Valentine found Narcisse in the basement of the hospital, pouring honey down the center of loaves of bread, risen and ready to go into the oven. She was organizing the kitchen with the help of one of the pregnant POWs and a former Quisling soldier, one of the three from the captured bunch at the warehouse, who looked about fifteen.
"Where's Hank?" Valentine asked. "I thought he was helping you out."
"He volunteered for the artillery. That woman Kessey came through earlier today, she adopted the boy."
"How's he doing?" Valentine had avoided Hank since the night they broke out of New Columbia.
"He told me he hated his parents. He hopes they're dead."
"No, he doesn't. Would it help if I talked to him?"
"Daveed, I don't know what you did when you went off that night. I don't want to know. I think it'd be best if Hank, he never know either. You tell him his parents, they run away."
"What makes you think they didn't?"
"Your eyes. They are your grief. They say, when you leave that place, you were dipped in blood."
"Enough with the juju stuff, Sissy. What have you been putting in Nail's soup?"
"Sausage, rice, celery, no chilies or nothing; the doctor, she say keep it mild-"
"That's not what I mean. He had nerve damage. It's healing. I'd heard Bears recovered from stabs and bullet wounds fast, but I've never known of a higher animal doing this."
" 'More't'ings in heaven and earth," Daveed. If I knew how to make a gumbo that make cane-man walk again, I use him on myself and get new legs."
"Colo-Major, passing the word for Major Valentine," a soldier called in the hospital.
"Down here," Valentine yelled back.
A private from the command company made a noisy descent to the kitchen, a signals patch on his shoulder. "Major! Sergeant Jimenez needs you in the radio room. Priority broadcast from Southern Command. For all troops."
"Did you say broadcast?"
"Yes, sir, not direct communication. The Sarge said you needed to hear it."
"Thank you, Private. I'm coming."
Valentine stole a fresh heel of bread and dipped it in honey.
"You too bad, Daveed," Narcisse said. "This galley supposed to be for hospital."
"Impossible to resist your cooking, Sissy," Valentine said, moving for the stairs.
Word had passed among the men that something was up. There were a couple of dozen sandbag-fillers trying to look busy in front of the Federal-style command building. A new long-range radio mast had gone up atop its molding-edged roof since the previous day. The signals private held the door for Valentine.
"Does Jimenez have the klaxon rigged yet?"
"I helped him, sir. Klaxon, PA, he can even kill electricity."
"Quick work."
"To tell you the truth, sir, it was mostly rigged already. We just added the kill switch for the juice."
The radio room was a subbasement below the conference room where Solon had laid out his scheme for finishing off Southern Command. Solon had a sophisticated radio center. A powerful transmitter, capable of being used by three separate operators, was surrounded by the inky flimsy-spitters capable of producing text or images from the right kind of radio or telephone signal. Sergeant Jimenez had a pair of earphones on, listening intently.
"What's the news, Jimenez?"
"Oh, sorry, sir. Lots of chatter. Something big is going on down south. I'm scanning Southern Command and TMCC. Chatter north and south, but it sounds like mere's action somewhere on the banks of the Ouachita."