Since the FM incident, he had been on one massive, unbroken warpath. He’d yet to deliver any orders at anything below a bellow, and his once gloriously clear desk overflowed with paperwork. Three stacks of folders peaked along one edge of the desk, the tallest with a few dozen and the shortest with only a handful. At the opposite end was a trio of cardboard file boxes loaded with hundreds more, and on the floor beneath them was a disorderly crate of discarded folders. He turned to the nearest file box, glaring at it as though it was the source of all of society’s ills, and selected a fresh folder. “General Siegel, Major St. John is here to see you,” Sergeant Roberts announced over the intercom. Siegel snatched up the receiver of the phone. “Send him in!” he growled before hammering the phone back onto the hook with enough force to send a chunk of plastic shrapnel ricocheting around the room. He buzzed the door open, and in walked the infuriatingly debonair Major St. John. “General Siegel, I see they’ve given you the first round of hopefuls,”
