"Sir, Smoke came in while I was out," Valentine said. "I just saw her; she would have told me if she'd seen anything critical. I'll debrief her over breakfast."
"How are the men up the boulevard doing?"
"The boulevard" was a wide east-west street that marked the forward edge of the Razors' positions. Snipers and machine gunners warred from blasted storefronts over five lanes of a former Texas state route.
"Unhappy about being on the line, sir. They only got three days at the airfield." Comparatively fresh companies had been moved up from the relative quiet of the old field in anticipation of the attack.
"Let's rotate them out if nothing happens by tomorrow morning."
"Will do, sir. I'll see to Smoke now."
"Thank her for me, Major. Eat hearty yourself-and then hit your bunk." Meadows tended to keep his orders brief and simple. Sometimes they were also pleasant. Meadows picked up the flimsies from his basket, glanced at them, and passed them to Valentine.
Valentine read them on the way back to the galley-or kitchen, he mentally corrected. Shipboard slang still worked itself into his thoughts, a leftover from his yearlong spell posing in the enemy's uniform as a Coastal Marine, and then living in the Thunderbolt after taking her from the Kurians.
:30 POTABLE WATER LINE REESTABLISHED TO FORWARD POSITIONS 02:28 OP3 OP11 ARTILLERY FIRE FLASHES AND SOUNDS FROM OTHER SIDE OF CITY
:55 OP3 BARRAGE CEASED
:10 OP12 REPORTS TRAIN HEARD NORTH TOWARD CITY
The OP notation was for field phone-equipped forward observation posts. Valentine had heard the barrage and seen the flashes on the north side of the city as well. Glimpsed from between the tall buildings, they made the structures stand out against the night like gravestones to a dead city.
The only suspicious one was of the train. The lines into Dallas had been cut, torn up, mined, plowed under, or otherwise blocked very early in the siege. Readying or moving a train made little sense-unless the Kurians were merely shuffling troops within the city.
Valentine loaded up a tray, employed Hank as coffee bearer, and returned to his room. Duvalier twitched at his entry, then relaxed. Her eyes opened.
"Food," she said. Perhaps she'd half slept through their conversation earlier.
"And coffee," Valentine said. After checking to make sure she was decent, he brought Hank in. The teenager being a teenager, he'd waited in the spot with the best viewing angle of the room and bed.
"What's the latest from Big D?" Valentine asked, setting the tray briefly on the bed before pulling his makeshift desk up so that she'd have an eating surface.
"No sign of an assault. I saw some extra gun crews and battle police, but no troops have been brought up."
Hank hung up Duvalier's gear to dry. Valentine saw the boy clip off a yawn.
"The Quislings?"
"Most units been on half rations for over a month now. Internal security and battle police excepted, of course. And some of the higher officers, looks like they're as fat as ever. I heard some men talking: No one dares report sick. Rumor has it the Kurians are running short on aura, and the sick list is the first place they look."
"Morale?"
"Horrible," she reported between bites. "They're losing and they know it. Deserters aren't being disposed of quietly anymore. Every night just before they shut down power, they assemble representatives from all the Quisling brigades and have public executions. I put on a nurse's shawl and hat and watched one. NCOs kept offering me a bottle or cigarettes, but I couldn't take my eyes off the stage."
The incidental noises from Hank working behind him ceased.
"They make the deserters stand in these big plastic garbage cans, the ones with little arrows running around in a circle, handcuffed in front. Then a Reaper comes up from behind and tears open their shirts. They keep the poor bastards facing the ranks the whole time so they can see the expression on their faces. They're gagged, of course: The Reapers don't want any last words. The Reaper clamps its jaws somewhere between the shoulder blades and starts squeezing their arms into the ribcage. You hear the bones breaking, see the shoulders pop out as they dislocate.
"Then they just tip up the garbage can and wheel the body away. Blood and piss leaking out the bottom, usually. Then a political officer steps up and reads the dead man's confession, and his CO verifies his mark or signature. Then they wheel out the next one. Sometimes six or seven a night. They want the men to go to bed with something to think about.
"I've seen some godawful stuff, but that poor bastard ... I had a dream about him."
"They never run out of Reapers, do they?" Hank put in.
"Seems not," Duvalier said.
Valentine decided to change the subject. "Okay, they're not massing for an attack. Maybe they're trying a breakout?"