Preston was sitting at one end of the conference table, looking for all the world like what he was: a glorified secretary under a lot of stress, with a Martian in his head giving him a migraine. It was a mark of his vast control and patience that he wasn't looking at his phone, and as Max spoke he nodded gently along at certain points to emphasize his general agreement. He was looking at reports and satellite views printed on recycled white, and he had a metal pen dancing between his first two fingers as the line between his brows grew deeper. After a pause in the conversation, he said, "And the things we need to start planning are definitely not going to be Pentagon-approved."
"Max is right. If you want to get out and stay clean, now is the time to ask me. Because I'm about to get too busy to bother." Usually Preston's dry voice had at least a hint of reprieve, some suggestion of support. Apparently just under thirty bodybags had nixed most of it.