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"Colonel Jolla's called for all the staff-level officers, sir," Patel said. "The route's been changed. Moytana's Wolves have captured a motor pool and fueling station. We're to move there at once."
Brother Mark finished his coffee. "Go and line your men up neatly, Major. I think I shall despair of my pillow and just sleep on my coat for whatever length of time God and Colonel Seng allow. Oh dear, it looks like rain. As if I'm not uncomfortable enough."
* * * *
By nightfall they were almost out of the Goobermaker's territory, camped at the captured garage that reminded Valentine of the rig yard he'd briefly siezed back in his days as a Wolf lieutenant. This one had no organic labor force, however, just a few mechanics and relief drivers who took a motorbus in from Memphis every day.
Just before setting off on the hard march for the garage, Jolla had ordered the men to discard their tinfoil and officially announced the destruction of the Goobermaker's tower.
Valentine wasn't able to determine which bit of news made the men cheer harder. But he was glad to feel air on his skin again.
* * * *
The march out of the Mississippi camp marked the last time the Valentine's company stepped in ranks and files together for weeks.
Once out of sight of the river valley, they were put to work, scattered into details and squads gathering news and sustenance, watching road crossings, finding fords or paths, siphoning gasoline and warning off wandering locals.
Two days later they crossed into Kentucky, following old Route 79. Patel and a platoon rode scout, traveling ahead or around the flanks to major intersections where they could idle beside a utility pole or beneath a bridge, quietly keeping watch. Glass and Rand stayed with the main body at company headquarters. Valentine switched between the scouts and the men riding with the Logistics Commandos gathering supplies.
Valentine was happy to quit Tennessee, mostly because it meant he wouldn't have to deal with Papa Reisling any more.
Reisling was an unpleasant individual, a former Logistics Commando who'd married and settled on the fringe of the Goobermaker's grounds north of Clarksville. He was a strange figure of a man, old yet hale, thick-haired but gray flecked with white.
He didn't like Valentine from the moment he first set eyes on him, when a local underground contact arranged a meeting. Perhaps it was due to Bee, who didn't like the look of the old Dairy Queen garbage nook where they met while Reisling's brother-in-law kept watch from the roof.
Reisling considered the entire Southern Command invasion of Kentucky-the first true offensive across the Mississippi in the history of that Freehold-a deep-seated plot to make his life difficult and bring the Reapers down on him.
"I can make a pork loin disappear, or ten pounds of flour and molasses," Reisling complained, showing Valentine a flyleaf from an old book scrawled with requirements. "But this. Two thousand eggs, powdered or fresh. Thirty pounds of salt. Six hundred chickens at the very least, and 'as many more as I can provide.' Fruit juice or dried fruit. Where am I supposed to get dried fruit by the goddamned barrel, you?"
"Nobody's going to die if you miss a few line items," Valentine said. "It's a great help to us to get anything. Every mouthful you provide means less that comes out of stores that we carry along for emergencies."
"Three weeks ago I was told to start setting aside food for a big operation. I thought it would be a company of Wolves. Got a pen of year-old pigs and two fifty-pound bags of beans the local production officer doesn't know exist. Thought I'd done my job and done it well.
Then half of the goddamned Southern Command crosses over the river and stands here, mouths open like baby birds expecting me to stuff'em."
Reisling's voice reminded Valentine of a transmission giving out, all grind and whine.
"Old tricks are usually the best," Valentine said. "Find a Church relief warehouse, loot it, and set it on fire."
"And have Church inquisitors questioning half of Clarksville? No thank you, Lieutenant."
"Major," Valentine said.
"That's why we're in the state we're in. Kids with momma's milk still on their lips throwing rank around."
It had been a while since anyone called Valentine "kid"-Brother Mark's "my son's" hardly counted; churchmen of his rank called everyone obviously beneath their age son or daughter.
"Just give us what you can. Even if it's just those yearling pigs and the beans."
"Harebrained operation you're on, Lieutenant-Major," Reisling said. "You want to fool the Kurians, you gotta go one tippy-toe. You boys are stomping into the KZ in clown shoes.
They're going to slap down on you, hard."
"Just get us what you can. We'll be back tonight with a truck."
The supplies showed up, including a surprising quantity of eggs. The underground men who helped them load it said practically every family in Clarksville had given up little reserves of food they kept in case of shortages. Word had gone out that eggs were needed, and they came in straw-packed, ribboned baskets. Many of the eggs had been decorated using vinegar dyes, red and blue mostly, with gold stars stuck on.
God bless you, read the tiny, cursive ink letters on one.
