"You ever heard the theory that the Kurians keep the Freeholds in business? That they have allies at the top of our military and government?" Valentine said.
"Well, sir," Frat said. "I think this might be a conversation that wouldn't stand an Honor Code examination."
"The 'sir' stuff only counts when we're standing up. I want your opinion. Disparaging and doubting our superiors is a fine old American tradition."
Frat thought for a moment. "It's something men like to shout after a defeat. They cry, 'Betrayed,' and run. Makes them feel better about running way, or keeping out of it to begin with. If the game's fixed, there's no sense putting any skin into it."
"You've put some thought into this already," Valentine said.
"There was the exact same argument when we got back from Kansas all bloodied, kind of. What's that saying? Never attribute to malevolence what can be explained by stupidity. Something like that."
"I heard it as malice. Interesting that we agree on that. Of course Kur has a few agents in the Free Republics; they'd be fools not to, and we're not fighting fools. Where'd you get that cry, 'Betrayed!'?"
"Those Shelby Foote books you gave me about the Civil War when I signed up."
"Ah, I'd forgotten about that." Valentine had thought the volumes would teach Frat some useful lessons about leadership in adversity.
"If you ask me, Kansas wasn't malice or stupidity. They just got lucky. The whole Moondagger army was training for a run at those Grogs in Omaha. But you know that."
Valentine had a lot of former friends there. Last he heard, after a big battle the Grogs had retreated up the Missouri River Valley and were now finding friends among the Nebraska ranchers he'd met when looking for the Twisted Cross with Duvalier.
"Actually I don't. I was out of the country at the time."
"Kansas was bad. One of the places I was reported killed, as I recall. My platoon was ambushed and I made it away with only two men. I think the others were captured. We tried to follow and see if we could help them escape, but-they were the Moondaggers, you see. Someone told me that Moondagger priests can channel aura to a Kurian just like a Reaper, and in return they get special powers, just like Wolves do, kind of. That's one of the reasons I volunteered to come out here, to get another crack at them."
"What's left of the ones that operated in eastern Kentucky are back in the Bluegrass region, licking their wounds, last I heard, under the protection of a clan called the Coonskins, who betrayed the Kentucky Alliance. The ones who chased us across western Kentucky have been scattered. Not many survived the massacre on the road to Bowling Green. I would have liked a few officers as prisoners, personally, but the legworm clans had women and children to avenge."
"We're heading near there, right?"
"Yes. Corporal O'Coombe was dropped off in the Rolling Fork Valley southwest of Louisville. But we don't want to tangle with them or the Coonskins. Not with two motorcycles and four transport vehicles."
"Isn't the size of the dog in the fight-," Frat began.
"Why aren't you a captain, Frat?" Valentine asked.
"Most of the fights I've been in since Archangel have been losing ones. In Kansas I lost a platoon. Rio Grande was a disaster, or turned into one a long time after I left. Maybe third time's the charm. Seems to me if I'm in charge of a permanent group of Wolves operating in Kentucky, I oughta be a captain at that."
"You're at the damp and sticky part of the bottom of the barrel in Kentucky, you know, Frat. Southern Command has written us off."
Frat listened to the wind for a moment and poked the center of the fire. "They wrote your boys off on top of Big Rock Hill too. They asked me to contribute to a memorial service for you and those Razorbacks when we lost communication when that big gun started blasting you. We got a big speech about how you bought us time and we had to make it count."
Valentine remembered the earth quaking with each fall of Crocodile's monster shells. The poor, maddened dog who had to be shot; the numbed, desperate man who wandered out into the churned earth to seek disintegration in one of the blasts.
"Let's forget that for now," Valentine said, taking his map out of his diaper bag. "Here's where I'd like you to scout tomorrow. . . ."
With that, they lost themselves in operational details until it was time for Valentine to check the sentries before turning in.
A clear, cold night on the banks of the Rolling Fork with the temperature dropping enough for men to sleep curled up with a fire-warmed rock . . .
The Valentingle came hard, so hard that Valentine thought he was ill until he recognized the familiar prickling on his scalp, the feeling that every molecule in his body was lining up to be counted. Valentine was almost nauseous with the alarm.
What the hell is approaching camp? What from hell, make it . . .
Valentine fumbled at his pocket, found the chain, and put whistle to mouth. "Alarm! Take your posts," Valentine yelled.
Something wicked this way comes.
Valentine heard the engine on the Bushwhacker come to life. Clicks and clatters of magazines being sent home sounded all around like crickets.