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"Do what you can, then," he said impatiently.
Bennett moved in, brushing and buttoning and straightening seams.
Caught, Dixter waved his hand toward the vid panel. "Tusk, get everything set up."
"That is the best I can manage under the circumstances, my lord," Bennett said severely. "I suggest you keep your hands folded and your arms on the table." He indicated the coffee stains.
"I wish that was the worst I had to worry about." Dixter grimaced, tugged at the constficting collar. "How are we coming, Tusk?"
"Taking roll call now, sir."
"If you will excuse us, Sergeant-Major."
The aide left the room. Tusk, seated at the console, nodded, indicated they were ready. Dixter sat down at the large conference table. Clasping his hands together, he placed his arms on the desk.
The holographic images of fifty-one officers of rear admiral rank or higher appeared around the conference table. Some looked sleepy, had obviously been dragged out of their beds. One alien was still fumbling with her translator. Others, sensing that something big was up, looked alert, apprehensive. One of them--Adnfiral Lopez--looked sick.
Dixter drew in a deep breath. "Ladies and gentlemen. As of this moment, I am implementing Operation Macbeth."
Drowsy officers woke up. Those who had been waiting for something big obviously hadn't been expecting anything as big as this
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