"Camouflage."
"What's that mean?"
"His guerillas aren't really going up against the KZ forces. More like sneaking around and hitting the folks who cooperate. That burned-out farm we passed yesterday; I bet that was his work."
The scouts had reported bodies in the ruins, Valentine remembered.
"He's a good source of intelligence about the roads between the Rock and Hot Springs, for all that. Sometimes he sends a messenger, trades information or supplies he's been issued. In the last swap he told us they'd open the rail line south from the Rock again."
"He went to some effort to preserve the bodies. I wonder why?" Valentine asked!
"Shows any inspection groups that he's killing guerillas. I know he shoots deserters trying to get back home to Texas or Oklahoma. Picks off an occasional wildcatter come in from Illinois or Tenesseee to set up shop, and then burns down an empty house or two in fake 'reprisals." Bullfrog likes a good bonfire. He burns anything used to trade with the enemy-from a cart to a farm, and buries locals who join up and are carrying arms."
"Buries?"
"Buries alive, in a coffin with an airhole of old pipe, so they have time to think about what they did. Then claims the guerillas did it. That's what Major Rojo used to say, anyway."
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."