Valentine's Rising (15 page)

Bullfrog wouldn't part with any of it, orders or no. He was overgenerous with what was lying around on the mess room tables and counters, offering the guests canned peanut paste smeared on heartroot, jerky, creamed corn, even root beer.

“No Southern Command no more,” Bullfrog said each and every time the subject came up. “Just patriots and collaborators, mister, patriots and collaborators. We've gone underground. Literally. I got arsenals hidden all over the place for my Night Watch.”

“You're guerillas.”

“Yes,” Bullfrog said, smiling so that his face seemed mostly made up of teeth. “Helluva war I got going here. I'm running both sides of it.”

“And what do the Kurians get out of it?”

“A bunch of ‘somedays,' ” Bullfrog said. “I'm supposed to be recruiting. They're broke-dick on troops, not getting as much cooperation out of Ozark folks as they expected, and the troops that took down Southern Command are heading home. They got soldiers running the lights and phones, driving trucks, running switches on the railroad. Most locals won't do anything unless you've got a soldier poking them along with a bayonet.”

“What do you do with the ones who cooperate?”

“They get a warning. The Night Watch beats the hell out of 'em. After that—” He passed an index finger across his throat.

“We could really use some of those guns I saw in your armory.”

“Can't. Strict inventory. Those are for the forces I'm supposed to be recruiting. They watch guns and gas like Jew accountants. There's never a pistol missing or a drop short. That's why they keep me as honcho hearabout. Figure if I'm honest about the small stuff, I'll be honest about the big stuff too.”

 

Valentine felt hot and restless. He wanted to swing his arms and kick with his legs. Seeing the hoarded supplies appear and then vanish like a desert mirage frustrated him. If he could draw on Sergeant Bill “Bullfrog” Frum's stores in a substantial way his column might be able to make it the rest of the way to the Boston Mountains. They were already short of food; seven hundred people on the march couldn't live on the local rabbits and wild onions. Frum's obstinacy might mean the destruction of his column.

He needed release. An hour chopping wood might clear his buffers. What did that expression mean, anyway?

“Hell, sir, you look like a Bear warming up for a fight,” a voice from the other side of the Arkansas broke in.

“What's that?” Valentine temporized, bringing himself back to the room with the dead servers.

Nail stood in the doorway, scratching the afternoon's growth on his face. The Bear officer put a half-eaten lasagna MRE on one of the old computers and crossed his arms as though he were wrapped in a straightjacket, pulled his heels together and rocked on them. Valentine realized that Nail was aping his pose. “You look like a stomped-down spring.”

“About to go ‘boing,' huh?” Valentine forced his body to relax. “I'll give you a warning before I snap.”

“I've worked with Bears for six year, Captain. I'm used to it. It was more the staring-at-nothing look in your eye. You smell action in the wind?”

“No. I should get back to Post and Meadows.”

“You know, sir, we've got enough men to empty this joint. Lots of stuff here we could use. Ol' Frum could say his headquarters got attacked unexpectedly.”

“The sergeant's worked hard on his setup. I don't want to give the Kurians a reason to replace him.”

“Still like to see Bullfrog taken down a notch. He's been the biggest buck of these woods too long; thinks he makes right and wrong. I don't like making war on civilians, ours or theirs.”

Valentine felt a better warmth at those words. He saw a crack of light from Frum's locked-off door. “Neither do I. Follow me, would you?”

Valentine traced a line with his index finger under the THE JOKE IS ON US graffiti as he left. He nodded at one of Bullfrog's guerillas, dripping wet with a towel around his waist as he came back from the improvised bath—Bullfrog had turned an old janitorial closet into a one-man shower—and followed his ears to the canteen, where Bullfrog was shooting the breeze with Finner about the last few months.

“Troop trains heading back south and west lately,” Valentine heard as he approached. “Borrowed troops heading home with boxcars of booty and prisoners. As long as the Night Watch keeps out of Little Rock and away from the lines, these hills stay quiet. If I touch the railroads I get a flying regiment sent—”

“Bullfrog, I'm taking over,” Valentine said, cutting off the storytelling.

Bullfrog had one leg up on the table, the worn waffle pattern in the boot turned toward him, like a religious icon shifted to ward off evil.

“Taking over what?”

Valentine's heart tripped when he saw Bullfrog's hand fall to his holster.

Valentine stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Your unit. They'll be taking orders from me, until I depart.”

“Doubt it. They answer to me.”

“Never said otherwise. I outrank you. I'll give the orders to you, then you'll amplify, organize and carry out. Way it always worked in Southern Command.”

Bullfrog sighed. “That again. I told you before, I don't—”

“You will, or I'll knock you into next week.”

The sergeant stood up. Valentine's leveled stare hit Bullfrog just below the collarbone. “You think you can whip me?”

“If you won't take my word for it.”

“If you're dead set on an ass-kicking, I'll oblige, Valentine.”

“You've been around the Kurians too long. You're not the local demigod. Time to put you back in the chain of command, since you can't handle the responsibility.” Bullfrog turned an intriguing shade of purple, took a breath—“I'm going to use these stores. And another thing. I won't stand for any more reprisals against civilians,” Valentine finished, delaying whatever was coming.

Bullfrog's rapid-fire laughter filled the mess room and echoed like a string of firecrackers going off: heh-ha-hehha-heh-ha. “I fight with my fists, not paper.”

“That's your prerogative. I'm not filing a Jagger complaint.”

 

Bullfrog wasted no time. He led Valentine outside. Word passed around among the men via the mysterious network that exists in any organization, always faster and more effective than any communications flowchart. As they walked out the thick steel door and up the stairs, everyone from Nail's Bears to Bullfrog's own headquarters staff followed.

Valentine took off his tunic as he exited the plant-cluttered office building. The cool air felt good as it licked across his hot ears. The sky had become overcast again; the late-winter rains looked to be building again. Meadows, guided by a pair of Wolves, was crossing the parking lot.

“Valentine,” Meadows hallooed. “Since we're resting I wanted to—”

“Sorry, sir, busy,” Valentine said.

Meadows' forehead wrinkled as Bullfrog removed his own jacket. “That you, Fa—no, Frum. Sergeant Frum?”

“Colonel Meadows,” Bullfrog said, not bothering to salute.

“What's all this?” Meadows turned in a circle as he looked at the mixed contingent of men, some throwing suspenders over their shoulders or still pulling on boots as they emerged from the office building.

Valentine ignored him, but the remoter, calmer quarters of his brain filed away Bullfrog's familiarity with Meadows. “Men!” he said, not having to try too hard to sound fighting-mad. “An exchange of blows between officers of Southern Command is considered a court-martial offense by the Uniform Code, especially if there is a difference in rank. I picked this quarrel with Sergeant Frum; he's to be held blameless.” Valentine spat into each palm and formed his hands into tight fists. “Sergeant Frum, do you hold me blameless under the Uniform Code?”

Bullfrog planted his feet. “You can count on it, Valentine.”

“Tell the men, and Colonel Meadows, so he's a witness. I don't want to hang with those others.”

Bullfrog somehow managed to shout using the side of his mouth, keeping his vision locked on Valentine. “He's blameless too, under the Uniform Code.”

Valentine lowered his fists. “Sergeant, the Southern Command's Uniform Code isn't a buffet. You can't pick and choose which rules apply. You either operate under it or you don't. You've just accepted its protection, and with its protection goes—”

“Bullshit!” Bullfrog shouted. “Tricks won't—”

He charged, arms up and reaching for Valentine's throat.

But Bullfrog was just big, and Valentine was a Cat. He sidestepped the rush, reached out and grabbed a handful of Quisling-issue collar, whipped his legs up and got them around Bullfrog's waist. They both went down, Bullfrog using his weight and strength to hammer Valentine into the ground.

Valentine got his forearm under Bullfrog's chin, an old wrestling move he'd learned—the hard way—from his old top sergeant in Zulu Company.

Bullfrog croaked in what Patel called his “hangman.”

The sergeant gave one terrific shrug and spun, bringing Valentine sideways into the ground, but Valentine clung, battered and smashed by Bullfrog's weight, with the same tenacity as Rikki-Tikki-Tavi with his teeth locked in Nag the Cobra's neck. For the honor of his family Rikki wanted to be found dead with his teeth locked in the enemy, and for the honor of Zulu Company's champion wrestler Valentine clung to his choke hold despite the red-yellow-red flashes of pain from his ribs. Then Bullfrog went limp.

Valentine suspected a trick until he felt, and smelled, warm urine on his leg.

“He's done,” Valentine said, getting to shaky legs and brushing himself off.

Bullfrog groaned.

“Somebody get the sergeant a towel,” Valentine said, breathing into the pain.

“Enough of that, Captain,” Meadows barked. He hooked Valentine with his good hand and his thumb and finger, pulling the Cat up. “You men, help the sergeant inside. Captain, you'd better have Narcisse look at those ribs. The rest of you, pay off your bets and get inside. Sun's going down.”

Valentine's eyes rose to the tarred bodies hanging from the lamppost. Meadows nodded in understanding.

“Lieutenant Nail, take a detail and get those bodies down. Anyone else feels like fistfighting can work off their aggressions digging six feet down.”

 

“You come back from a beating like no man I ever knew,” Narcisse said the next morning, applying cool, water-soaked towels to Valentine's battered frame. Unfortunately, Bullfrog's substantial inventory didn't include an ice machine.

Valentine looked at his reflection in the washroom mirror. A great blue-and-purple mark on his chin was just beginning to show a hint of yellow through the skin. The right side of his rib cage looked like van Gogh's
Starry Night.

“I've never broken a bone before,” he said, feeling around at the soft spot.

Narcisse rapped him across the probing knuckles with her handless arm. “Leave it be, and it'll heal. Just a rib. Count yourself lucky; your lung stayed airy and you got lots of stuff holding that rib in place.”

A heavy tread sounded in the basement corridor, and Ahn-Kha's bent-over frame appeared. There was now enough of a mixture of Valentine's column and the guerillas that Styachowski had judged it safe for Ahn-Kha to make an appearance. The Golden One bore a contraption that looked a little like a corset made of tube steel. He'd put it together using the frames of a stack of office chairs he found and leather scraps.

“I adjusted it, my David. Try it now.”

Ahn-Kha could be as gentle as a cooing dove when he chose to be. The great arms, thick as well-fed pythons, wrapped themselves around Valentine and then worked the buckles on the brace. Valentine had always had good posture; constant insistence from first his parents, and then the more recently departed Father Max had given him an instinctive, erect carriage, but with the brace on he felt like a heroically posed statue, elbows slightly out. But he could breathe this time, unlike the preliminary fitting.

“Thanks, old horse.”

He tottered out into the hallway, walking a bit like a drunk trying to conceal the extent of his load. He couldn't favor his bad leg, the way he usually strode. He made for Meadows, who stood at the far end of the hall, checking off supplies as they were distributed to Valentine's column. A somewhat subdued Sergeant—now Lieutenant, Valentine corrected himself—Frum stood just beside him, the bruise under his chin looking like a hangman's beard.

Colonel Meadows and Bullfrog were comfortable enough with each other that Valentine had suggested that Meadows stay at the hideout with whoever felt unfit for a try at the Boston Mountains. Bullfrog could find jobs for them as guerillas or in some of the settlements under his command. Meadows accepted, and with the help of a staff captain had begun to sort through the horde of Quisling supplies. Everyone seemed happier for it, like tired horses back in familiar stalls.

“All this stuff missing; it'll go against me at the next inspection,” Bullfrog said.

“You'll be able to justify it.”

“How's that?”

“You were doing your job. Recruiting and equipping warm bodies.”

Bullfrog scratched his head, and Valentine turned to Meadows.

“Colonel, I think I'm fit enough to talk to the men. Could you get them together, please, sir?”

The men who couldn't fit underground had to be dispersed every night in case of a prowling Reaper, looking for lifesign where it wasn't supposed to be. Once the sun was well up they usually gathered for meals and news. There had been plenty of the first and not much of the latter lately, though everyone was looking better for a few days' rest. Styachowski popped up, dabbing a coffee mustache from her lips and showing her old snap-to-it briskness. She'd spent the past day combing through Quisling paperwork with the help of a corporal on Bullfrog's quasi-Quisling staff.