Chapter 60
“GENTLEMEN,” I ANNOUNCED to the assembled troops, “my name is Daniel, and I will be your team leader on this mission.”
One hundred and fifty pairs of eyeballs drilled into me.
“Please forgive me for what I’m sure sounds like foolish arrogance, but trust me: I need to take point on this operation.”
The squadron of black-clad, armored warriors stood in stony silence.
“We are going up against an enemy unlike any you have ever encountered. As Agent Judge undoubtedly told you in his briefing, the monstrous warlord who calls himself Abbadon is an alien outlaw from an unknown planet and galaxy. What Agent Judge may not have told you is that I, too, am an alien. Over the past several years, I have dealt with and eliminated similar extraterrestrial threats to your planet. Therefore, I urge you not to let my youth mislead you. Yes, I am young, but right now, age is unimportant. I am the individual best suited to lead Earth’s response to this specific threat.”
I heard boots crinkle and weapons jangle as the soldiers shifted their weight from foot to foot while they considered my argument. Then one man stepped forward defiantly. He tipped up his goggles so I could read the steely machismo in his eyes.
“Prove it, kid,” he snarled.
“Sir,” I said firmly but (channeling my inner Xanthos) calmly, “we don’t really have time to—”
“To what? To see if you’re fit to lead?”
“Stand down, Navy SEAL,” said Agent Judge.
“No, sir. I will not stand down, nor will I remain silent, because, frankly, I don’t want to see more of my buddies die because some kid from outer space thinks he can become our field commander when he’s not even old enough to legally enlist. Sorry, sir, but I’m not going into a firefight following someone who looks like he ought to be bagging my groceries.”
Okay, the guy had a point. I was a kid. He was a professional. If I were him, would I follow me (or any other teenager) into a battle where the odds were so stacked against us? Doubtful. Unless, of course, the kid showed me that he (or she) was made of the right stuff. Then I might do it. Hey, Joan of Arc was a teenager when she led the French army to victory.
Macho Man swaggered forward, peeling off his weaponry and ammo belts. “You talk the talk, son. But can you walk the walk?” He tugged off his battle gloves, tucked them into his helmet, and tossed the bundle to the side. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?”
This SEAL was challenging me to a fight.
“Sir,” I said, “we need every member of this squad in top physical condition when we go up against Abbadon. We can’t afford casualties before we even encounter the enemy.”
“Casualties?” Macho Man didn’t like the sound of that.
“With all due respect, sir, I have no desire to hurt you.”
“Whoo-ooh,” the other soldiers jeered as they started to circle around us in the horse pen.
“Well, aren’t you polite.” The tough guy shed his tactical jacket. He was down to dog tags and a muscleman T-shirt. “Don’t worry, son. I think I can handle anything you can dish out. Heck, kid, I’ve got underwear older than you.”
“Daniel?” said Emma. “You could seriously hurt this human.”
“Don’t worry, Emma,” I said. “I promise I won’t throw a single punch.”
“That’s right, kid,” said the SEAL. “Because I’m gonna take you down with one punch. Nighty-night, Danny Boy. It’s lights-out time.”
And with that, the toughest Navy SEAL in the bunch came at me with a wicked left hook.