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In fact, Colonel Arthur was well beyond unhappy. His team had successfully found the needle in the haystack. That part of the exercise had been textbook-perfect.
The problem was the needle didn't look like a terrorist or a space monster. It looked like an underfed beach bunny, which was vastly less satisfying—embarrassing, in fact, which was worse. It would be hard to brag about at the Officers’ Club, having captured Gidget from outer space, if that’s where she was really from. No, this was looking like trouble.
Granted, she seemed to know more about orbital mechanics than the average surfer chick was likely to know. That astronomer guy had identified her with no problem. Her fingerprint check was negative. No one in the area around Fort Davis recognized her. Wherever she was from, it wasn't from that local area.
The whole exercise could have been written off as a training event, except for one big problem: three radars had unquestionably tracked a piloted vessel landing out there, one that had changed course. Even NASA didn't have anything that could do that, not even the return capsules from the International Space Station. Those could not change course. What was more aggravating, the little surfer kid explained every course adjustment. How could a hoaxer or a wacko arrange that?
Dammit, anyway. Well, this really wasn’t in his duty description. He'd gladly pass this deranged pinup model, named “Darcy,” of all things, to Washington to sweat. The Fibbies could have a field day, and the CIA to boot. Maybe they'd send her to Gitmo and let the dungeon masters have at her. For sure they didn't get many cute little blonde prisoners down there.
When in doubt, delegate. That always worked.
