"What are you doing here?" Her disorientation was being rapidly replaced by anger. "This is a restricted area."
The man smiled . . . almost politely . . . and seemed to ignore the question. "You are absolutely correct. Very reasonable, and proper. But please, you and your staff must just continue on and pay no attention to us. Your head-office check-in is scheduled for 2200 hours. You will, of course, report nothing amiss. Which will be true." He bowed lightly. "I'm sure they will want to know how the Cyclops power-up went. In fact, we are all anxious for the answer to that."
His words echoed off the hard, neon-lit surfaces. Command Central, its pale blue walls notwithstanding, had never seemed more stark.
"I'd appreciate it very much if you would leave," she said, holding her voice quiet. "This is private property. You are trespassing."
The man just smiled again and walked over to examine the big screens. "These things have always intrigued me. Like something in the movies. Buck Rogers." He turned back. "Please, don't let my layman's curiosity interfere with your work."
Bill, Bill. She thought of SatCom's CEO in his office, just beyond the doors at the far end of the room. You've got a radio. And you can see this room on a security monitor. Can't you—
The door at the far end opened, and there stood William Bates.
"Who the hell are you?" his voice boomed over the room.
"My name need not concern you," the terrorist in the suit answered. "Just call me Number One. But I will favor you by returning your question."
"And I'll give you the same answer, Number One, or whoever the hell you are," Bates replied, not moving. "Whatever you're thinking, there's nothing here to steal. You're wasting your time. What's more, you're trespassing on American property. So take those goons with you and get the hell out the same way you came in."