Valentine found himself feeling less contemptuous toward General Martinez and his moonshine-sotted camp. He'd rather have his men drunk and disorderly than burying people alive. Valentine squatted and crept away from the bodies through the new grass. Finner and his patrol rested among the newly mature trees that had sprung up in old landscaping.
"You said this is was pretty quiet area, Jess."
"Quiet's relative, Val," Finner said.
"Let's visit this setup," Valentine said.
"What, everyone?"
"No. Keep the column hidden in the hills. I want to visit this Bullfrog's lily pad and find out for sure which side he's hopped on."
Valentine crouched alongside a wrecked pickup covered in kudzu, and moved his hand as though he were throwing a dart three times. He could hear Styachowski's quick breaths behind. She'd vouched for the authenticity of Bullfrog's intelligence; as far as she knew his information had never led to the capture or destruction of Southern Command forces. Nail, looking back at him from twenty meters ahead, whipped his wiry arm in a wheeling motion forward and his Bears rose out of the ditch in front of the chocolate-colored office building-Valentine guessed it had once held a decorative pond-and entered, two remaining behind to cover. At another wave from Nail in the doorway, they ran in after him.
His old Wolf senses took over and he listened to the footsteps, the low calls, the crash of something heavy overturning.
"Blue Tick! Blue Tick! Blue Tick!" Nail called. The Bears had reached the door of the office building. Some boarded-over windows had station 26 stencilled on them.
"Running! They're running," Nail shouted.
Valentine rose and another thirty men rose with him. They trotted inside the swept-up but still water-damaged reception foyer; it stretched up through the building's three stories to paneless skylights, and dispersed to cover all sides of the building. Years' worth of plant life had established itself on the floors above so that roots and old extension cords and recent phone lines shared space on the wall. Valentine and Styachowski followed a pointing Bear named Ritter down a flight of stairs. Finner waited for them at the bottom. The landing was cluttered with suspiciously fresh blown leaves.
They stepped down an electric-lit corridor just in time to see Nail fling himself at a vaultlike door that was being closed.
"Open up, Sergeant Frum," Nail called. "Southern Command. Operations verification Squeak-Three."
"That's out of date," Styachowski said, coughing after the run.
Valentine examined the cinderblock walls. Heavy girders supported a concrete ceiling above. This Bullfrog had chosen his panic room, or hideout, or bomb shelter well.
"Southern Command hasn't set a new code for this year," Nail said. "It's the last effective password." Then, to the door: "C'mon, Sergeant, Squeak-Three. This is Lieutenant Harold Nail, Volmer's Bears."
Valentine pressed his ear to the cool metal and listened. If anyone stood on the other side of the door, he or she remained silent.
Finner pounded on the door. "Jess Finner here. For chris-sakes, Bullfrog, gimme a break and open up. These Bears is just gonna blow you out otherwise. I'm not shitting you, ol' buddy."
Valentine heard an authoritative click from the door and breathed a sigh of relief. They had no explosives to make good Finner's threat.
The door opened and a brilliant beam of light filled the corridor. It hit Valentine's eyes like a knife, giving him an instant headache. Valentine could just make out light-frosted outlines of heads and gun barrels.
"Whoa there!" he said, holding out his hands. "Friends, okay? I'm codename Ghost, Cat of Southern Command."
"No Southern Command no more," argued a deep voice, smooth as buttermilk being poured.
"You call me 'sir," Sergeant, and get that light off."
"Just making sure." The light went out and Valentine could see a dozen hard faces, guns ready, set against nondescript gray-green office decor.
"Just making sure, sir," Valentine corrected.
"I'm not blowing your head off, and I'm not calling you 'sir." I might change my mind about one. Like I said, no Southern Command to say 'sir' to. They sold us out, just like they did my granddaddy in '22." A man proportioned a little like Ahn-Kha stepped forward, filling the doorway, and held up his hand, palm out. "Howdy, Jess. Had to make sure there wasn't a gun to your head. I'm Bill Frum. What can I do for you boys?"
* * * *
It turned out Bullfrog was willing to do almost nothing.
Valentine sat among silent machines in the dusty basement room. A single candle made more shadows than light. He stared at the six dark boxes. Each about the size of an upended footlocker, the old computers-netservers, or so the tiny chrome letters next to the main power button said- stood like a squad of soldiers on parade. Bullfrog's men avoided this small, stuffy corner room, like Visigoths afraid to enter the heart of a Roman temple, fearing ancient, half-understood wrath. A little dusting and some power, and it would be hard to tell the past half century had even happened-
Except for some long-ago philosopher who'd written the joke is on us on the wall, using a permanent marker to form the two-foot block letters.