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But his duty was also to turn this assortment of experienced soldiers (and the odd ex-sailor; he had two floaters in with his fighters) into a cohesive unit, to know which pieces functioned in what way under stress. They'd been over the river and back again together, in spirit, even if everybody hadn't crossed the Mississippi.
Now he had a team.
* * * *
At the debriefing back at Camp Highbeam, the only person unhappy about the raid was Brother Mark. He looked strained and pale in the fluorescent lighting of the camp classroom that doubled as a conference room. He'd been out on one of his contact trips, negotiating with legworm ranchers, the resistance, and who knew what else.
"There is a plan, you know," Brother Mark said after asking questions about exactly where the fighting had taken place. "We don't need to be jamming sticks into the hornet's nest, stirring them up."
Valentine was a little dissatisfied too, when he told the story about the flying Reaper.
"Sure it wasn't just a real skinny gargoyle?" Captain Moytana asked. He'd written the letter about the dead Wolf and posted it to his folks that morning.
"I'll send a message to the Miskatonic about it," Valentine told the faces around the conference table. "I don't suppose there's a good artist somewhere in the brigade."
"One more matter," Colonel Seng said, his wide catfish face graver than usual. "The usual after-action leaves will not take place. I wish to intensify training. The whole camp is going to start route-marching exercises and war games. The orders and scheduling will be on your desks within two days."
Gamecock groaned. "My Bears expect their due."
"They're not your Bears, Lieutenant," Seng said. "They're Southern Command's. They'll get their chance at a short leave. So will all of you. This operation may begin sooner than anyone dreams."
Valentine intercepted Brother Mark as the meeting broke up. It was easy; he wasn't a popular man. Valentine didn't know if it was his fussy manner of speaking or the resentment of soldiers who had to work with a civilian's eye on them.
"Excuse me, sir," Valentine said. "Were you just with the rebels in the Virginias?"
"I can't tell you that, son."
"You've been there, though. You've told us that much."
"Yes," Brother Mark said, wary.
"Have you seen the Grog that's supposed to be with them? Leading them?"
"I don't know about leading. They definitely listen to him. He's sort of a mascot or good luck charm. They always perk up when he's around."
"What's he like?" Valentine asked.
"I suspect you know. I was briefed on your trip through Kentucky. Big. Leaner and less stooped-over than those thick-hides with the fangs. He can speak too. I've never met a Grog who can do that."
"The last time you saw him, was he well?" Valentine asked. Brother Mark should be able to answer that.
"Healthy as a horse. They call him the Uncle, by the way. I just remembered that. He's scarred, but the injuries are healed. Does that put your mind at ease."
"You've- I'm very happy to hear that, sir. Thank you."
"Happy. I remember that. I'm jealous, son. Excuse me, I must attend to the colonel. Be true."
He turned away, hurrying to catch up to Colonel Seng, ending the conversation.
* * * *
The brigade made practice marches interspersed with combat training. Jolla's command, including Valentine's company, was often matched against the rest of the brigade.
After one of these skirmishes, the Guard lieutenant colonel Gage sat Valentine in his command car, a beat-up old Humvee with an oversized bed and extra brackets that allowed it to double as an ambulance.
"Goddamit, Major, our boys are supposed to win. How are they supposed to build confidence when your glorified chicken wranglers burn a couple dozen of them?"
"Tell your junior officers that just because an area's been checked for mines, it doesn't mean I can't go back and replant after they've passed through," Valentine said. "My orders were to delay your march on Red Ridge."
