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Valentine wondered if he was dreaming. If he did see Ahn-Kha again, he'd send him right back to his people. The Golden Ones had been driven out of Omaha and needed a leader of Ahn-Kha's caliber.
Lambert decided to celebrate the victory with a grand review of her battalion. It couldn't be said that they'd fought a battle, but they'd performed effectively in the field, keeping the ravies off while they protected Owensboro's civilian population.
Valentine recovered fast, as he always did, and managed to stand through the whole review.
They formed the men up, four companies strong plus an almost equal number of auxiliaries in an oversized "support pool."
The Southern Command "remainders" stood in a quiet group off to one side, watching the ex-Quislings in their polished boots and fresh uniforms.
"Our new regimental flag, my friends," Valentine said, pointing to a banner flying overhead. Even though they were a smallish regiment.
The flag couldn't be said to be fancy. Valentine had worked out the design with Ediyak, now in charge of the headquarters platoon.
He'd loosely based it on an old Free French flag. It was red and blue, with a big white five-pointed star dividing it at the center and large enough to touch the edges of the banner with its top point and bottom two feet. A little black pyramid with a Roman numeral I in silver filled the bottom-center between the two legs of the star.
With the flag flying, Lambert began the speech Valentine had written, largely cribbed from a military history book he'd swiped from Southern Command's service libraries.
"Legion soldier, you are a volunteer, serving the Cause of freedom with honor and teamwork.
"Each legion soldier is your brother in arms, whatever his origin, his past, or his creed. You show to him the same respect that binds the members of the same family bloodline.
"You respect the traditions of these United States. Discipline and training are your strengths. Courage and truth are the virtues that will one day make you admired among your peers and in the history books.
"You are proud of your place in the legion. You are always orderly, clean, and ready. Your behavior will never give anyone reason to reproach you. Your person, your quarters, and your base are always clean and ready for any inspection or visitor.
"You are an elite soldier. You consider your weapon as your most precious possession. You constantly maintain your physical fitness, level of training, and readiness for action.
"Your mission is sacred. It is carried out until the end, in respect of the Constitution, the customs of war, and law of civil organization, if need be, at the risk of your own life in defense of these ideals.
"In combat you act without passion or hatred. You respect surrendered enemies. You never surrender your dead, your wounded, or your weapons.
"You consider all of the above your oath and will carry it out until released by your superiors or through death."
Ediyak modeled the new uniform. The cut was similar to his old shit detail company's utility-worker uniforms, right down to the tool vest, the padded knees and elbows (a simple fold of the fleece made for light and comfortable cushioning), and the pen holders on the shoulder. The outer shell was a thick nylon-blend canvas of Evansville tenting, the inner the soft fleece so generously supplied by Southern Command. The color was a rather uninspiring, but usefully muted, rifle green. She'd daubed hers with gray and brown and black into a camouflage pattern.
Valentine tried to read their faces. Were the men standing a little taller? He could tell Lambert's speech, the new flag, and the new uniform had their interest and attention.
He spent two frantic days trying to make contact with the Bulletproof. He wouldn't believe the news about Ahn-Kha until he heard his old friend's voice.
In between haunting the communications center and helping Patel and Ediyak evaluate the new NCOs, he was asked to visit Doc. Doc had stayed behind to research the new strain of ravies the Kurian Order had deployed that winter. Despite the gray hair and the bent frame, he'd been putting in long hours seven days a week. He'd spent an inordinate amount of time on the radio, mostly advising communities how to prevent cholera and deal with an isolated ravie found here and there, half-starved and confused. The challenge had reawakened the committed researcher who'd lost himself on the Hooked O-C ranch.
Valentine walked over to the hospital-formerly the servants' quarters for the estate. The patients had small, comfortable, climate-controlled rooms. They'd turned a former garage into an operating room, and the old office into an examining room and dispensary. Doc had taken one of the little patient rooms for his research. What little equipment he had, he'd brought with him to begin with.
"Major Valentine, a moment of your attention, please," Doc said. He stood in his office, rocking from the waist. Doc kept eyeing Valentine's sidearm.
Valentine was expecting another request for nonexistent microscopes or a culture incubator. "Sure, Doc. My time is yours."
"May we speak privately? I have some analysis to show you. I would not want my . . . theory-theory, mind you-to become a subject of common discussion."
"I'd like nothing better," Valentine said, and shut the office door.
Doc went to his closet and opened the door. On the inside he'd pinned up a map of Kentucky. He flipped on a bright track light that placed a spot of light on the map when the door was all the way open. The glare made Valentine's head hurt and he felt a little nauseous as Doc invited him over to look at Kentucky, covered in incredibly tiny notations.
"Doc, I've been meaning to ask: Wherever did you learn to write that small?"
"My father was a hog man, Major. He didn't like to waste good feed money on paper. So I learned to take notes in the margins of my classmates' discards. By the time I was studying biology at Jasper Poly-"
"Never mind. I didn't know you'd been tracking our trip to get the O'Coombe boy so closely," Valentine said, looking at the map.
