He studiously ignored the byplay. His ROTC instructors had spent a lot of time and energy drumming into their students’ heads the proposition that half the job of figuring out how to be an effective officer was in learning what not to hear and what not to see. Besides, griping about their quarters, meals, and pay was a time-honored privilege of enlisted personnel. He didn’t mind bitching, so long as it didn’t exceed the traditional bounds.

As soon as the driver opened the bus door, Flynn was the first one outside. His breath steamed in the ice-cold air and his boots crunched across a layer of snow mixed with gravel. A light, freezing wind tugged at his scarlet beret. It carried the mingled smells of salt, fuel oil, and rusting metal.

Three civilians in winter coats and boots emerged from the building and strolled over to join him. Two were men, one of them tall and heavyset, the other short and wiry. The last was an older woman with short-cropped gray hair and a round, friendly face.

“Captain Flynn?” the tallest man said. “My name’s Johansson, Pete Johansson. I’m the maintenance supervisor here.” He nodded to the shorter man. “And this here is Smitty Walz. He’s my electronics whiz. But he doesn’t say much, do you, Smitty?”

“Nope,” the short man agreed.

“And I’m Marta McIntyre,” the gray-haired woman told him with a pleasant smile. “Mrs. Marta McIntyre. I’m the general gofer around the station—the cook, supply officer, and housekeeper all in one.” Her smile widened. “Plus, I keep Smitty and Pete from killing each other on the rare occasions our satellite TV dish goes on the blink.”

Flynn grinned appreciatively at her. “How do you do that, Mrs. McIntyre? Tranquilizer gun? Martial arts expertise?”

She sniffed. “Not me. I just climb up on the roof and fix the darned thing.”

“Marta’s a piddler,” Johansson said. Then, seeing Flynn’s look of incomprehension, he explained. “That’s station lingo, Captain. A piddler is someone who sees stuff that needs doing and just goes right ahead and does it.” He shrugged. “This is a big place and with just the three of us to keep it running, we’re all pretty much self-motivated.”

Mrs. McIntyre nodded. “And now that you and your troops are here, I guess I’ll be cooking for you, too. At least, that’s what those high muckety-mucks down at Elmendorf are hoping.” She turned to watch Sergeant Takirak and the others filing out of the bus. Under the noncom’s soft-spoken orders, they immediately began unloading their personal gear, equipment, and weapons from the vehicle’s luggage compartment. “Unless, you’d prefer living on those MREs I hear so much about.”

Flynn shook his head quickly. “No, ma’am. We’d be thrilled to eat whatever you put in front of us.” The armed forces’ Meals Ready to Eat were fine. In the field. If you didn’t have anything else. And if you were seriously hungry. But in his opinion, anyone who’d choose MREs over home-cooked food had either lost all sense of taste or had some other serious psychological problems. Besides, from the look of Johansson’s waistline the odds were good that Marta McIntyre was a decent cook.