Chapter 162. Checkmate in Three Days

It took seven hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep to recover completely. For an ordinary, healthy man who maintained a disciplined lifestyle, that was perfectly normal. The problem was that I had long since surpassed the limits of an average athlete. After my evolution, my enhanced cells and accelerated metabolism needed only three hours of sleep a day to restore me to peak condition and eliminate any trace of fatigue.

Today's extra sleep had been a necessary adjustment. My mind had needed four additional hours to unpack massive blocks of data from my surface memory and permanently integrate them into the deeper structures of my subconscious. To make that possible, I had even put my study of tactical reconnaissance skills on hold. Leon expected me to be fully combat-ready and enter a Portal for my first mission in just six days.

Did I regret the lost time? Not for a second. My calculations had paid off, giving me an enormous strategic advantage within the Corps. Now, a mere glance at any Awakened person's face was enough to bring their entire profile into focus in my mind, complete with their real name, family connections, service record, psychological triggers, and the finer details of their superpowers. I already knew the dossiers of every department head I would have to meet on my first official day at work. Information was the most valuable asset of all, and I had made sure it was mine.

Those extra hours of sleep had not disrupted my rigid schedule for one simple reason: I had anticipated the possibility and gone to bed well before the official military lights-out. Under normal circumstances, especially in regular units where soldiers shared barracks, turning in early was just as much a violation of regulations as staying up late. But who was going to call me out on it? I was the oldest person in the barracks, both in age and rank. As for the local "elite," the young thugs who had tried to test me on my first night... well, they had learned the hard way what happened to anyone foolish enough to disturb my sleep. Technically, the only person who could reprimand me or impose disciplinary action was Lieutenant Dillon, the officer in charge of the P-SWAT base. But that washed-up alcoholic had not set foot in the barracks in about five years. Speaking of the lieutenant...

I was just finishing up a hearty, balanced breakfast for our entire platoon when an official notification arrived on my smartphone from the U.S. Department of Defense, complete with the department's digital signature. Stripped of the usual bureaucratic jargon and legal padding, the message boiled down to this: my formal complaint about Lieutenant Dillon's professional incompetence had been thoroughly reviewed, verified by an FBA special agent, Captain James Hawk, and forwarded through secure channels straight to the top, to the Pentagon. The automated system had scheduled a formal inquiry. Next Monday, a high-level military commission headed by General Arthur Crowley would arrive at the P-SWAT base.

The news left me feeling coldly suspicious. On the one hand, the bureaucratic machinery had moved at record speed, and I had to count that as a preliminary victory. On the other, I could smell a setup. I was not at all happy that Crowley would be leading the inspection. He was Dillon's personal patron and longtime friend. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it. Every procedural requirement had been met to the letter. General Crowley was effectively the father and chief architect of the Corps' paramilitary units. His personal involvement in demoting or removing an officer of Dillon's rank was legally required. Without Crowley's signature on the order, only the Secretary of Defense could force Dillon out of the cushy position he had occupied for years. But the Pentagon's civilian leadership wisely preferred to stay as far away as possible from internal disputes among the Awakened. Crowley's involvement was an unavoidable factor in the equation, and I had to account for it.

The second major problem was that the inspection date had been announced in advance. Back when I was still working as an accountant, my colleagues in the audit department used to tell a cautionary tale over lunch. A major corporation suspected of massive tax fraud and funneling money into offshore accounts was due for an IRS audit. Unfortunately, whether through sheer incompetence or a corrupt arrangement, the feds had officially notified the board of directors a week before the inspection. Naturally, the company's lawyers and accountants spent those seven days putting together immaculate, squeaky-clean financial statements. By the time the inspectors arrived, there was nothing left for them to find.

An announced inspection always gave the guilty party an advantage. It meant time to prepare and cover their tracks. Dillon now had three days to pin his own failures on his subordinates, destroy evidence of embezzlement, and pass off the management improvements I had already implemented at the base as the result of his own brilliant leadership. My only hope was that, in this game of deception, Captain Hawk's unusual ability to see through lies carried far more weight in the upper echelons of power than the excuses of an alcoholic veteran.

But the worst surprise was buried in the final paragraph of the notification. The investigation team had decided not to handle the destruction of my Buell Hammerhead 1190 sport bike as a separate case. Instead, they had folded it into the broader investigation of Dillon's professional incompetence. If the damage claim had been handled through a separate civil or military proceeding, the Corps' algorithm would have automatically frozen the amount of my damages in Dillon's bank account that very day and transferred the money to me to buy a replacement bike. But now... if the general's commission decided that Dillon was a valuable combat officer who had been targeted by an ambitious newcomer, the case would be closed. The collision that had wrecked my bike would be written off as an "operational necessity," and I would never see the two hundred thousand dollars I was owed.

Everything finally made sense. I understood exactly why Dillon continued to swagger around the base in my presence, so conspicuously relaxed and self-assured. With Arthur Crowley protecting him, he genuinely believed he was untouchable, a god who stood above the law and beyond the reach of any inspection.

The only silver lining in the whole mess was the day of the week. Monday. I had no shifts scheduled at any other agencies that day, which meant I could be at the base in person and keep a close eye on every move the commission made, every word its members said, and every action they took.

While the teenagers at the neighboring tables eagerly polished off the balanced breakfast I had prepared, I sat in front of my untouched plate. My expression remained impassive, but my brain was running through the risks at full speed. Was there any leverage I could use to turn the situation with Crowley around and improve my odds of success, even by a couple of percentage points?

A quick search of legal and military forums on my smartphone had turned up two standard approaches. The first was to establish a clear conflict of interest by proving the close personal relationship between the commission's chairman and the accused, then file a formal motion to have Crowley recused and demand an independent replacement. That option was a nonstarter. The Corps of Awakened was a small, tightly knit organization, and there was simply no one else qualified to oversee an inquiry at this level. The second standard recommendation was to orchestrate a controlled leak and bring the press into the picture. I closed the browser tabs in irritation. Everything the Corps did was classified at the highest level. If I so much as considered bringing civilian reporters onto a secure military installation, I would be in prison for treason before Dillon finished his morning bourbon. My only hope was to build an airtight case backed by indisputable evidence.

"Tom, check this out!" Ted dropped into the chair across from me, beaming like a first grader who'd just brought home a perfect report card. "I collected bank receipts from all the guys for the supplies you bought yesterday. Those idiots transferred the exact purchase amounts, down to the last cent, and completely forgot about the bank fees. I had to knock a little sense into them. Literally. They each chipped in another three bucks afterward, so you're actually ahead!"

I opened my banking app. My inner accountant was pleased to confirm that the transactions had gone through. The money had hit my account late the previous evening. While I'd been rewiring my synapses and organizing dossiers in the halls of my mind, this kid had spent hours walking around the base, personally collecting every last payment. Now he was looking at me with undisguised admiration.

Cold pragmatism and the biochemistry of my enhanced brain quickly suppressed any negative emotions stirred up by the impending setup involving the Department of Defense. My mind remained clear and focused. Ted had handled the administrative side of things exceptionally well and demonstrated impressive follow-through. Good management meant rewarding good performance.

"Nice work, Ted. Now I know I can trust you with operational responsibilities," I said calmly, watching his shoulders straighten with pride at my praise. "Keep it up, and I'll put you in charge of more important things."

"I'm ready right now, Tom!" he suddenly shouted across the dining hall, making me wince almost imperceptibly at his overenthusiastic charge. "Give me a couple of days, and I'll teach this brain-dead meat how not to shoot their own balls off at the range! I'll have them dig a strategic trench from the fence to the chow hall and build a defensive perimeter so intimidating every gook in the area will shit themselves at the sight of us!"

The dining hall fell silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward Ted as he basked in the sound of his own booming voice and his absurdly inflated sense of authority. My brain registered a fleeting pang of secondhand embarrassment at his adolescent posturing, then promptly discarded it.

"Ted, cut the yelling and the bad Vietnam War movie quotes. You're making yourself look ridiculous," I said coldly, leaving no room for argument. His broad grin vanished.

A few teenagers at the neighboring tables snickered. The older kids visibly relaxed. They understood that I had no intention of turning the base into a personal playground for some cartoon tyrant, and I certainly wasn't going to let Ted run around playing a deranged drill sergeant.

"All I need you to do is make sure my current orders are carried out and keep me informed about the general mood around here," I continued evenly, giving him a chance to save face in front of everyone. "You've been doing that just fine so far. By the way, I didn't get a chance to ask yesterday. What's everyone talking about around here?"

"The big story is that bastard Dillon deliberately ran over your bike when the paint's practically still fresh from the factory," Ted replied, his expression darkening as his fists clenched as though someone had destroyed his own property. "Tom, just give me the word. We won't leave a single lug nut on his precious ride. He'll learn not to act like he's untouchable."

"I forbid you and everyone else in this unit from going anywhere near the lieutenant's vehicles," I said sharply, fixing him with a hard stare. "Any unauthorized damage to his property before the inspection would compromise my position. You'd be handing him ammunition to use against me. That's out of the question."

"But we can't just take this lying down and pretend nothing happened!" Ted slammed his fist against the table. This time, the kids at the neighboring tables didn't even look up. They were already used to his youthful outbursts. "Tom, this whole camp is on your side. All the guys. Just tell us what to do, and we'll back you up, no matter what."

"Which guys, exactly, Ted?" I asked, crossing my arms skeptically. I wanted to see just how far his tendency to exaggerate would take him.

"Everybody!" He swept his arms wide, gesturing around the dining hall. "The whole place. Guys, girls, every single person."

"And they're all willing to put their statements in writing and testify under oath before the general heading the commission?" I leaned forward slightly, making it clear I wasn't interested in empty promises. "They're prepared to go up against their commanding officer, a man they've worked under for six years, on behalf of someone they've known for barely three days?"

"That's what you don't get, Tom!" Ted lowered his voice, but his conviction was unmistakable. "Dillon's just an arrogant piece of shit to us. The only reason he ever shows up here is to lock himself in his office with a bottle of whiskey and play online poker with government money. Everybody knows it. And in three days, without making a big show of it, you got rid of the scumbags who'd been shaking down the younger kids for years, turned this pigsty into an actual dining hall, and personally made sure we got supplies we can't even buy through regular channels. Trust me, Tom. If this turns into a fight, everyone in this room will be standing behind you."

The corners of my mouth lifted slightly. The pessimistic scenario my analytical systems had initially projected needed an immediate revision. The balance of power had shifted. Even if General Crowley arrived determined to protect his protégé and bury my complaint in red tape, he would still have to contend with the facts. The Pentagon wasn't going to risk an open confrontation or sweep the whole affair under the rug in front of two hundred superpowered teenagers who had thrown their support behind a new officer. That was far too dangerous a situation to let get out of hand.

I calmly finished my juice. The shape of the chess game waiting for me on Monday was now perfectly clear.