What did he know about the business world?
A lot less than anyone else in this room.
And yet he was technically running a multinational corporation when all he wanted to do was run back to the life he had trained for, the life he had chosen for himself.
The one where he made a difference.
A graduate of the United States Naval Academy, Payne had excelled in all aspects of his training but was particularly adept at leadership and hand-to-hand combat. He was such a skilled officer he was asked to lead a newly formed special forces unit known as the MANIACs, an elite counterinsurgency team comprised of the top soldiers the Marines, Army, Navy, Intelligence, Air Force and Coast Guard could find — hence the acronym. Whether it was unconventional warfare, personnel recovery or counter-guerrilla sabotage, the MANIACs were the best of the best and Payne was the alpha dog — the unquestioned leader of the military’s top team.
Now he was little more than a figurehead.
An insider who wanted out.
He glanced down the mahogany conference table and surveyed his board of directors. They were arguing about something he didn’t understand. His eyes shifted to the chestnut-lined walls and intricately carved molding. He noted the state-of-the-art audiovisual system of plasma screens and 3D projectors. Everything was first class. The best that money could buy. He leaned back into the soft leather of his executive chair and wondered how much the company had paid for it and all the others chairs that were spaced around the table.
Probably several thousand each.
But that paled in comparison to the building itself.
It was an architectural marvel, a sparkling tower of glass and steel.
Located atop Mount Washington, high above the city of Pittsburgh, the Payne Industries building had a magnificent view of the city’s skyline, its two sports stadiums (PNC Park and Heinz Field), and the confluence of Pittsburgh’s three rivers (the Monongahela and Allegheny flowing together to form the Ohio). If the motorized shades in the conference room had been up, Payne would have gladly spent the entire morning staring at the scenery below. Unfortunately, the shades were down to protect the company’s secrets from telephoto cameras, radio-controlled drones and laser-guided listening devices.
Payne realized the precautions probably weren’t necessary.
After all, he was inside the room and he wasn’t even listening.
He couldn’t imagine why an outsider would want to eavesdrop.
Unless, of course, they had insomnia.
Payne sighed from boredom and tapped his fingers on the yellow legal pad on the table in front of him. He knew he should probably be taking notes like those bickering around him, but the message he was tempted to write would have had major repercussions:
I quit.
Sincerely,
Jonathon Payne
Those closest to Payne knew he had been considering this option for several years. They also knew he would have left the company long ago if not for the debt he felt he owed his grandfather. After all, this was the man who had raised Jon after the death of his parents. The man who had taught him right from wrong and the value of hard work. The man who had given him the keys to the kingdom because he wanted him to live longer than his parents had, something that probably wouldn’t have happened if Jon had stayed in the special forces.
Eventually, the risks he took would have caught up with him.
He knew it. His grandfather knew it. Everyone knew it.
Then again, what good was life if you weren’t doing what you loved?
Before Payne could ponder that question, he was distracted by the conversation in the conference room. He only heard the tail end of the statement — something about the declining reputation of Payne Industries — but it was enough to warrant his attention.
‘Can you repeat that? What about our reputation?’ he asked.
A short, squat man with an absurdly large head cleared his throat. ‘Our reputation has been suffering in recent years. It simply isn’t what it used to be.’
The room fell silent, waiting for Payne’s reaction.
‘How so, Sam?’ he asked without a hint of ire.
Samuel McCormick was one of the board’s longest-serving members. He was a carryover from the final years of Payne’s grandfather. A company historian of sorts.
‘This company was founded on established industry. Yes, we made the manufacturing of steel safer and more efficient, but we didn’t try to reinvent the wheel. Today we’ve diversified into technologies undreamed of in the early years. Robotics. Artificial intelligence. Nanotech. We’re on the cutting edge of emerging sciences.’
‘And you think we’ve overstepped our bounds?’ Payne asked.
‘Not at all,’ McCormick replied. ‘I’m all for these advancements. But there are those who believe that our eagerness to uncover the next big thing is hurting our bottom line.’
‘In other words, we can make more money selling wheels than reinventing them. Is that what you’re trying to say?’
McCormick nodded. ‘Again, it’s not me that’s saying it. It’s them.’
‘Them? Who is them? The public? The press? Our competition?’
‘Me for one,’ said Peter Archibald, who was seated directly across from McCormick. ‘We have a responsibility to our shareholders, to our employees. We can’t meander into flights of fancy just to explore the science. We make things that people need. And for that service, we are able to employ many thousands of people around the world. You start banking on things that people might want, and suddenly you’re playing with lives. What if we keep expanding into these fringe areas and nothing pays off? What then?’
Then our stock dips three points, Payne thought to himself.
In the Fortune 500 world in which these men operated, the risk of unpopular products and unproductive facilities was ‘playing with lives’. Of course, that was nothing like his former career, where lives truly were in jeopardy.
Still, he hated the thought of possible layoffs.
As he weighed the arguments, everyone in the room turned their attention toward him. They could discuss the merits of both sides for days, but it would be fruitless to decide the preferred course of action among themselves if he had no plans to endorse their decision.
‘Jonathon,’ McCormick said gently, ‘your thoughts?’
As if on cue, the double doors of the conference room swung open and Payne’s elderly secretary shuffled into the room. In her left hand she carried Payne’s personal cell phone, which she had confiscated when he had first arrived to prevent him from playing Angry Birds during the meeting. In her right, she held a slip of paper.
She handed both to Payne without saying a word.
Payne read the note and instantly snapped to attention. ‘Gentlemen, I need to take this. We’ll have to continue this discussion at a later time.’ He rose from his chair and headed for his office. The secretary followed, closing the double doors of the conference room behind her. His board of directors was left to stare across the table at each other.
It wasn’t the first time he had excused himself.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
At least this time he had a valid reason.