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Control of the river would make so many of these issues simply vanish. The Kurians had held the great rivers of the North American middle-what Lambert had compared to the central arteries of the circulatory system-for so long, both sides had grown accustomed to taking that as a given, like weather or seasons or growing cycles. Certainly, a talented smuggler like Captain Mantilla could get through with his anonymous and ever-reconfigured and repainted boat, but the barges of supplies that would make operating in Kentucky or Missouri or into the rusted-out cities along the Ohio would never pass without notice.
When was the last time anyone tried? Valentine wondered.
Any way they looked at it, use of the rivers would simplify matters. The tonnage requirements of moving such a population was nothing to a string of barges.
Still, their alternative was workable. Not without risk, but workable.
He and Lambert planned to divide the camp in two very unequal forces, minus those unfit or unable to make the trip, who would remain at Fort Seng.
Lambert would be in charge of "Force Heavy." Driving every young legworm they could gather, they'd cut across Western Kentucky two waypoints, one on the Ohio of the proposed riverine route, another overland. East of the Tennessee, Kentucky was dangerous ground filled with bounty hunters, legworm ranchers who hadn't joined, and patrols and troops from Memphis. They could buy stores of food from the locals with packaged and processed legworm flesh, hides, and some captured Moondagger weaponry and whatever footwear and metal cooking pots they could scrape together from Evansville's market.
A threat to sell derelicts to the Amazons might even improve march discipline. Certainly there wouldn't be any stragglers.
Captain Patel had put in two years as a corporal running reconnaissance in that region, and Valentine had been across it off and on ever since Operation Javelin was in the planning stages. Between Lambert's sensible orders and her subordinate's experience they should be able to cross in peace. If not, they had the guns to fight the underequipped natives. The Amazons considered Southern Command's forces minor enemies, territory for an occasional raid, compared to the major enemies in the northern part of Illinois or the gray Grogs across the river in Missouri. Attempted genocide tended to leave an impression on the genocidees.
But all that would take time. Lambert expected the hundred-fifty-mile march from New Harmony to take two weeks without fighting, and double or triple that if the Amazons proved hostile.
They'd have to live on WHAM!, flatbread, and Kentucky molasses, and possibly a culled legworm or two, but with a little luck spring vegetables could be found.
Valentine would take Ahn-Kha and a handful of others as part of "Force Light." They would go ahead and, using Dizzy Bee, the sole operational airplane at Evansville's former International Airport, and fly to a small Southern Command field Lambert had used when she forcibly "recruited" Valentine into her Special Operations force three years ago.
He could stay up all night counting the miles he'd travelled since reconnecting with his old schoolmate across that conference table.
Valentine would gather those Golden Ones willing to take a chance and move east across Missouri. There was a wide swath of no-man's-land there, patrolled by the Iowans and Grog tribes. Southern Command should be able to start them off well supplied, Lambert had already requested the rice and beans, and the Golden Ones had their own stores and herds, he imagined.
As the days to departure ticked off, Valentine looked forward to the relief of being in country. The endless details and questions coming at all but the night watch hours-he volunteered to pull duty at the base security and communication center so he could get caught up on his paperwork-maddened and exhausted.
Ex-Quislings were terrified of taking initiative. Even the small force remaining at the base had been thrown into a panic by the thought of being abandoned by Duvalier, Patel, and Valentine.
He squeezed himself, Ahn-Kha and Bee, Frat, and a trio of Wolves, two with communications ratings, Chieftain the Bear, and their assorted gear into the cabin along with Pellwell and her ratbits in their two big carriers.
Duvalier had come too, a slight figure wrapped in her coat at the very back of the plane, riding next to a seat carrying a duffel bag filled with Chieftain's guns, Valentine's Type Three strapped in between the two like a thin commuter making room. Valentine had lost the struggle with her, she told him in private that she'd simply tag along around Force Heavy somewhere.
Valentine knew luck figured into everything. Every time he'd had Duvalier along, somehow they'd found their way through to some mixture of survival and success and satisfaction. They combined, despite their differences, on some basic level like salt and pepper.
Bee, with her one eye full of fierce devotion, would pine like a loyal bluetick left home while the rest of the men and dogs went out for a hunt.
At least if she were under his eye he could make sure she slept and ate.
"You won't blow it for lack of muscle," Lambert said to him as she hung on the door. Outside the pilot walked around the plane with his mechanic, doing a final check. The wind sock showed a stiff breeze straight out of the west.
Valentine relished his role of navigator, even if the grizzled Evansville pilot gave him the controls in order to pour a cup of coffee from a red Thermos.
Valentine had learned to fly during a brief spell with Pyp's Flying Circus in the Southwest, and this was his first opportunity to be in the air since he'd left his autogyro, a parting gift from the officer whose life he'd saved, outside Seattle. The Evansville pilot, who went by the handle "Wizard," mostly told stories about all the fun he'd had shuttling higher-level Quislings around the Northwest Ordnance. The only interesting passages in three hours' worth of remembrances of liquor and ladies of his glory days were a few details about the Quisling who used to own the great Audubon Estate, now the almost garishly lavish headquarters of the Legion.
"Old man Cass made his money in coal and timber from the knobs. Plus he was one of the partners who originally developed WHAM! After his plant opened up in E-ville, he fixed up his piece of Henderson and set up with the nicest ass he could find between here and Pennsylvania. She popped out a few kids to keep up appearances and stay in the good graces of the Church, but none of them grew up worth anything. That's how it usually is with those captains of industry."
"You wouldn't know where he is now?" Valentine asked.
"Would I? I flew him out personally. He's up on the Michigan shore now living on some other industrialist's charity. Pisses him off that one of his kids is probably sweeping your floors."
"I thought they all fled?"
"Slim Jim Cass was one of the Evansville club-spinners. Of course, even when on duty, the spinning was at the local strip joint off River Row. He joined up with you guys to keep from getting hung."
Valentine didn't remember anyone named Cass in the command. He wouldn't be surprised if the Quisling had taken the name of a dead comrade or made something up. Still, the factoid troubled him. He took out his order book and made a note to contact Lambert about it.
Dizzy Bee struck weather over the Mississippi, making Valentine glad he wasn't at the controls. The pilot looked at the approaching cloud line, gave a verdict: "Not that bad," and altered course a little south in hopes of either sliding along the front or getting a little more distance should they be forced to set down.
