The outnumbered women understood their power and used it kindly, distributing smiles and ignoring some of the bluer catcalls. Valentine smeared some honey on a biscuit and listened to Joho's chatter. The man was as happy as a warbler on a sunny summer day, giving running color commentary every time a militia woman walked by.
An officer in a beat-up old uniform and Windbreaker appeared at the door. He had two shining circles on his collar - Valentine guessed they were buttons or thumbtacks. "Seven Seventy-five Company! My name's Mofrey and we're going to the front. Form platoons on the
road, column of two. Don't make me shoot anyone. Punishment for trying to desert PB is summary execution".
Four miles later - Valentine thought he smelled the rotting-plant smell of the bay now and then, faintly on the stronger gusts of wind, but it could have been his imagination - they arrived at an old hotel in the center of a partially demolished office park that served as the headquarters for the Punishment Brigade. A couple of curious NCOs looked them over; then they were brought into a warehouse. Holes in the roof at one end offered the only lighting, and a permanent mold farm on the walls and floor near the gaps the only decor. They were instructed to sit on the cleaner concrete at the other.
"Keep it down, you slugs", a sergeant yelled. "The colonel's gonna admit you to our ranks, God help us".
The warehouse had a little office near the truck bays, and Valentine saw a man circumnavigate some old HVAC equipment to the rail so that he could look down at them. There was something about his easy stance that made him look like a pirate captain watching his crew from a quarterdeck. Valentine blinked, almost unable to believe his eyes.
"Welcome to First Brigade, Seven Seventy-five. You're a different breed of soldiers, and you'll find a different breed of war up here", he said in a loud, clear voice. It was Captain LeHavre, Valentine's old superior in Southern Command's Wolves.
* * *
"Anyone doesn't want to fight the Kurians", he continued, "file on over toward the door and go outside. We'll find something else for you to do. It'll involve shovels".
He lost two more men that way. A few more looked longingly at the door, but seemed to feel safer staying with the rest.
"Good. Very good, Seven Seventy-five. Fourteen dumps and two shirkers. Strong bunch". He came down the stairs and joined them on the factory floor. Valentine saw three shining thumbtacks on his collar, arranged in a triangle. He still had his steady green eyes, and his belly
was a little more pronounced on the otherwise muscular frame. "Who was born the farthest from Seattle?"
That was easy. A man named Bink held up his hand. He'd been brought up in Nairobi.
"Name's Bink, sir. I was born in Africa".
"You're the new Beefeater. If anyone has a gripe, think they're being treated unfairly, they tell you and you tell me. Understand?"
"Think so, sir", Bink said.
"Only thing I don't want to hear is how you don't belong in the PeaBee because you're innocent. Fate can be cruel sometimes - deal with it or step out that door and cry over a shovelful of shit. Now, platoon leaders: Give me Diaz, Valentine, and Wasilla".
Valentine, having been through the routine before, stepped forward.
LeHavre nodded once at him. "You'll find out sooner or later that Valentine and I knew each other back in the Ozarks. We were Wolves together. I trust him and so can you. But he and the others impressed your drill team back at Sally. Stay in front, you three - the captain's got some pins for you.
"We'll start you off easy here for a couple of weeks. We'll rotate out platoons to train with experienced companies. There's no weekend passes for PeaBees, but we make our own entertainment, usually on Monday and Friday nights. Calisthenics in the morning and then sports. More good news: You've got the rest of the afternoon off. We're going to get cards on all of you and then you'll see the Brigade doc. Be polite to her - she's the only woman in the PeaBees and she'll be cupping your nuts at the end of the exam".
* * *
That night Valentine dined alone with Colonel LeHavre in one of the hotel's "extended stay" suites. He hadn't changed much. The brisk, intelligent officer had slowed down a little physically in the intervening decade.
LeHavre, as colonel of the battalion, rated a personal orderly. He
still ate the same food as the rest of the men; it was just brought to him and Valentine on a tray.
"Vodka?" LeHavre offered. "The best of the local hooch is called Grand Inquisitor. Made by a bunch of Russians who escaped to Canada from Vladivostok. It's pretty good".
"No, thank you, sir".
"Eat first. Then we'll talk".
They polished off the hot food - smoked ham, applesauce, some dispirited green beans, and honey-glazed biscuits - in silence.
"I miss the fresh veggies from Southern Command", LeHavre said as they finished. "Going to say no to the Grand Inquisitor again? I'm going to put a little in that powder crap that passes for orange juice. Rad, an Orange Wallop please. Privileges of rank".
The servant went to the refrigerator and clinked glasses. He returned with the iced drink.