ratty couch, with rat bones scattered over it, was directly behind him. The fluorescent lights, old and flickering, barely lit this hellhole, but he didn’t care.
What was there to look at, anyway?
He reached through the bars to grab the carcass and pull it toward him. He looked at the dead head, knowing he could either eat it or starve to death. So he took a bite.
Croc was close to six-and-a-half feet tall, and he probably weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. His skin was cracked and mottled, covered over with scales that made him look as if evolution had worked its way backward, creating the perfect hybrid of man and dinosaur. Though he looked as if he should be raging, roaring like a beast, he was calm, and quiet, and even reflective.
He had his dinner. It tasted raw and bloody, the way he liked it, so as far as he was concerned, life was good.
He took another bite, gnawed through the goat’s skull, and whistled a happy tune.
FOURTEEN
June had never been to Washington, D.C. before, let alone brought into the White House Situation Room.
Yet that was where she found herself, and she was duly impressed. The room—all 5,525 square feet of it—sat in the basement of the West Wing. It had been created by President Kennedy back in 1961, to deal with then-growing Soviet threat. Overseen by the National Security Council, it was where the president and his advisors met to discuss all crises, domestic or international.
The room was narrow, but long. Its walls were embedded with large flat-screen monitors that provided secure video communications with contacts across the globe. A massive conference table filled the center of the room, from front to back. Plush leather chairs surrounded the table. The group that occupied them had come to discuss what was fast becoming a crisis that would make the Cold War seem like a kindergarten time-out.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat at the head of the table, focused on his smart phone, trying to figure out how to send a text. His aide explained it to him at least a dozen times. Rick Flag sat next to Amanda Waller, uncomfortable and fidgeting because he had been forced to dress up for this meeting. Waller’s case lay closed on the table.
June Moone sat next to him as well, wearing glasses, looking shy and just a bit mousey, yet he found her distracting. Under any other circumstances…
Dexter Tolliver stood, and his eyes swept across the assembled group. Finally his gaze locked on the chairman, and he cleared his throat.
“Mr. Chairman,” he began. “Do you remember al-Qaeda? A few of you might not. We certainly threw enough sigint, linguists, analysts, and drones at them. It took time, but… problem solved.”
June leaned close to Flag. “Sigint?”
“Signal intelligence,” he whispered back. “It’s data gathering by interception of electronic signals.” Tolliver continued, and he fell silent again.
“Now we have a new problem,” the national security advisor stated, and he waved a hand upward, toward the ceiling. “Suppose Superman decided to rip the president out of the Oval office. Who could stop him? We have contingency plans for North Korean nukes, anthrax in our mail, fluoride in our water—but what do we do about a Kryptonian?
“Now, thus far Superman has showed himself to be a rescue-cats-from-trees kind of hero,” he added. “It might be an act, but just for grins let’s say he’s what he says he is. What do we do if the next one turns out to be a jihadist? Then what?”
He paused for effect, then turned. “Fortunately for us, Ms. Waller has a plan. Amanda?” He gestured for her to take over.
The chairman acknowledged her with a nod. “Alright, Amanda,” he said. “Who do you want us to kill?” He laughed at his own joke, and a few others joined in, if half-heartedly.
* * *
Waller gave a quick smile and stood.
“We’ve all heard the stories, of Samson leveling a temple with a single push—and we know of the Philistine
What was there to look at, anyway?
He reached through the bars to grab the carcass and pull it toward him. He looked at the dead head, knowing he could either eat it or starve to death. So he took a bite.
Croc was close to six-and-a-half feet tall, and he probably weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. His skin was cracked and mottled, covered over with scales that made him look as if evolution had worked its way backward, creating the perfect hybrid of man and dinosaur. Though he looked as if he should be raging, roaring like a beast, he was calm, and quiet, and even reflective.
He had his dinner. It tasted raw and bloody, the way he liked it, so as far as he was concerned, life was good.
He took another bite, gnawed through the goat’s skull, and whistled a happy tune.
FOURTEEN
June had never been to Washington, D.C. before, let alone brought into the White House Situation Room.
Yet that was where she found herself, and she was duly impressed. The room—all 5,525 square feet of it—sat in the basement of the West Wing. It had been created by President Kennedy back in 1961, to deal with then-growing Soviet threat. Overseen by the National Security Council, it was where the president and his advisors met to discuss all crises, domestic or international.
The room was narrow, but long. Its walls were embedded with large flat-screen monitors that provided secure video communications with contacts across the globe. A massive conference table filled the center of the room, from front to back. Plush leather chairs surrounded the table. The group that occupied them had come to discuss what was fast becoming a crisis that would make the Cold War seem like a kindergarten time-out.
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat at the head of the table, focused on his smart phone, trying to figure out how to send a text. His aide explained it to him at least a dozen times. Rick Flag sat next to Amanda Waller, uncomfortable and fidgeting because he had been forced to dress up for this meeting. Waller’s case lay closed on the table.
June Moone sat next to him as well, wearing glasses, looking shy and just a bit mousey, yet he found her distracting. Under any other circumstances…
Dexter Tolliver stood, and his eyes swept across the assembled group. Finally his gaze locked on the chairman, and he cleared his throat.
“Mr. Chairman,” he began. “Do you remember al-Qaeda? A few of you might not. We certainly threw enough sigint, linguists, analysts, and drones at them. It took time, but… problem solved.”
June leaned close to Flag. “Sigint?”
“Signal intelligence,” he whispered back. “It’s data gathering by interception of electronic signals.” Tolliver continued, and he fell silent again.
“Now we have a new problem,” the national security advisor stated, and he waved a hand upward, toward the ceiling. “Suppose Superman decided to rip the president out of the Oval office. Who could stop him? We have contingency plans for North Korean nukes, anthrax in our mail, fluoride in our water—but what do we do about a Kryptonian?
“Now, thus far Superman has showed himself to be a rescue-cats-from-trees kind of hero,” he added. “It might be an act, but just for grins let’s say he’s what he says he is. What do we do if the next one turns out to be a jihadist? Then what?”
He paused for effect, then turned. “Fortunately for us, Ms. Waller has a plan. Amanda?” He gestured for her to take over.
The chairman acknowledged her with a nod. “Alright, Amanda,” he said. “Who do you want us to kill?” He laughed at his own joke, and a few others joined in, if half-heartedly.
* * *
Waller gave a quick smile and stood.
“We’ve all heard the stories, of Samson leveling a temple with a single push—and we know of the Philistine
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