“Yeah, I got it.” He clicked over to the next circuit, and said, “Allen, bring it in on thirty-one.” Without looking at Maskiro he said, “That’s our longest runway — I don’t know how loaded down he is or how much fuel he’s carrying so I’ll give him every foot of runway I’ve got.”
“That will be acceptable,” Maskiro said. Even though he deplored their security measures, he marveled at the way they went about their business, as if a major disruption in the flight schedule occurred every day. And perhaps it did — perhaps they trained for this very possibility. If they had been Russian troops under his command, they certainly would.
Voices coming from the inbound aircraft were protesting the go-arounds they were given, pointing out that they would be behind schedule, that their passengers would not make their connections. As if that would matter — making their connections was the least of their worries at this point.
The minutes ticked by and aircraft inched closer on the scope. He and the supervisor moved from console to console, tracking the aircraft as they came in. His companion watched the rest of the room.
Finally, a monitor pointed at the runway showing the first massive transport touching down. It touched down the very farthest point of the runway, still going too fast, and seemed like it would roll out forever. For just a moment, Maskiro was afraid it would not stop in time.
Then, ever so slowly, its speed decreased, and it finally rolled to a stop with only 200 feet of runway left. It turned, cleared the end of the strip, and rolled in to the terminal area. As it did, the second transport touched down. Just as the third was touching down, the back ramp on the first transport lowered. Troops with automatic weapons poured out and vanished into the terminal building. Maskiro watched as the second, then the third, repeated the maneuver.
Moments later, they heard feet pounding up the stairs to the tower. The door slammed open and four heavily armed and fully combat-ready Spetznatz stormed in. Without speaking, they took positions around the room. One sat down at the approach controller’s console and held out his hands for the earphones. The Bermudian controller yielded them up immediately.
The three troop-transport aircraft backed away from the terminal and began taxiing toward the service area just off the ramp. Maskiro said, “Refuel them,” then turned to the lead man. “Report.”
The man saluted crisply. “All positions secured, sir. Estimate complete control of all critical facilities within one hour.” A slight expression of disdain crossed the man’s face. “They are not well prepared, sir.”
“I noticed that.” Maskiro said. “But overconfidence will kill you quickly. Do not expect it to go quite so easily at the American naval base.”
The leader stiffened at the reproach. “Of course not, sir. But we are prepared to deal with them.”
“Very well.” Maskiro felt the familiar thrill of adrenaline course through him and felt a brief flash of regret that his responsibilities required him to remain at the airport. How he would have enjoyed watching them take the base! “Keep me posted,” he said, regret in his voice. “I want to know the second that the military base is secured.”
Lab Rat was at the terminal building, waiting for his flight to be called. The senior chief would be flying back out to Jefferson tomorrow, after he completed an inventory on some additional material they were picking up for CVIC. Lab Rat felt faintly guilty about leaving the senior chief to finish that onerous task, but he had to admit that a few days away from the senior chief would be welcome.
It was evident that the senior chief had made up his mind to accept Omicron’s offer, and his enthusiasm for his new life was evident. There was a new fire in his eyes comprised of equal parts hope and expectancy. No, he had not slacked off on a standard military bearing or courtesy, but Lab Rat could sense it was chafing at him. The senior chief seemed to be yearning for his new civilian world. He would no longer be kept out of certain decision-making loops because he was only a senior chief, not an officer, even though he was far more qualified to command than many officers Lab Rat had met. Now, the senior chief would take his much-delayed and well-deserved place in the highest levels of management.
For his own part, Lab Rat felt confused. He still had two years to go before he could retire from the Navy, and the idea of wasting those eighteen years of service without staying for retirement was deeply troubling. No, not wasted — but he worked hard for it, hadn’t he?
I was never working for the retirement. And it still seems so far away — I’m here because I like what I do, because I like the people, the ships, and the deployments. And because what I do makes a difference.
But wouldn’t his work at Omicron make a difference as well? Maybe even more than staying in the Navy, if the system were truly deployable. Lab Rat leaned back, felt the hard plastic edge of the seat cutting into the back of his neck. Choices, too many choices.
Am I uncomfortable with that? To put it bluntly, do I prefer the Navy because there are fewer choices? Someone tells me when to go to work, what to wear, what time to get up — is that what it is?
It was all too much. He would get back to the ship, think it over, see if his world seemed different now that he knew he had options.
“Mr. Busby?” a voice asked. Lab Rat opened his eyes, immediately on edge but determined not to show it. It wasn’t someone in the Navy — no one in the Navy would call a full commander “mister.” Not unless he was in serious trouble.
“Yes?” Lab Rat answered.
There was a man in the seat next to him. His hair was too long for military, and he was dressed in jeans and a casual sweater. An expensive watch gleaned at his wrist. He held out his hand. “Bill Carter, from Omicron. I wanted to catch up with you and make my pitch before you headed back out to the ship.”
Lab Rat pulled himself upright in the chair, and rolled his neck. “Your people already made a pretty strong case, Bill. I’m not sure what you could add.”
“Pretty impressive stuff, wasn’t it?” Carter asked, as though Lab Rat had not spoken. “And Armstrong speaks highly of you. He asked me to take another shot at getting you on board.”
“Senior Chief Armstrong knows I’m not even eligible to retire.”
Carter nodded. “I know, he was very clear about that. But he’s really hot and heavy on getting you on the team, too. I know you’re the only person he’s considering for his number-two slot.”
That got Lab Rat’s attention. “His number two?”
Carter looked puzzled. “Yes, of course. You’d be working directly for Armstrong as his chief of staff. And I must say, we have a number of people who are very eager to take the slot — and who are very well-qualified.”
Somehow, this particular configuration of responsibilities had not occurred to Lab Rat. He just assumed that if they were both at Omicron — well, but that didn’t make sense, did it? The senior chief had extensive experience with the system, had even been involved in the development.
“I see,” Lab Rat said slowly. Does that make a difference? Am I too good to work for Armstrong because he’s just a senior chief? The possibility that that was indeed how he felt sounded ugly.
“I wanted to introduce you to what we might call a signing bonus. You can think of it as a buyout offer.” Carter extracted a sheaf of papers and handed them to him. “If you agree to come on board with Omicron, we will give you an annuity that will pay you an amount each month equivalent to what your current retirement pay would be. The payments start two years after you sign up with us, and are guaranteed whether or not you stay. In other words, you live on your Omicron salary for two years, and then start getting your Navy retirement just when you would have originally.”