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In the end, the pilot picked a spot and plunged through. Valentine had a few bad minutes, wondering if his bumpy career would come to an even bumpier end.
Ahn-Kha made a terrifying howl, followed by a long wretch, followed by an even more terrifying smell. Valentine had forgotten to tell his friend to breakfast off something that wouldn't smell too bad should it come back up.
Suddenly the whole plane went wet with a loud smack of rain and the air steadied.
"Yeah," the pilot commented. "We'll be fine."
Valentine noted that aircraft pilots thought it wise not to tell their passengers if they thought it wouldn't be fine.
The little Southern Command airstrip was as much as Valentine remembered it from his brief visit before. A small Southern Command flag on a pole, a big wind sock on an even taller one-practicality forcing military pride to bend.
"Didn't anyone tell you? Sure the big fuzzies are under the protection of another Grog tribe. Only problem is, it's Deathring Tribe."
"Deathring?" Valentine asked. He'd heard the name somewhere or other back in the blurry memories of before he became a Wolf.
"They're the pet tribe of the Iowa Guard," Ahn-Kha said. "You and I encountered a few of their kind shortly after we met the Wrist-Ring Clan. Brass or bronze loops worn about the ear, neck, wrist, ankle, depends on the clan."
"You forgot mean as a gutshot wolverine," the sergeant put in. "Yeah, the poor Big Fuzzies-"
"Golden Ones is the correct term, Sergeant," Valentine said.
"The Big Fuzzies," the sergeant continued, "didn't have much of a choice."
"Sergeant, the Golden Ones saved my life. Call them Big Fuzzies one more time and I'll be very angry," Valentine said.
"General Martinez himself-"
"Isn't here," Valentine said. "But I'll send him whatever part of you I chew off if you don't start calling them Golden Ones."
"Hey, Sergeant, he's right," a Wolf corporal said. "They did plenty of bleeding 'gainst those Iowa brownrings. Show them some respect."
"Golden Ones, sir," Sergeant Durndel said. "They got pinned against the Missouri. A couple swam for it, we have one here on the base cutting kindling and scrubbing pots and pans, matter-of-fact. We got orders to get rid of 'em, but we hide the Bi-Golden Ones when brass shows up."
"What's your name, Corporal?" Valentine said, turning to the other.
"James, sir. LaPorte T. Portly, to anyone who used to wear the deerskin. I mean yourself, sir."
He was anything but portly, underneath a thick mane of dread-locks he looked as lean as a cheetah.
"Sorry, have we met?"
"No, but an old lieutenant of yours, Finner, he's a captain now and he trained me. Told me about you and Big Rock Hill and all that. I'm proud to meet you."
Big Rock Hill seemed an awful long time ago, especially when talking to a man who must have been shaving his first and only whisker when it happened.
"Thank you, Corporal James. If you're in the mood to get out from under Sergeant Durndel's eye for a week or two, you could take us up north."
"Your friend there want to look up a relative?"
"Something like that."
"Well, if it involves hunting a Reaper or knocking the Iowa Guard back to their corn silos, I'll grab my clean underwear and rifle, sir. This gin rummy playacting war is for the legworms, if you know what I mean."
Valentine didn't know what Corporal James meant, but he soon found out over a plate of salted pork and some unusually decent carrot soup.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm not a malcontent or an insubordinate," James said. "But since Martinez started running the show, the only time our rifles are out of their sheaths is for inspection, Major. The shoe leather and coats are better these days, and the food's improved so much you might think we're back home with Mama. I'll give him this. General Martinez is crazy about food quality, he has every cook between Jasper and the Rio Grande shaking in his apron when his staff blows in. It's better. No more runnin' and gropin'."
Valentine recognized the old Wolf slang for running for a bush and groping for something to wipe with.
