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Valentine felt an excited tingle run up his spine. Ahn-Kha usually underpromised and overdelivered. Ahn-Kha would tweak the tiger by the tail, and if the tiger was stupid enough to turn, it would find itself harried by a foxy old Grog up and down these wooded mountains.
"I can't tell you what this means to me, old horse."
"I have the easy end, my David. Kicking a bull in the balls isn't terribly difficult when someone else is grappling with the horns."
"They may deal harshly with the locals."
"They will find the people in this part of the country have short fuses and long memories, if they do so."
Ahn-Kha always was as handy with an epigram as he was with a rifle. Speaking of which-
"What the world is that thing?" Valentine asked. "A shoulder-fired coal furnace?"
"My individual 75mm," Ahn-Kha said. "Almost the only artillery in our possession. Some clever chap in my command rigs artillery shells so they go off like rockets."
"You're kidding."
Ahn-Kha's ears made a gesture like a traffic cop waving him to the left. "Kidding? It is more dangerous than it looks. That is why I have the goggles. You are lucky you haven't seen me after firing it. My hair becomes rather singed."
* * * *
They shared a simple camp meal of legworm jerky and corn mush. Valentine didn't even have any sweets to offer Ahn-Kha. If it had been in his power to do so, he'd have run all the way back to St. Louis to get some of Sissy's banana bread or molasses cookies.
If he could fantasize about running all the way, he could fantasize about bananas being available in the Grog markets.
"Sorry we don't have any molasses," Valentine said. "We're a long way from home."
Ahn-Kha extracted a small plastic jar of honey shaped like a bear, tiny in his massive fist, and squirted some onto each man's corn mash.
He quizzed Ahn-Kha on the capabilities of his guerrillas and their operations, soaking up his friend's opinions and experiences like a sponge. Ahn-Kha was doing his best to make coal extracted from these mountains as expensive in repair and garrisoning as possible.
As the Golden One told a story about the destruction of a rail tunnel, a report came in that the Moondagger column was turning again, this time north. They might have finally turned toward Javelin. They'd have to relocate again to keep it under observation.
They bolted the rest of the meal and washed their pannikins in the spring. Ahn-Kha wrapped up his jar of honey and stuck it back in a vast pouch on his harness that smelled like wild onions. Valentine gave him a collection of Grog guck scavenged from the men with promises to replace it with chocolate bars from the medical stores.
Valentine would always remember that tiny plastic honey reservoir, and the way Ahn-Kha licked his fingers after sharing it out. Would there ever be a world again where people cared about the shape of a container?
He hoped so.
When they parted he shook the slightly sticky hand again, felt it engulf his own. Fingers that could snap his femur closed gently around his hand.
"Good luck, my David. We will meet again in happier circumstances. "
"You said something like that before."
"And I was right. Give my regards to Mr. Post and Malita Carrasca. And our smoldering red firebug."
The staggering weight of all that had happened since they'd last said good-bye left him speechless. Ahn-Kha didn't even know about Blake.
"I trust your judgment on that one, old horse."
"Major, we have to leave. Now, sir," Moytana said.
So much for the fleeting pleasures of lukewarm corn mash sweetened by a tincture of honey. Valentine considered requesting that "Resting in peace-subject to the requirements of the service" be emblazoned on his grave marker.
Ahn-Kha's ears flicked up. "I'll give you a little more warning next time so you can receive me properly." He pulled his leather cap a little tighter on his head and picked up his stovepipe contraption. "After all, as you can see, I am a distinguished general."
"I'll bake a cake," Valentine said.
