GM-46

What you didn't know

40.

Sergeant Callaghan, clad in gray camouflage fatigues, entered the barracks' briefing room as if he owned it. But today, he wouldn't occupy the place of honor to present patrol formations and rotations to his men. Instead, he would sit quietly in the room, alone, listening to someone else divulge information to him.

He mechanically saluted the civilian in a black suit who was setting up his network connections and presentation. In return, the civilian ignored him.

The non-commissioned officer shrugged off the affront and settled into a black plastic chair. He sat along the narrow central aisle that divided the room into a perfect dichotomy, splitting two squares of identical chairs with backs forming a field of dominoes ready to topple over each other. He observed the surroundings from this new perspective. With a fifty-seat capacity spread either side of the aisle leading from the entrance door to the podium, the room seemed spacious for its two occupants. Behind the podium, against the back wall, two flags mounted on stands brightened up the dull ambiance of the beige room with the garish Maxwell Industries logo's color variations.

In the back to the right, sat the emergency exit that the sergeant usually used after his own briefings, as it led straight to his barracks.

The sharp click of the civilian's heeled shoes on the polymer floor brought the military man's attention back to his host.

The later took his place behind the podium as if he were about to address a full room.

"Are you expecting someone else?"

The sergeant didn't respond. He had never liked spooks, too slick for his taste, and inclined to send platoons of soldiers into combat based on sometimes shaky information sources. Always in the shadows, sheltered from danger, yet quick to receive the honors of a well-executed operation—done by others...

"That's what I thought," the secret service agent continued, as if the sergeant had replied. "In that case..." He gestured to the chairs in the front row. "Come closer, I'd rather be sure you understand all the information that will follow."

The sergeant clicked his tongue and cast a sidelong glance at the dark suit. He didn't like this allusion to the perennial dichotomy between the secret services and intervention brigades. A marriage often likened to "the head and the legs" by the agents. Who, of course, saw themselves as "the head" and blamed "the legs" of all failures for misinterpreting orders.

However, he wasn't in a position to cause a scene. Maxwell Jr. III's offer in person represented a real opportunity. To have carte blanche over an elite unit dedicated to tracking down the 46, he had dreamed of it far too often to compromise it now. So, he decided to play the agent's little game and slowly rose to cover the mere sixteen feet that separated him from a new front-row seat.

He settled into it casually, stretched his legs out in front of him, and crossed his arms. "I hope the journey wasn't too unpleasant?" He smiled to emphasize his casual question. A sly grin to underscore the fact that the head had to make the trip to meet the legs, not the other way around, on the big boss's orders.

"Not in the least, you know, with our special passes, it's just a stroll for us to cross the different zones and checkpoints."

The sergeant nodded with a finger's snap. "You're right to remind me. You'll have to prepare those famous passes for my unit. I'm sure Mr. Maxwell would appreciate it if the paperwork didn't drag on. That's your department, right? Filling out paperwork? I trust you'll handle it quickly?"

The other suppressed an unreadable pout as he ran his hand over his lips. "Don't get cocky, Sergeant, you won't always be in good graces."

"Always? No, certainly not. But for now..."