At the interchange with Georgia Avenue, he extricated himself from the line-up in the right lane and took Georgia north to the suburb of Wheaton. Wyatt found the Wheaton Plaza easily enough, and he found a place to park the Mercury in a crowded lot with just a little more difficulty. He got out, locked the car, and started looking for a place called the Pizza Joint.
He was half-an-hour ahead of the dinner hour rush and had a large number of open tables from which to choose. Wyatt picked a red Naugahyde booth in the back comer of the dining room and slid into it.
It was a family kind of place. There were red-and-white-checked tablecloths, red candles in heavy iron holders designed to keep the pizzas warm, and travel posters lining the empty walls above the booths. Most of the travel posters promoted countries on the northern side of the Mediterranean: Greece, Italy, France, Spain. The owners were promoting safe travel, no doubt. When he thought about it, though, he couldn’t recall ever seeing posters that begged him to “Take the Sun in Syria,” or “Ski Lebanon.”
A young man with a mop of dark hair atop a band of short-cropped stubble that went clear around his head, wearing a short-sleeved shirt that matched the tablecloth, sidled up to him.
“What can I get you, sir?”
He looked at the platters hanging over the serving counter which defined the sizes available, then said, “Let’s have the gigantic with pepperoni, Italian sausage, mushrooms, onions, and green pepper. And a very tall, very cold, root beer.”
The boy didn’t seem impressed by the size of his order. “Twenty minutes.”
The pizza didn’t come for twenty-five minutes, five minutes after Church and Embry arrived. They poked their heads inside the entrance, spotted him, and walked to the back.
Church was in his typically preppy uniform of chinos, blue buttoned-down cotton shirt, striped tie, and blue sport coat. The only wrinkles were in his forehead, and they seemed deeper than ever.
George Embry wore a grey suit that was two or three years past its prime and contained enough wrinkles to match Church’s forehead. He was half-wearing a paisley tie loosened against the heat. Taking the side of the booth next to Wyatt, Embry slid in, then looked up at the menu posted next to the platters.
“Hi, Major. What looks good?”
“I don’t know what you want, George, but you’re getting pepperoni and sausage.”
“No anchovy?”
“Nary a one.”
“Good.”
Church sat across from them.
“I didn’t know you were coming along, Marty, or I’d have ordered more.”
“I’m not much in the mood for pizza, anyway,” Church told him.
“Used to be, we’d meet where we could get a decent steak or a lobster tail,” Wyatt said.
“New austerity program,” Embry said. “I’m not happy about it myself.”
The pizza arrived, along with Wyatt’s root beer. Embry and Church ordered more potent beer.
While waiting for the waiter to deliver two steins, Wyatt and Embry worked wedges out of the pizza. It tasted fine to Wyatt.
With apparent reluctance, Church scooped up a slice for himself.
“You guys asked me here,” Wyatt said. “I suppose there was an important reason?”
“That’s right,” Church said, “very important.”
“You’re not calling it off?”
“We haven’t aborted any mission we’ve ever given you, have we now?” Church asked.
Four years had passed since Martin Church had first approached then-Major Andrew Wyatt in a meeting at the Sans Souci, where they had eaten lobster.
“How good are you at predicting the future, Major?”
“I haven’t been keeping track, Mr Church, but the records probably not impressive.”
“We’re in the prediction business in my shop!”
“And how’s your record?” Wyatt asked.
“So-so. There are a couple things I’m sure of, however!’
“Such as?”
“The military is going to be reducing its numbers in the next few years.”
Wyatt had the same premonition. “And?”
“And you will probably be one of those numbers.” Wyatt raised an eyebrow. Was this a recruitment pitch? “You’ve talked to Air Force personnel?”
“Not directly, no. The problem is, you’re not in the right career track. You’ve antagonized a few people who wear stars. You’re divorced. You open your mouth at times when it would best remain closed.”
Wyatt couldn’t think of any counterarguments.
“You’re a prime target for reduction in force, just a few years shy of the pension.”
“I fly well,” he said defensively and somewhat lamely.
“Which is why we’re talking. You’re certified in a dozen types of aircraft, and you’re also an efficient manager. The latter quality isn’t always recognized in the military.”
Wyatt didn’t ask how Church knew what he knew. “My agency will also suffer some cutbacks, and I’m preparing for that lean future,” Church said. “I need an organization that I can call on for special projects.”
“An organization with airplanes?”
“Right.”
“A modern-day Air America?”
“Much smaller in scope” Church said. “We’re cutting back, remember There won’t be anyone on a payroll.” No recruitment.
“Contract players?” Wyatt asked.
“That’s it.”
“Maybe I want to take my chances on reaching for that pension.”
“You could do that, but I think you’d rather fly.” Again, Wyatt didn’t have an argument.
“So I’ll give you ten million dollars to keep you flying.”
“This is great lobster, Mr. Church.”
“For one thing, I’ve got the ten million today. Next year, or the year after, Major, I probably won’t have it.”
“That’s the kind of money” Wyatt said, “that buys a lot of risk. A lot of dead people.”
“DOD’s paying you forty thousand a year to take the same risks now.”
“It’s legal.”
“You’d never be asked to do anything that isn’t sanctioned at the highest levels, though I admit that the general public might not always see it in the best possible light.”
Wyatt scraped the last meat from the shell and dipped it in the butter.
“The ten mil comes to you in the form of four contracts, fronted through various agencies or companies. Five of it is your start-up cash. Use it any way you want to set up your organization. Buy yourself a pension fund if you’re that security conscious.”
“Five million up front buys some other things,” Wyatt said, chewing his lobster.