Valentine's Exile Read Free Page B

definition of a plumb line.
    â€œHaven’t seen Ahn-Kha this morning, have you?”
    â€œNo, sir,” Hank said, reverting to military expression with the ease of long practice.
    Valentine hadn’t smelled the Grog’s presence at headquarters, but Ahn-Kha kept to himself in a partially blocked stairwell when he was at the headquarters. Ahn-Kha was evaluating and drilling some of the newer Razorbacks, mostly Texan volunteers who’d been funneled to them through Southern Command’s haphazard field personnel depot north of the city. Southern Command tended to get recruits the all-Texan units didn’t want, and Ahn-Kha knew how to turn lemons into lemonade. The first thing Valentine wanted recruits to learn was to respect Grogs, whether they were friends or enemies.
    Way too many lives had been lost in the past thanks to mistakes.
    Valentine asked Hank to go fill a tray, saw that the light was on in Meadows’ office, and poked his head in to see if his superior had anything new on the rumored attack.
    â€œForward posts all quiet, sir,” Valentine reported.
    â€œI’m not forward or quiet,” William Post replied. His salt-and-pepper hair showed white traces of boric acid. “Narcisse made her chili last night.” Valentine’s old subordinate, an ex-Quisling Coastal Marine who’d helped him take the Thunderbolt across the Caribbean and back, and was one of the best officers he’d ever known, went back to sorting com-flimsies. Valentine’s ears picked up a stifled burp.
    â€œAnything happen here?” Besides the usual morning gas .
    Meadows had the look of a man just up from a twenty-minute nap that was the only sleep he’d gotten that night. He closed his shirt, his missing-fingered hand working the buttons up the seam like a busy insect. “Not even the usual harassing fire. They’re finally running out of shells. Big Wings overhead in the night.”
    Big Wings were the larger, gargoylelike flyers the Kurians kept in the taller towers of Dallas. Both smarter and rarer than the Harpies Valentine had encountered, they tended to stay above, out of rifle shot, in the dark. Some weeks ago Valentine had seen a dead one that had been brought down by chance; it had been wearing a pair of binoculars and carrying an aerial photograph, grease-penciled icons squiggled all over the photo marking the besieging army’s current positions.
    â€œI had the A Company men turn in,” Post reported. "The armored cars are still ready to roll, and C Company’s alerted. Just in case.”
    â€œThanks, Will,” Valentine said. “Colonel, I still think they’re preparing a surprise. I’d suggest we keep the line fully manned.” Valentine regretted the words before his tongue stilled. Meadows was smart enough that he didn’t need to be told the obvious.
    â€œOur sources could be wrong. Again,” Meadows said, glancing at the flimsy-basket next to his door. It was piled with messages that came in overnight but weren’t important enough to require the CO to be awakened. The belief that an attack was due had been based on Valentine’s intelligence, everything from deserter interrogations to vague murmurs from Dallas Operations that the heart of the city was abuzz with activity. There was no hint of reprimand or peevishness in his tone. Meadows knew war was guesswork, and frequently the guesses were wrong.
    â€œSir, Smoke came in while I was out,” Valentine said. “I’ll debrief her over breakfast.”
    Post gave Valentine a playful wink as Meadows read his messages. Duvalier’s appropriation of Valentine’s bed whenever she was with the Razors inspired a few jokes about Valentine’s “operations.” Valentine suspected that the best lines originated from Post’s salty throat.
    â€œHow are the men up the boulevard doing?” Meadows asked.
    â€œThe boulevard” was a wide