Wyverns of Mass Destruction

Shawn I, part 2

Lieutenant General Alexander T. Greyhart lived alone on a ten-acre former ranch. The only sign of cattle left on the property was the pair of mounted horns above the front doors. He'd sold the animals when he'd bought the place, purchased a collection of military memorabilia with the profit, and donated that to his alma mater. A considerable library was visible through the tall windows on the first story. As was his habit, Shawn marked it as a possible escape route.

"People could go crazy, living in the middle of nowhere like this," said Catherine as they climbed the porch steps. Shawn nodded, then made a note to shelve all his redneck jokes before knocking on the heavy teak door.

It took Greyhart three minutes to answer. "Can I help you?" The retired general stood six-foot-four, two inches taller than Shawn, and wore his greying hair close-cropped to his skull. Despite the chill in the air, he wore a tee-shirt and shorts, showing the body of a man far from giving up on self-improvement.

"I'm Agent Harris. This is Director Fairfax. We're from a CIA division called Indigo, and we'd appreciate a chance to speak with you." Shawn tried to keep his tone friendly and even, but a touch of tension still leaked in. He fished his ID from his wallet.

Greyhart straightened at the sight of the card. "What's this about, Agent?" His cool eyes flickered over them both, cursorily at the director, lingering on Shawn.

"Your country needs you." The world needs you. I need you.

Greyhart paused. "Okay. Come in."

Sunlight streamed into the foyer. Polished, dust-free hardwood gleamed underfoot. Greyhart led them back to a den, where a U-shaped wood bench with leather cushions faced a flat-screen TV that sat above a fireplace. In the corner stood a ten-foot-tall brown bear, paws outstretched, mouth open in a silent roar. An Arctic monster. One hungry son of a bitch. And bears weren't even intelligent.

"Where'd you bag him?" the director asked, flicking the taxidermy with a manicured nail.

"Kodiak Island," Greyhart replied. "They don't come that big anywhere else. Some Canadian hotshots took me hunting back in '05." He'd spent seven years commanding the Eleventh Air Force from Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska. With his Canadian counterparts in NORAD, he'd practically written the book on modern aerial warfare in the Arctic. Just as the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan had broken military vehicles with heat and sand, polar conditions could knock a plane from the sky long before it reached its target. But history had decided the USA and USSR wouldn't go to war, funding for Arctic defence had been cut, and Greyhart was one of the few men alive who could lead an air war there.

He was also the only one who had not yet refused their offer.

"What did you use?" Catherine said.

"My twelve-gauge." Greyhart turned to Shawn. "You hunt?"

"Bow." Shawn hadn't carried a firearm since 1992—the mission in Paris, when he'd first met Anais. A rogue pyromancer had blown up every cartridge in his magazine. Shawn's right hand had burst into meaty, bloody strings. He still cringed, thinking of how Anais had exposed herself to enemy fire as she'd sunk a crossbow bolt in the fucker's eye. "I'd never go after something that size. Have to put my daughter through the Ivy League first."

"Don't even try recommending the military academies, General." The director sat and patted the couch beside her. "Shall we get down to business?"

As Shawn and Greyhart took their seats, the director laid two folders out on the glass-topped coffee table. One showed Indigo's insignia: a circle inscribed with a pentagon, which enclosed a set of weighing scales. The other, which was sealed, displayed an eagle carrying arrows in one talon and an olive wreath in the other.