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Cope moved off to pack Ogden’s clothes and effects.

General Charlie Ogden couldn’t wait for nightfall. He couldn’t wait to drive down to Detroit, to actually meet Chelsea. But it was only 1430, and he couldn’t make the sun move faster across the sky. He needed the time to plan, anyway.

Forty-six hours to go.

If the gate opened up undetected, everything would work out fine. General Ogden’s job, however, was to a.s.sume that the gate would not go undetected.

The primary threat remained the Division Ready Force from the Eighty-second Airborne. Six hundred soldiers probably eight hours away from parachuting in on top of any trouble spot. He had at best 120 men—no matter what strategy he created, he couldn’t hold out for long against five-to-one odds.

That meant he had to make sure any battle ended before the DRF could fully respond. An eight-hour window.

Far inside that eight-hour window, however, sat the other two DOM-REC companies waiting at Fort Bragg. Two hundred and forty men he’d led himself. If alerted, they could deploy in Detroit potentially within two hours. How could he keep them out of the game entirely?

And even that didn’t account for the forces already in the area—Detroit police, cops from surrounding suburbs, SWAT teams and Michigan State Police. Not as heavily armed, not as well trained, but a lot of guns was still a lot of guns. He’d also have to find a way to tie up all of those.

If conflict came, Ogden would have no air support. His men would face Apaches, Ospreys, F-15s and probably even a squadron of A-10 tank-killer fighters stationed at the Selfridge Air National Guard Base thirty minutes north of Detroit.

So that was the scenario. Do everything possible to keep things quiet, to keep a fight from breaking out. If a fight did break out, he had to choose the battlefield, delay the troops from Fort Bragg, tie up the Detroit police, keep the gate hidden from air support and make sure the gate was wide open and pumping in angels well inside of the eight-hour DRF window.

A general’s stars certainly didn’t come easy.

“Corporal Cope,” Ogden said, “when you’re finished packing, get on the line with the companies at Fort Bragg. I want to arrange an immediate transfer. The Exterminators have been fighting hard. It’s time to rotate out some troops.”

MCDONALD’S RUN

So many dollies! Chelsea sat in the back of the Winnebago, hatchlings crawling all over her. Their black tentacles tickled. It felt like little kisses, like she was covered head to toe in smoochies. They would walk on her, then jump around, maybe cling to a curtain or go eat a piece of the daddies. Mr. Jenkins had put some daddy parts on plastic so his Winnebago carpet wouldn’t get messy, but the triangles’ tentacle-legs were still tracking spots of blood all over the place.

Chelsea stood, carefully, so as not to startle the dollies, and walked to the Winnebago’s small fridge. There was a portable TV on top, black and white with a tiny screen playing the seven o’clock news. She’d watched some cartoons on it, but cartoons didn’t really interest her that much anymore. The grown-ups watched the news, and Chelsea was surprised to find that she liked it.

There were only three ice cream bars left in the little fridge. Those, half a jar of mayonnaise, and a wrinkled hot dog that might have been older than Chelsea herself. She pulled out an ice cream bar, tore off the paper and started eating, but her stomach rumbled for something other than dessert.

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