An armed escort welcomed the General on the tarmac. Beneath his Field Marshall’s hat, his bulging eyes surveyed the scene with mock indifference. Saluting sharply as he deplaned, he strode down the ramp to the black limousine. In tow, Major Skaggs, a wiry man with a Roman hairstyle, trailed along carrying the General’s bags.
“General Montesque,” entreated the chauffeur, holding the door open. “On behalf of Henry Bosak, welcome to VirCorp. I trust you’ve had a pleasant flight?”
The General mumbled something, and then climbed in. The chauffeur gently closed the door and made his way to the driver’s seat. Skaggs tossed the luggage into the boot and got in on the other side.
“Where to, General? The VirCorp Suites?”
“Downtown. I can’t stand this place. Take us to the Mayfair, quick as you please. We have an early morning.”
“Very good, sir.”
The limousine roared off the tarmac and merged onto the highway.
