Gene Tremaine was relaxing in his favorite leather swing chair that evening, swigging down beer. He too needed to go home for a break.
Kate–well, he thought, nice tits, for an alien broad. He let out a hoary laugh at the thought of that, took another swig of beer, and burped. He thought she was hiding stuff and the only way to get any hidden agenda would be to put her in front of a firing squad and watch her sing. Maybe with this attitude, no wonder they did not make him CIC. His face fell into his habitual lopsided grin. Tremaine always believed you had to live life to the full “or it ain’t worth living.” He was the proud leader of the flagship OBF1 team and was air force for fifteen years. He considered it the only way of life for a man. Now, even though this project made him an incredibly wealthy man, he still felt out of his depth. Pure military experience just did not cut it. Things were perhaps getting, creepy.
He had a deep, quiet respect for all his colleagues, as some subjects went over his head, like advanced chemistry, pure mathematics, quantum science and astrophysics. “Gimme battle tactics and an A-52 boomer (so called as it sounded like a shotgun but fired like an automatic), and you got a winner.” It was those tangible and practical tactics he could relate to.
He was not sure just how tangible the Kate situation was, and that put him on edge.