Free Winter Duty by E. E. Knight Page B

and a hat with the earflaps turned down, and fiddling with her dunnage as if deciding what to have handy and what to store below.
    Valentine wondered if she was traveling not so much incognito as low-key, a simple officer looking for transport. Probably on her way to meet a Cat and a Bear team looking to raise hell in Mississippi.
    “Sir,” Valentine said, saluting. “I’m told this boat’s headed for the Mississippi.”
    “Valentine!” Lambert said, brightening. “Not going back already?”
    “Afraid so. Javelin needs these replacements. You’ll take priority, of course. I’ll go on once he’s dropped you downriver.”
    Lambert cocked her head. Her usual brisk manner was gone; she looked like a traveler who’d missed a bus. Little fissures explored her formerly vital, cheerleader-smooth skin from the corners of her eyes and mouth.
    “I think we’re at cross purposes, Major. I’m joining your command. I’m headed to Evansville as well.”
    “Is there a new . . . operation?” Stupid words—she no doubt had to keep quiet.
    “No, I’m joining up with what’s left of Javelin. I suppose you haven’t heard. My whole command was moved under one of Martinez’s staffers. They were going to stick me in an office routing communications where the only decision I’d ever make is what to have for lunch. So . . . I volunteered to go to Kentucky.”
    “As what? If you don’t mind my asking.”
    “I don’t mind at all. They need a new full colonel out there to act as CO. No bright young officer wanted the job—Javelin’s a dead end as far as Southern Command is concerned. I’m not so sure. Thought I’d be the one to be out there for a change.”
    Lambert had run a sort of special forces unit dedicated to helping allies in the Cause. Kentucky was the second trip she’d sent him on, and whatever had gone wrong in the wooded passes of the Appalachians wasn’t her fault. “You’ve nothing to prove to any of us.”
    “The coffee on this tub’s surprisingly good,” she said. “I think the good captain has connections in every trading port on the river. Let’s hit the galley and get some. Tell me more about these Quisling volunteers you recruited.”
    “I have some support staff looking for passage too. And mail, of course,” he said, patting his oversized shoulder bag.
    “That bag’s a heavy responsibility,” she said. “If the captain doesn’t mind cramming a few more in, I won’t object.”
    They asked Mantilla, who shrugged. “Fuck it. Cook will be busier, is all. I’m fine with it, ma’am,” Mantilla said. “Your people do their own laundry and use their own bedding. I’m not running a cruise ship.”
    Valentine joined the chorus of “thank you, Captain’s” from his charges.
    “All you headed up to Evansville?” the sleepy mate asked.
    “Looks that way,” Valentine said.
    “Tough run. Not many friends on the Ohio.”
    “Maybe I’ll make some new ones,” Mantilla said.

    Last-minute stores of fresh vegetables came on board, and with no more ceremony than it took to undo mooring lines, the tug pushed the barge downriver into the narrow, dredged channel.
    Valentine now knew why Mantilla’s crew were somnambulists when they tied up. They worked like furies when the boat was in motion: throwing sacks of mail and unloading crates to shore boats along the run practically without stopping, nursing the engines, hosing windblown fall leaves off the decks, cooking and snatching food, and, most important, checking depth with a pole on the doubtful river. Mantilla’s barge and tug was big for the Arkansas. Most of the river traffic was in long, narrow flatboats with farting little motors that sounded like fishing trollers compared to the tug’s hearty diesels.
    Valentine, feeling guilty for just watching everyone work, eating of their galley but toiling not for his bread, checked the matériel Southern Command had scraped up for his operation in Kentucky.
    As usual, the promises on paper