“Mimi,” Weaver said, as calmly as he could. “Tell Tuffy we’re not going to try to take him away, okay?”

“Okay,” Mimi said, turning her head and murmuring at the thing. “He says the man will be okay.”

“Okay,” the physicist replied.

“It looks like he’s been tasered,” Glasser said, walking over with the MRE packet. “Mimi, this is chicken ala king. It’s got some peas in it, sorry, but it’s one of the best ones we have. I heated it up for you.” He pulled a folding knife out and slit the top of the MRE packet, then opened it up and carefully handed it to her along with a spork.

Mimi looked at the contents with the doubtful indecision millions of soldiers around the world understood, then poked at the contents. She spooned some of the mess up and tasted it, then picked at it greedily, pulling out the chicken bits.

As she did “Tuffy” climbed down her chest and, holding onto the front of her shirt, extended its legs to fish into the contents. It seemed to be rooting through for vegetables. Since the girl was only eating the meat it was a fair apportionment. Weaver watched in amazement as the thing fished up the bits in the sauce, hooked on small claws, transferring them to its underside where they were, presumably, consumed.

“Mimi,” the biologist suddenly said with a tone of horror. “I just realized something. That might not be good for Tuffy.”

“Tuffy says it’s okay,” the girl said around a mouthful of vegetables. “He said that he can uh-just his fizz-ee-o-logical in-com-pat-ib-ility.” She clearly didn’t know what it meant or care.

“Holy shit,” Weaver muttered.

CHAPTER THREE

“We’re going to use the junior man rule, General,” Lieutenant Glasser said, gesturing at a schematic on the whiteboard.

Brigadier General Hank Fullbright was the Assistant J-3 (Operations) of Special Operations Command.