Dammerman had been seriously pissed off that he hadn’t heard from O’Connell all morning, ever since they’d returned from the stock exchange with Treadwell. She hadn’t answered his phone messages or texts, and no one downstairs in the data center had seen or heard from her either.
Just before the board meeting, he’d ordered Masters to find the chief technology officer and if need be, drag her back into the light.
“She outranks me,” Masters had sniveled.
“I don’t give a shit. Just do it.”
Now Dammerman sat impatiently at the conference table. Board meetings, in Dammerman’s estimation, were a total waste of time. But Treadwell insisted that BP’s COO be present at every one of them. “We need to show the flag, it’s as simple as that.”
“It’s theater bullshit,” Dammerman had retorted.
“You’re damn right,” Treadwell had agreed. “And you will be there at my side, and fucking well like it. Understood?”
“You’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am.”
Dammerman’s phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. It was a text from O’Connell.
I’m back.
Dammerman thumbed his reply. Meet me in the DCSS in five minutes, and don’t vanish again.
He leaned over to Treadwell, who was listening to Perkins flap his gums. “Gotta go.”
Treadwell nodded.
Dammerman pulled his bulk out of his chair and turned to go, but Perkins stopped him.
“Are we boring you, Clyde?”
Dammerman smiled. “I’m hanging on your every word, Jack,” he said. “But I have to put out a fire. Nothing serious, it just needs tending to.” He nodded toward Treadwell. “Listen to Mr. T. When he says it’s time to dive into the bomb shelter, we dive. Am I right, or am I right?”