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"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 decor.
"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 reveal 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.
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 mat 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 hereabout. 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?"
