light shined on Captain Campion, who read a copy of yesterday’s USA Today.
In nearly twenty years of service, Gant had never known a soldier so disciplined, so focused. The major rarely saw Campion show any emotion. Of all his robots, Campion was the best programmed. And while Gant may have questioned his comrade’s humanity, he could never question his skill.
At the captain's feet rested Tyr and Phobos, a couple of military-trained German shepherds.
Occupying a seat one row over was Master Sergeant Franco, a big man in many ways, and he liked to throw that weight around. Unfortunately for Franco, assignment to Task Force Archangel meant a relaxing of the normally rigid rules of rank and command, and that meant fewer opportunities to bully.
Still, it was not Franco's penchant for assigning derogatory nicknames or his outright dislike for Campion that bothered Gant the most. No, it was something far more personal; something Gant saw in Franco's eyes every time he gave that man an order, every time a reminder came along that the Department of Defense had trusted Major Thom Gant—a black man–to command the nation's most secret military unit.
Gant eyed the sleeping Franco. A sound like an old engine trying to start rumbled out of the sergeant's drooling mouth with every exhale.
Certainly Major Gant noticed Franco's dislike for Wells, Pearson, and Moss, the other black members of the team, but he tried to give Franco the benefit of the doubt. After all, the members of Task Force Archangel's tactical team came from the best special forces units in the military, including Force Recon, Delta, and the Air Force's Combat Controllers. Egos and interservice rivalries made for boiling testosterone.
But no, Thom could no longer deny there was a racial component. Still, Franco had yet to overtly disobey an order or disrespect a superior officer. Besides, while Major Gant would have loved to boot Franco from the unit, if only so that he would no longer have to listen to his stale jokes, the security clearance surrounding Archangel was that of a Special Access Program under Top Secret classification. That meant very few people were to know the program even existed and those who went through all the hoops to receive Top Secret/SAP clearance would not be wasted on account of stale jokes or simmering bigotry. No, once you were in you stayed in until they threw you in one of those bags with the zipper on the outside.
Major Gant moved on, passing the other members of the team, including Roberts, whose boyish complexion could pass for fifteen years old; Sawicki, who was the exact opposite thanks to a balding scalp and an intense smoking habit that played havoc with his thin frame; and lastly Van Buren, whose thick sideburns gave him a distinct 1860s look.
Waiting at the front of the cabin was a tall man with streaks of gray hair blooming to either side of otherwise dark thatch. While the rest of the team wore black BDUs, Captain Brandon Twiste dressed in the green camouflage variety. Another difference could be seen on his collar, where a Caduceus pin adorned his lapel not far from captain's bars. In comparison, no other soldier onboard wore notations of rank.
Twiste spoke first: "The pilot says we just entered Florida air space. ETA to Patrick Air Force Base thirty minutes."
Gant checked his watch and said, "We're going to run into daybreak if this takes much longer."
"I'm surprised we got here as early as we did. Good thing we caught the cross-country red eye," Twiste said with a smile.
Gant appreciated a few moments of levity before the action began, but no amount of joking could cover up the fact that soon it would be dawn over south Florida. They might make it to the crash site before the sun came up, but not by much.
"I suppose I had better wake them," Gant sighed.
Twiste nodded at the snoring Franco and told Thom, "You know, I could slip him a sedative. Keep him out for the whole mission."
"I thought you physicians were
In nearly twenty years of service, Gant had never known a soldier so disciplined, so focused. The major rarely saw Campion show any emotion. Of all his robots, Campion was the best programmed. And while Gant may have questioned his comrade’s humanity, he could never question his skill.
At the captain's feet rested Tyr and Phobos, a couple of military-trained German shepherds.
Occupying a seat one row over was Master Sergeant Franco, a big man in many ways, and he liked to throw that weight around. Unfortunately for Franco, assignment to Task Force Archangel meant a relaxing of the normally rigid rules of rank and command, and that meant fewer opportunities to bully.
Still, it was not Franco's penchant for assigning derogatory nicknames or his outright dislike for Campion that bothered Gant the most. No, it was something far more personal; something Gant saw in Franco's eyes every time he gave that man an order, every time a reminder came along that the Department of Defense had trusted Major Thom Gant—a black man–to command the nation's most secret military unit.
Gant eyed the sleeping Franco. A sound like an old engine trying to start rumbled out of the sergeant's drooling mouth with every exhale.
Certainly Major Gant noticed Franco's dislike for Wells, Pearson, and Moss, the other black members of the team, but he tried to give Franco the benefit of the doubt. After all, the members of Task Force Archangel's tactical team came from the best special forces units in the military, including Force Recon, Delta, and the Air Force's Combat Controllers. Egos and interservice rivalries made for boiling testosterone.
But no, Thom could no longer deny there was a racial component. Still, Franco had yet to overtly disobey an order or disrespect a superior officer. Besides, while Major Gant would have loved to boot Franco from the unit, if only so that he would no longer have to listen to his stale jokes, the security clearance surrounding Archangel was that of a Special Access Program under Top Secret classification. That meant very few people were to know the program even existed and those who went through all the hoops to receive Top Secret/SAP clearance would not be wasted on account of stale jokes or simmering bigotry. No, once you were in you stayed in until they threw you in one of those bags with the zipper on the outside.
Major Gant moved on, passing the other members of the team, including Roberts, whose boyish complexion could pass for fifteen years old; Sawicki, who was the exact opposite thanks to a balding scalp and an intense smoking habit that played havoc with his thin frame; and lastly Van Buren, whose thick sideburns gave him a distinct 1860s look.
Waiting at the front of the cabin was a tall man with streaks of gray hair blooming to either side of otherwise dark thatch. While the rest of the team wore black BDUs, Captain Brandon Twiste dressed in the green camouflage variety. Another difference could be seen on his collar, where a Caduceus pin adorned his lapel not far from captain's bars. In comparison, no other soldier onboard wore notations of rank.
Twiste spoke first: "The pilot says we just entered Florida air space. ETA to Patrick Air Force Base thirty minutes."
Gant checked his watch and said, "We're going to run into daybreak if this takes much longer."
"I'm surprised we got here as early as we did. Good thing we caught the cross-country red eye," Twiste said with a smile.
Gant appreciated a few moments of levity before the action began, but no amount of joking could cover up the fact that soon it would be dawn over south Florida. They might make it to the crash site before the sun came up, but not by much.
"I suppose I had better wake them," Gant sighed.
Twiste nodded at the snoring Franco and told Thom, "You know, I could slip him a sedative. Keep him out for the whole mission."
"I thought you physicians were
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