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Valentine opened his rucksack and extracted his order book. "I pre-filled out most of it.
Except your . . ." He lowered his voice. "Next of kin. That kind of thing."
"I know where to submit the copies," Patel said.
"Thank you, Nilay. It'll only be a few months. I can promise her that, if you like."
"Don't. It would be better coming from me. She knows promises don't mean much where the Cause is concerned."
"I could find housing for her, you know. You wouldn't have to be separated so much."
"I think she would prefer to keep fixing this place. She's a better carpenter and painter than me anyway. When it comes to homely matters I'm fit only for ditch digging. Besides, she has a sister in Russelville. She will be better here."
Valentine ate his sandwich, wondering if she'd spit in the mustard. They talked about old friends until it was time to leave.
Patel's eyes shone with excitement as they shook hands. Odd that Valentine was now the reluctant one. Maybe it was the faint sobbing from inside the house.
le Field, Arkansas, October: The skeleton of Southern Command's short-lived Air Force School craws with fresh activity.
There was a time when Southern Command had a substantial fleet of aircraft and helicopters. Accidents and lack of spares has reduced the fleet to a few choppers and long-wearing crop dusters or air shuttles, Frankenstein flyers operating on the parts of dozens of dead ships.
Twenty years ago the airfield, tower, hangers, and office space of Stipple Field had trained younger pilots and mechanics to handle and fix Southern Command's air wing, but with so few craft left, the school only operates for two months in the winter as experienced pilots and mechanics test and give initial training to the few recruits they need.
In the summer, Stipple hosts the cadet games, where promising youngsters compete in marksmanship, riding, and athletic and academic face-offs.
The rest of the year, a few custodial workers keep the place painted, cut back, and lit.
Because the location is remote and easily guarded, low-level conferences between political and military leaders in eastern Arkansas use the facility, mostly to give each side a chance to have grievances heard and smooth over the resulting ruffled feathers over alcohol in the "Flyer's Club."
Kurian spies don't pay much attention to Stipple. Nothing important ever was decided or planned there.
Which is why Colonel "Dots" Lambert chose it as the site for the High-beam conference.
* * * *
David Valentine hated Stipple Field's folding metal chairs. And the hangar lights turned the attendees' faces shades of blue, purple, or green, but that didn't bother him like the chairs.
There was something exactly wrong about their design for his butt and lower back. Sitting in it for more than an hour made his bad leg ache and his kidneys hurt.
Most days of the Highbeam conference he was in it for six, wearing his rather ill-fitting militia uniform and a fine new pair of fatigue boots, Dallas-made no less, a present from Colonel Pizzaro to replace the ones lost to the Mississippi current-or a Grog scavenger looking for something he could fashion into knee pads.
The hateful chairs were arranged in a square in a big, cold hangar around a map drawn onto the floor in four colors of tape. White for topography, green for Southern Command's routes toward New Orleans, red for known Kurian strongholds and Quisling bases, and yellow for notations.
It was all bullshit. But well thought-out bullshit, in Valentine's opinion. Lambert had probably kept a team of officers working in odd hours planning an operation that wouldn't take place. Maybe it was part of the General Staff training Valentine had once been set to enter.
Lambert did her briefings on whiteboards, which she and her staff worked on for hours each morning and then meticulously washed each night.
The sentries for the conference, all of whom were going on the trip, had every reason to be alert. But Kurian promises of eternal life had found willing ears before. Some maintenance person might figure out a way to get a picture of the map with a micro-digital camera.
The first day of the conference had been spent mostly in social activities, as officers got to know each other and inevitable late arrivals trickled in-Southern Command's rather rickety infrastructure did well if you arrived within twenty-four hours of the time on your travel orders.
Valentine played cards the first night with a craggy Wolf captain named Moytana. Moytana sported streaks of gray in his long, ropy hair and had once served as a junior lieutenant in LeHavre's old Zulu company, Valentine learned. The Gods of Poker chose not to favor Valentine that night, but Moytana consoled the losers by buying drinks.
He also received, and smoked, a cheroot with an agreeable young staff lieutenant named Pacare. He had a golden, round face, and Valentine thought he'd make a good sun king. Pacare was a communications specialist and told Valentine about the latest mesh that was supposed to keep the juice bugs out of the wiring. Pacare did enough talking for both of them.
Valentine turned in early.
After breakfast, everyone was directed into the hangar. Forty folding chairs, ten to a side, were arranged in a square around the chalked map. Each chair had a name taped to the backrest. Each person stood in front of his or her chair; a few of the regulars stiffly "at ease." A civilian who'd sat stood up again when he realized no one else was sitting.
