Camp Jackson had been thoroughly searched and apparently hadn’t been compromised, which seemed to be a relief to Brigadier General Mike Hampton, the nimrod in charge of the facility. Young was much less thrilled. Had the alien been trapped on the base, at least they’d have known where to look for it. As it was, the fucking thing must have gotten free on the road somewhere between the crash site in Texas and the New Mexico Army installation. They’d locked down the I-10 to minimize civilian involvement and were doing a grid search, but considering the head start it had, the critter could be anywhere by now. An extraterrestrial creature, almost certainly hostile, at loose among the already unnervingly paranoid American population because the military had dropped the ball. This wasn’t only a nightmare with regard to national security; it was also a public relations disaster waiting to happen. Forget Iraq. This was a grand-scale fuckup on home ground. Heads would roll if the press found out about it.
Important heads; one of them probably Young’s.
The president had gone off like a hand grenade when he’d received the report, and then he’d immediately called the head of the Special Operations Command. That happened to be one General Nicholas Zachariah Young. This was why Young was currently headed for the conference area with a deep scowl on his face and his escort scrambling to
keep up with his long-legged stride. Can’t hunt an alien without intel, and Young was coldly determined to squeeze every last drop of information out of the people involved.
A flustered-looking aide jumped up and stood at attention when Young marched in, six foot five of gimlet-eyed, smooth-moving Special Forces general radiating power and blistering displeasure. For a quiet professional, Young certainly knew how to make an entrance.
“Hampton?” he inquired, his tone more order than actual question.
“Through here, sir,” the unfortunate aide replied hastily, glancing at the double doors leading to the conference room. He would’ve jumped and opened them, but the general’s bearing didn’t invite initiative. At attention the aide was, and at attention he stayed. His drill sergeant would’ve been proud of him. Young, on the other hand, barely acknowledged him as he started forward, his own aide darting past to push open the doors. God knew Young was pissed enough to march straight through without bothering with niceties like door handles. The combination of bad news and bumpy plane rides always made for one hell of a cranky general.