“Give,” Bill said.
“All the outbreaks are at places where terrorists or terrorist sponsors have been working on bioweapons,” the SEAL said, taking a puff on the cigar. “We don’t know how they got the Dreen material there, but that’s where all the outbreaks occurred.”
“Any word on what we’re going to do?” Bill asked.
“Well, the Teams are sitting back, watching the tube and laughing in their beer,” Miller answered. “The Ayrabs can’t fight for shit. There’s a lot of cultural reasons for it, some of them pretty complex, but it’s true. In a situation like this, they’re the worst possible group to try to stop the Dreen. But they’re pouring fighters in like water, just the sort of bastards that run around sniping at our troops, blowing up innocent Israeli civilians and flying jetliners into our skyscrapers. They’ve got lots and lots of mujaheddin, but no matter how many they throw at the Dreen, they’re not going to push them back. The Dreen are the purest flypaper for those boys. Wait a year and there won’t be enough mujaheddin left on earth to bury their dead. If they can find the bodies.”
“Wait a year and the Dreen will be making those mountain-sized tanks that Dr. McBain saw on Ashholm’s World.”
“Oh, they won’t wait a year,” Miller admitted. “I figure, in a few months they’ll all get back-channel messages that the U.S. is willing to help them out. The help will be a nuke. Several nukes, actually, the only way to be sure. They can take it or leave it. By then, they’ll take it. The muj will be dialed down to a fraction of their former strength and maybe there will still be a few of the worms sitting around. The ragheads will also see, clearly, what the U.S. can do if it cares enough to send the very best. Nuclear weapons rising where the mullahs cannot ignore them. I suspect that they’re going to have a slightly different view of the ‘Great Satan’ after we carefully drop nukes so they miss Mecca and Medina.”
“Nukes can’t get through,” Bill said then shook his head. “Send in artillery, first, saturate the defenses, run them out of mosquito-missiles and then… boom.”
“Yeah.” Miller chuckled around the cigar. “Boom. I think they ought to drop one on Tikrit and Fallujah while they’re about it, but nobody ever asks me. Hell, drop a ripple across the Bekaa Valley and I’d be happy. Let the Dreen have the whole thing, then pop it.”
“Works for me,” Bill said.
“But we have other things to do, Dr. Weaver,” Miller said in a very formal tone. “I need influence.”
“How much?” Bill asked. “I notice you’re not in Leavenworth right now and you seem to have been promoted.”
“Well, yeah,” the SEAL said in a slightly embarrassed voice. “Submitted an honest report as to the actions in taking the gate. I’ll admit there was a slightly awkward moment or two, but they would have looked silly court-martialing a wounded hero. It’s pretty much been noted that I’ve got over twenty in and I can take a hint. As soon as I’m fit for duty they’ll suggest that maybe I should retire and I’ll take ’em up on it. What the hell, I’ve already saved the world, once; leave it to the young kids for the next time. But we’ve still got one thing we need to take care of.”
“What?”
“Thrathptttt.”
“Mr. President, what Warrant Officer Miller said makes sense,” Bill said, carefully. “We need the information.”
“I agree with that,” the President replied. “But I’m not sure of the rest.”
“General Thrathptttt, after the gate was closed, mousetrapped one of the National Guard Brigades,” Bill pointed out. “I’m sure the secretary will agree on that?”
“Yes,” the secretary of defense admitted, tightly. “He did.”
“He then told it that he would surrender, on terms, or he could go down fighting,” Bill noted. “He had the choice of killing a large number of our troops. He knew he was doomed, anyway. But he chose to let our soldiers live. I think we owe him for that. And we need the information; the Dreen are still out there, somewhere.”
The President looked at Weaver over the video link for a long ten seconds and then nodded his head.
“Approved.”
Miller and Weaver were standing when the guards brought General Thrathptttt into the interrogation room. Weaver was in civilian clothes and Miller in desert BDUs with a web belt and a holster holding an H K USP .45 caliber pistol.
The sergeant with the two guards frowned and shook his head.
“You can’t have a weapon in the same room with a prisoner,” the sergeant said. “It’s against regulations.”
“Sergeant,” Weaver answered before Miller could open his mouth. “Did you happen to see my orders?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said, carefully.
“My orders say that your regulations are superceded, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.
“You can go.”
“Sir,” the sergeant said, again, with a pained look on his face. “This isn’t about regulation. You’re both injured and…”
“Sergeant,” Miller said, chuckling. “The day I can’t handle one three-foot-tall cat, even with one arm and one leg broken, I’ll just have to turn in my trident. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant sighed.
Thrathptttt had been seated in the chair in front of the table by the two guards and all three of them left. The chair was an adjustable swivel chair so the Mreee could sit at the table at something like normal height.
Bill and the SEAL had slightly less comfortable folding metal chairs into which they lowered themselves.
“General,” Miller said, inclining his head.
“Chief Miller,” the general replied. “Dr. Weaver. I am pleased to see that you both survived.”
“Pleased enough to talk with us?” Weaver asked.
“No,” the general replied. “I am not required to answer your questions.”
“No, you’re not,” the SEAL answered. “Although, God knows, we’ve got a lot of them. We need to know about the Dreen. Where they are. If they have interstellar capacity. If they do, when they might show up. Anything at all that we can find out. And ain’t none of you cats talking. We didn’t capture but a handful of Nitch, what with nobody really wanting a ten-foot spider near them, and the ones that we did we can’t communicate with. So we’d really like to ask you about the Dreen and we’d like you to answer those questions. But, you know what, General, I’m not going to ask you about any of that stuff.”
“Good,” the general said, straightening. “Can I leave, now?”
“No, because I am going ask you one thing, General,” the SEAL said, leaning forward. “Why? When I saw you the first time I thought to myself: ‘That is one hardcore motherfucker of a cat.’ I don’t respect many people, much less aliens, on first meeting. But I respected you. And I’m pretty good at first impressions. Pretty good. And I still say you’re an honorable guy. The way you let those National Guard soldiers off proves it. Not only to me, but to the President. So I gotta ask, General, soldier to soldier: Why?”
The general looked at him for a long moment, as if he was going to spit or cough up a hairball and then he looked away. Silent. Bill was smart enough to hold his tongue. So was Miller for a while.
“You might be wondering, if I’m talking soldier to soldier, why I brought this pasty-faced academic with me. I brought him because he deserves an answer, too. He’s a lousy shot and hasn’t got the situational awareness of an ant, but we both stood our ground at the gate and he got his share of a bodyguard in Valhalla. He took the job and he closed the gates. I think he probably killed a great many of your people. If your world was on the other side of that gate, likely it’s gone. At his hands. But he’s here because he deserves the answer, too. For honor and for standing his ground.”