“But I want you to give this a try, Nick. One try to catch it alive. If anyone can do it, it’s you. This is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity and we’re not going to waste it because we’ve watched too many fucking movies. If we don’t succeed, or the thing turns out to be an unmanageable threat after all, we can still go after it guns blazing.”
Young relaxed a little. “You know it’s a risk.”
Of course the president knew. He’d known when he’d moved in to punch that terrorist; he knew it now. As then, he clearly believed it was
worth it. He tended to be right a lot of times, which made arguing with him a rather tedious experience.
“I know it’s a risk,” his commander confirmed. “I’m not happy with it, either. But Lt. Dr. Butler has a point. Several, in fact.” He must’ve noticed the little twitch of anger on Young’s face at the verification of who’d done the backstabbing, because he added, “Don’t be too hard on her.
She didn’t like going behind your back and she had her reasons.”
She also hadn’t known the two of them were as close to friends as they could be given their respective positions, or she would’ve taken her chances with Young. Yeah, that made him feel so much better.
“Yes, sir,” he said blandly. “Too hard” was a satisfyingly flexible and subjective measure. He could work within its boundaries and still make his displeasure unequivocally clear.
“Keep me updated,” the president told him, with a look that said he knew what Young was thinking.
Young appreciated the lack of further involvement in the matter and ended the conversation with a dutiful, “Of course, sir,” and a salute before he went to find Chief Cabrera. If he was supposed to capture, not kill, the alien, he needed more data. He’d have to check the available equipment too.
Give the go-ahead to the SOF{8} troops awaiting deployment in North Carolina. Also, he had to review Butler’s updated report and deliver a dressing-down. Sleep was overrated anyway.
TWENTY-ONE
EL PASO International airport looked like most other airports Misha had frequented in his eventful life, which made it easy to navigate and easier to forget once they’d gotten a car and had left the immediate area. The rental was a slate-gray Dodge Journey crossover, not exactly Misha’s usual style.
He didn’t care. It was functional and spacious enough for him to finally stretch out his legs a little. Also, the A/C kicked in the second they closed the doors and blasted them with a wave of rapidly cooling air. Which was a good thing, because it wasn’t even nine in the morning and the heat was already rolling in like lava from the surrounding desert.
Andrej sank back against the backrest like a swooning belle, adjusted the mirrors, and then launched the car into the rush hour melee with the absentminded brutality of a born and bred New Yorker. Andrej was scary behind the wheel. It was why Misha preferred to let him do the driving.