohio, Michigan, and much of northern and southern Indiana. (The central part of the state organized itself with the other great agricultural Kurian principalities in Illinois south of Chicago.) “All the more reason to send us at least something. Without their legworms, the clans in Kentucky lose their mobility and flexibility.”

General Lehman leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as he drummed his chest with his fingers. “Maybe they won’t have any more luck in those hills than we did.”

“A fresh brigade could make a big difference in western Kentucky. The old legworm clan alliance can take care of their ridges. With Evansville as a supply base, they have hospitals, fuel supplies, machine shops, factories. There’s even a company that produces tents and backpacks.”

“I hate half measures, Major. The way I see it, we either pull out completely or go all in and shove every chip we can scrape together across the Mississippi. I’d like to argue for the latter, but we’re in flux right now.”

“I’ve got an ad hoc battalion of Evansville volunteers—I guess you’d call them. There’s more than that in western and central Kentucky. We could put the brigade back together and have near a division.”

Lehman’s comb went to work again.

“But right now, in Evansville, all you have is what’s left of Javelin and your volunteers.”

“The Kentuckians chased down the Moondaggers before settling in for the winter. Their legworms have to hibernate, remember. But the Evansville volunteers have the know-how for mechanized operations.”

“Yes, the staff briefed me on that. You’re proposing a sort of French Foreign Legion for ex-Quislings, am I right? They do a little bleeding for us, and in six years they get a new name and citizenship in the UFR. Quite a scheme.”

“I realize I may have exceeded my authority in recruiting local support.”

“That’s what you were assigned to Javelin for: local support.”

“To hear you tell it, my locals won’t have anything to support much longer.”

“All in or pull out, Valentine. I’m sorry to say it, but all in is just not in the cards this year. That leaves pull out.”

“Can I at least get some matériel for my Quisling recruits? They’re walking around in black-dyed versions of their old uniforms and using captured Moondagger guns. Not the best of rifles—they’re mostly bolt-action carbines with low-capacity magazines. Fine for smoking out rebellious townies; not so hot when you’re trying to bring down a running Reaper.”

Lehman opened a notebook on his desk and jotted down a few words. “I’ll see what I can do. I know some huge rolls of blanketing or bedding has shown up recently. Guns will be tougher.”

“What about my offer to the Quislings, sir? Can you give me something in writing to back it up?”

“I’d be proud to. But honestly, Valentine, I don’t think any of ’em will be around to collect. They’ll either quit on you or be killed.”

“Do you know something I don’t, General?”

“It’s been my experience that the top-level Quisling officers are excellent. Well trained, intelligent, motivated, cooperative. Their soldiers are brave enough. They’ll stick where our guys will pull out a lot of the time. But you know as well as I that it’s the quality of the NCOs and junior officers that define an army. I’ve not seen the Quisling formation yet that has outstanding sergeants. They’re usually the best bullies and thieves in uniform.”

Valentine swung through intelligence next. He had to place a call and be signed in by the security officer at the duty desk in the hall.

A corporal escorted him to Post’s office. The corporal didn’t even try to make small talk.

Valentine walked through a bullpen of people at desks and occupying cubicles, passing maps filled with pins and ribbons and whiteboards covered with cryptic scrawls on the walls, and arrived at an office beyond. Post these days rated his own adjutant, and Post’s office was just beyond his adjutant’s. There was no door between Post’s office and his adjutant’s, just a wide entryway.

Valentine knocked on the empty doorframe. Post beamed as he entered. There was a little more salt to his salt-and-pepper hair and a good deal more starch in his uniform, but then headquarters standards had to be maintained.

The last time Valentine had seen Will Post, his friend was lying in his hospital bed after the long party celebrating the victory in Dallas and the retirement of the old Razors.

Post sported a lieutenant colonel’s bird these days. Even better, he looked fleshed-out and healthy. Valentine was used to seeing him thin and haggard, tired-eyed at the Chinese water torture of minutiae involved in running the old battalion, especially the ad hoc group of odds and sods that had been the Razors.

When Valentine had first met him in the Kurian Coastal Marines, his uniform bore more permanent sweat stains than buttons. Now he looked like he’d wheeled out of an award-banquet picture.

“Hello, Will,” Valentine said, saluting. Post, as a lieutenant colonel, now outranked a mere major—especially one who usually walked around Southern Command in a militia corporal’s uniform. Valentine felt embarrassed, trying not to look at the wheelchair. He’d seen it in pictures, of course.

“Good to see you. What happened to your ear?”

Valentine had left a hunk of lobe in Kentucky. If he could find the right man with a clipper, he should really even them up, even if it would make him look a bit like a Doberman.

“A near miss that wasn’t much of a miss.”

“Sit down, Val,” Post said. “I was just about to order sandwiches from the canteen. They have a cold-cut combo that’s really good; I think there’s a new supplier. Cranberries are plentiful now too, if you’re in the mood for a cranberry and apple salad. Our old friend Martinez has made some commissary changes already.” He reached for his phone.

“I’ll have both. I’ve an appetite today.”

Post, in his efficient manner, had seen Valentine’s discomfiture and acted to correct the situation.

While the Enemy Assessments Director-East called down to the canteen, Valentine glanced around the room. Post’s office had two chairs and an odd sort of feminine settee that in another time and place would have been called a fainting couch.

“How’s Gail?”

“Good. She does volunteer work over at United Hospital. She’s good with me, with the wounded. She says she only does it to forget about what she went through, but she could just as easily do that by sitting in a corner slamming tequila. Which is how I met her, way back. Except she was reading.”

Post’s desk had too many file folders, reachers to help him access shelves, coding guides and a battered laptop to have much room for pictures. He had citations and unit photos—Valentine recognized the old picture of himself and Ahn-Kha on the road to Dallas.

Ahn-Kha. Probably his closest friend in the world other than Duvalier, and the big golden Grog wasn’t even human. He was leading a guerrilla band in the Appalachians, doing so much damage that both sides were mistaking his little partisan band for a large army.

He’d seen that same shot on his visit to Molly and her son, ages ago. Ever since he’d brought her out of Chicago as a Wolf lieutenant, they’d been family to one another, with a family’s mix of joys and heartbreak.

Odd that Post and Molly should both like that photo. Of course, the only other published picture of Valentine that he could remember was an old photo taken when he became a lieutenant in his Wolf days.

What Valentine guessed to be a map or recessed bookcase stood behind heavy wood cabinet doors complete with a lock. Nearest Post’s desk was his set of “traveling wheels.”

Valentine looked at the biggest picture on his desk: a family photo of his wife, Gail, and a pigtailed toddler. “I didn’t know you had a child.”

Post brushed the picture’s glass with a finger, as though rearranging Gail’s short, tousled hair. “We tried. It didn’t work. The docs said they found some odd cell tissue on Gail’s, er, cervix. Something the Kurians did to her in that Reaper mill, they think. We more or less adopted.”

“Good for you.”

“There’s more. It’s Moira Styachowski’s daughter.”

Valentine felt a pang. “I didn’t know she had one.”

“She’s a pistol. Only sixteen months but we call her the Wild Thing. Jenny’s all Moira. We were godparents, you see. And when that plane went down . . .”