“Good God almighty, I hope not!” Vidals exclaimed. “Gentlemen, let me introduce to you my friend and colleague here: this is Luther Bliss, chief of the Kentucky State Police. We’re both on our way to Philadelphia to settle arrangements for electing congressmen and senators next month.”
Bliss leaned across his traveling companion to shake hands with Morrell and Guderian. He was hard-faced and sallow, with a scar seaming one cheek. His eyes were a light, light brown, about the color of a hunting dog’s. Morrell wouldn’t have cared to let the Kentuckian stand behind him; he was the sort of man who looked to have a stiletto stashed up his sleeve. Kentucky State Police, Morrell suspected, was a euphemism for Kentucky Secret Police.
“How did Kentucky go about applying for readmission to the United States?” he asked. The curiosity was more professional than personal. Administering conquered territory and bringing it under the control of the USA was something that might be part of his responsibilities one day.
The train started rolling as Davis Lee Vidals started talking. Morrell quickly discovered the train was more likely than the lieutenant governor to slow down. “We convened a gathering of distinguished Kentuckians eager to renew their historic ties to the United States of America,” Vidals began, “and discussed ways and means by which this might be accomplished. We-”
“How many Kentuckians?” Morrell asked.
Vidals began another speech. It went on for some time, and told Morrell nothing. When the politician paused to inhale-which took a while-Luther Bliss interjected, “Couple hundred.” His superior-his nominal superior, at any rate-gave him a dirty look and started talking again.
Several well-modulated paragraphs of rhetoric later, Morrell asked, “Did you need any soldiers to make sure things went the way you had in mind?”
Davis Lee Vidals waxed indignant, eloquently indignant, at the very idea. He didn’t, however, say no. He also didn’t say yes. He did say, and say, and say. Presently, he paused again, this time to light a cigar. In that brief interval of silence, Bliss got another chance to open his mouth. “Couple regiments,” he said, and fell silent again.
Morrell nodded. That told him everything he thought he needed to know about the new state government of Kentucky: without massive help from the U.S. Army, it wouldn’t exist. But Heinz Guderian spoke up, in German: “This is not so bad as it may sound, Major. When, forty-five years ago, we annexed Alsace and Lorraine from France, many of the people there resented and resisted us. There remain some who do, but those provinces also remain a part of the German Reich, and grow more accustomed to our rule with each passing day.”
Vidals’ eyes got wider with every guttural he heard, and wider still when Morrell answered in German. He might have been bringing Kentucky back into the USA, but he was also bringing a lot of ideas from the Quadruple Entente with him. Luther Bliss, by contrast, listened quietly. Morrell wouldn’t have bet against his understanding every word that was said.
The only thing that finally slowed Vidals down was sleep. No matter that he was sitting in a seat that didn’t recline. He set his homburg in his lap, put his head back, and snored like a thunderstorm in training. That he was so aggressively asleep meant everyone else in the crowded car had trouble joining him.
Outside, the countryside was dark as the tomb. That hadn’t been so farther west, but here in Ohio and Pennsylvania, Confederate bombing aeroplanes remained a nuisance. The enforced darkness after sunset made it harder for them to find worthwhile targets.
Morrell had finally drifted into a fitful doze when the train pulled into Philadelphia at a little before four in the morning. He grunted and groaned and rubbed his eyes. Across the aisle, the lieutenant governor of Kentucky kept on snoring till the conductor shouted out the arrival. Luther Bliss didn’t look to have slept a wink, or to have needed sleep, either.
When the doors opened, a brass band started blaring “The Star-Spangled Banner.” There on the platform stood President Roosevelt. When the Kentuckians got out, he folded them into a bearhug. “Welcome back, prodigal sons!” he cried, while photographers’ flash trays went off with almost as much smoke and noise as an artillery bombardment. “A new star joins the flag; a new star shines in the firmament!” The band switched to “My Old Kentucky Home.”
Let’s see what Senator Debs can do to match that, Morrell thought; bringing Kentucky back into the USA before the election had to be worth thousands of votes. Soldiers weren’t supposed to have politics. Such politics as Morrell did have were Democratic.
Waiting for him and Guderian was not the president of the United States but Captain John Abell of the General Staff. “Welcome, Captain Guderian,” the clever, almost bloodless officer said in excellent German. He turned to Morrell and returned to English: “General Wood has ordered me to extend his personal greetings to you, Lieutenant Colonel.”
“Lieut-” Morrell didn’t get any further than that, because Guderian was pounding him on the back. Cutting off the Canadian railroad that ran through Banff had earned him a promotion, and evidently got him forgiven for the difficulties the USA had had in Utah. If Captain Abell was pleased at that, he hid it very well.
He said, “As you know, you are assigned to duty here in Philadelphia once more, Lieutenant Colonel. I assure you, I look forward to working with you in every way.”
A liar, but a polite liar, Morrell judged. Guderian said, “See, my friend? You have won a victory, and they have put you back behind a desk. It almost tempts one to lose, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Morrell said. “Almost.”
“Lord, I wish Emily was here.” Jefferson Pinkard stabbed himself with a needle, about the fourth time he’d done that.
Hipolito Rodriguez gave him an amused look. “Most of the time, amigo, you say you wish you was with your esposa. Now you want her here with you. You no can make up your mind?” He waved around at the bleak west-Texas prairie. “I think she rather you home with her.”
Pinkard snorted. “Yeah, I’d rather I was home with her, too. But she can do this a hell of a lot easier’n I can.” Stubbornly, he kept sewing the single chevron to the sleeve of his uniform tunic. “If I’d known it was gonna be so blame much trouble, maybe I wouldn’t have let ’em promote me.”
“Si, life is easier when you have only yourself to worry about,” Rodriguez agreed with obvious sincerity.
“Hell, Hip, if they reckon you can do the job, how you gonna tell ’em no?” Jeff asked. He could complain about making private first class after the fact; he hadn’t complained when Captain Connolly told him he’d done it. He fought through another couple of stitches, then surveyed his handiwork and found something else over which to complain: “That stripe’s pretty light, isn’t it? Make it easier for those Yankee sons of bitches to spot me.”
“Wait till it rains again and you go through the mud,” Rodriguez told him. “Then your whole uniform the same color again.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Pinkard dug out some cornbread he hadn’t finished at breakfast. It had got hard. He didn’t care. Even when it was fresh, it hadn’t been a patch on what Emily made. Her cornbread and her skill with the needle weren’t what he really missed about her, though. He wanted to be back home in Birmingham to warm her bed-and to make sure nobody else was warming it for him.
He stood up in the trench to put on the tunic to which he’d affixed his new chevron-and a bullet cracked past his head. He threw himself-and the tunic-down flat into the trench. “Got to dig it deeper,” Hip Rodriguez said seriously. “They shouldn’t see you when you get up like that.”
“Yeah,” Jeff said again. “They wouldn’t see you, I don’t guess.” He was several inches taller than the littler Sonoran. This time, he donned the fresh tunic sitting down. It wasn’t so fresh any more; he’d smeared dirt over a good part of it, including the sleeves. He stopped worrying about sharpshooters’ spotting him on account of one stripe.