Chapter 113. The General’s Secret
Our Hummer came to a stop in front of the Pentagon’s first security checkpoint. A line of black government sedans stretched ahead of us, apparently carrying senior officers back from yet another interagency meeting. The inspection process moved at a predictably military pace, giving us a few minutes to spare.
“Is this everyone?” I asked, studying the monumental gray facades of the nation’s military headquarters through the tinted glass. “Is this the group that’s going through the whole ceremony?”
“What were you expecting, Ross?” Leon turned toward me with open sarcasm. “A personal parade with a marching band on the National Mall and your sobbing mother sitting in the stands? As long as everything involving portals and the Awakened is classified Top Secret, all Corps ceremonies are held behind closed doors, without any unnecessary fanfare.”
“The general’s personal aide will also be in the room,” Sam added mildly, observing the proper chain of command. “That’s the minimum required by protocol.”
“I understand why the two of you and the aide are here,” I said, calmly straightening my uniform jacket before shifting my gaze toward the driver’s seat. “But what about you, Hawk? Are you just here to drive us, or are you going inside the secured area too?”
“I’m part of the official party, sir,” the young man replied, smoothly easing the vehicle forward another couple of yards.
That raised another question.
“I’m no expert on military protocol, but I’ve studied the basic regulations,” I said evenly. “Having the unit commander present is standard practice. Having the instructor who provided the initial training there makes perfect sense. But a military police officer at a closed-door award ceremony? I don’t see anything like that in the regulations.”
“You just haven’t gotten familiar with the Corps’ internal procedures yet,” Leon cut in. “An analytical supercomputer ran every report from our team’s Bogotá operation through its algorithms. The system concluded that one of the incidents qualified for recognition. But you can’t put a machine in front of an awards board, so they handed the preliminary report to our young detective. James verified the facts, checked the analysis, and confirmed that the recommendation was justified. That’s why he was included.”
“Thanks for the work,” I said, just to be safe, directing the words toward the driver.
“Sir, it’s my job,” Hawk replied, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “I just verified that the criteria were met. You earned the award entirely through your own actions. And besides…”
He abruptly stopped himself, biting back the rest as though he had suddenly realized he was about to cross a line.
“Hold on, kid.” Leon leaned forward, a dangerous spark lighting his eyes. “Now you’ve really got my attention. So spit it out. What are you holding back? We’re simple men. We don’t hit people for being stupid. But if you’re keeping facts from senior officers, we might have to have a little talk.”
James visibly paled and tightened his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Leon kept his eyes fixed on him, putting on the pressure. To my surprise, Sam immediately joined the impromptu interrogation.
“We’re interested in your professional assessment, son!” Sam leaned over from the opposite side, applying a relentless sort of good-natured pressure. “Share your thoughts with the veterans. Don’t keep it bottled up!”
The situation was straight out of a textbook. Give it another minute, and Leon would be lighting another cigar and flicking ash onto the kid’s shoulder while Sam launched into a lecture on Bruce Lee and mental discipline. James sized up the situation in time and chose the rational option.
“No secrets, sir,” he said carefully, swallowing hard. “It’s just… the information might be a little unpleasant.”
“Don’t drag it out, Hawk,” Leon said sternly.
“All right,” the young man sighed, then looked straight at me through the rearview mirror. “The system’s initial algorithm rated your actions at the Silver Star level. A series of unconventional decisions, neutralizing a key threat at a critical moment while putting your life directly at risk. That’s the kind of conduct that normally warrants a Silver Star. But the operation was classified as a training exercise involving intelligence assets. The system automatically applied a downgrade and lowered the recommendation to the Bronze Star.”
A brief, heavy silence settled over the Hummer. Sam and Leon stared at me without a word, clearly trying to gauge my reaction and expecting a flash of wounded pride. But things like that didn’t bother me in the slightest.
“I’m not disappointed,” I said calmly and honestly, meeting their eyes. “Until yesterday, I wasn’t expecting any government recognition at all. A Bronze Star with the V device is more than respectable for a first deployment.”
The officers nodded in unison. My reaction clearly satisfied them.
The line of vehicles ahead finally cleared. Our SUV rolled up to the main checkpoint barrier. A tall, fit military police sergeant in a white cap carefully examined our credentials, then gave the cabin a quick once-over.
“Everything checks out,” he called to his partner stationed at the terminal. “Clearance confirmed. They’re here to see Major General Crowley. Issue four temporary passes for the briefing room.”
A printer clicked behind the booth window. The sergeant returned our documents, but at the last moment he caught the heavy smell of tobacco coming from the cabin. His brow furrowed as he looked at Leon’s uniform.
“Colonel Stewart, I’m required to remind you that smoking is strictly prohibited anywhere on the premises,” he said in a formal tone.
“Sergeant, if I need a reminder, I’ll take it up with the proper office,” Leon replied sharply, his voice carrying a cold edge. “Now clear the lane while I’m still in a good mood.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, immediately straightening and flushing slightly as he signaled for the barrier to rise.
A minute later, each of us had a plastic pass with an individual barcode. While Hawk carefully parked the massive SUV in the designated space, we put our uniforms in perfect order: tightened our ties, straightened our jacket lapels, and checked the placement of our insignia. Our upcoming meeting with General Crowley demanded an impeccable appearance.
We moved deeper into the Pentagon’s concrete maze, following the signs on the walls and the colored lines on the floor. Our temporary passes were useless in the restricted sectors. The scanners on the heavy security doors simply answered with a dry red buzz.
For a moment, my youthful romanticism resurfaced. This was, after all, the epicenter of the nation’s military power, the domain of generals and the most closely guarded secrets. But within a couple of minutes, the mystique wore off, replaced by my usual accountant’s pragmatism. There were not actually that many generals or uniformed officers in the hallways. Most of the people hurrying past were civilian clerks in starched white shirts. Papers rustled all around us, keyboards rattled behind open doors, and the air carried the persistent smell of overcooked office coffee. It felt like an ordinary corporate office. Even the supposedly formidable security system, with everyone tapping their cards against magnetic locks... By the third turnstile, the last trace of anything sacred had vanished. The whole process was no different from tapping through a subway turnstile on the way to work.
At last, we stopped in front of the massive double doors to the briefing room.
“All right, guys, enough screwing around,” Leon said formally, adjusting his narrow tie with his usual economical gesture. “It’s strict protocol inside. Crowley knows we’re here. No wisecracks or smart-ass military bullshit unless we want to spend the night in the brig.”
Coming from Leon, the biggest cynic and rebel in our group, that speech was like a splash of cold water. I immediately shifted into full military mode, fixed my gaze ahead, and stepped forward with purpose.
I pushed the door open first and quickly took in the room. It was spacious and windowless, a classic sealed room designed to prevent both audio and visual surveillance. Inactive display panels covered the walls, while the national flag stood in the corner. A massive polished-walnut table and leather chairs had been pushed aside, leaving the center of the room clear. Two men stood there.
Major General Arthur Crowley looked like the embodiment of old-school power: fit, broad-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed white beard and a posture that the passage of time had never managed to bend. At first glance, he looked uncannily like Hulk Hogan in a dress uniform. I could not resist and immediately activated [Analysis].
Name: Arthur Crowley
Age: 65
Profession: Scientist, Soldier
Phobia: Witnessing the death of his grandchildren
S-Power: ???
Special Skills: ???
Race: ???
Attributes:
Strength: 59
Endurance: 60
Agility: 59
Current Effects: Chills, ???
I did not let my shock show in the slightest, not in my breathing or in the slightest twitch of a facial muscle. The perfect biochemistry and biomechanics of my enhanced body kept my pulse and hormone levels under complete control. Internally, however, I was stunned. This sixty-five-year-old man’s physical attributes exceeded those of the world’s strongest powerlifters by at least sixfold. More importantly, this was the first time I had encountered a situation where [Analysis] returned nothing but question marks for race, skills, and S-Power.
His aide stood beside him, a nondescript man in his fifties with an utterly ordinary, forgettable face. He held a velvet-covered presentation case and a folder bearing an official seal. A quick scan showed that he was an ordinary human with no abnormalities whatsoever.
The entire process of assessing the situation and gathering data took me no more than two seconds.
I took one crisp step forward and snapped my hand to my brow. “Sir, Second Lieutenant Ross reporting as ordered!”
Behind me, Leon, Sam, and Hawk immediately fell into formation and snapped to attention.
“Attention!” the aide barked, his commanding voice echoing off the walls.
Everyone present, including the general himself, straightened to attention.
The aide opened the folder and began reading in a measured voice. “For courage, composure, and valor displayed in the execution of a combat mission on July twentieth in the Bogotá sector. Second Lieutenant Ross, operating in difficult terrain and facing superior enemy forces, displayed initiative by taking the brunt of the attack upon himself... His decisive actions preserved his unit, seized the initiative, and inflicted critical damage on the enemy. Through his actions, he upheld the highest standards of military service and brought honor to the Awakened Corps and the Armed Forces of the United States of America.”
General Crowley took the Bronze Star from the velvet case. He took two heavy steps toward me, came to a stop directly in front of me, and carefully pinned the medal to the left lapel of my uniform.
“Good work, son,” Arthur said quietly, almost in a whisper, as he shook my hand. His palm was dry and almost feverishly warm. “The most important thing is that your people made it home alive. Wear it with honor.”
The official ceremony ended as abruptly as it had begun. There was no provision for informal remarks or questions. The general and his aide gave us brief nods and left the briefing room without lingering for even a second. I had planned to ask about access to specialized military facilities and alien toxins so I could develop biochemical resistance, but it was obvious the old man was not interested in a private conversation.
“That’s... it?” I asked, lowering my hand.
“What did you expect?” Leon said, wearily patting me on the shoulder. “We dragged ourselves across the city for three minutes of bureaucratic bullshit. And we’ve got just as long a ride back.”
“Quit complaining, Leon!” Sam immediately filled the space with his boundless positive energy. “Tom, you earned that award! You’re a real officer!”
I lowered my gaze to my chest, where the Bronze Star gleamed against the dark blue fabric of my uniform, with a miniature V device mounted beneath it. After what I had just read from General Crowley, the piece of metal seemed like little more than a symbolic trinket.
One clear, cold thought settled in my mind: the man standing at the head of Earth’s defense against external threats apparently had not been human for a very long time.