Baker takes the man's hand and nods. A smile slowly forms.

"Good. I was hoping the other shoe would fit."

McGraw takes Baker back to the body of the plane, while the Corporal heads up to the cockpit. He motions for Baker to have a seat in one of the few chairs in residence (the plane looks like it's got room for ten people, tops; only four chairs are set up at the moment). As the plane starts taxiing down the runway, McGraw extinguishes his cigar. "Sorry you had to get grounded, Baker. It's hard to get your sort of expertise dirtside, and I'm not one to let opportunities pass me by. Let Vasquez think he's ruined you; he's a two-bit, tin-pot dictator. Directive Six is behind you one hundred percent. Between you, me, and Control: you're golden."

"Field ops? Your boys all work black; I recall that from the few times we had some Dee-Six boys along with us out there. Quiet boys, professional, very competent. Definitely an outfit I would be a pleasure to work for, sir."

Baker nods. He seems to be happy with the posting.

"I'll need to be refamiliarized with how things are done Dirtside, of course. I know that secrecy is of the utmost importance. Can't have the civvies finding out about the things that go bump in the night. It would upset the whole show."

"That's what I like about Deep Space; you boys get it." McGraw sighs, chomping back down on his unlit cigar. "You know, I actually had one kid from Business suggest we monetize our work; he wanted to market Directive Six and 'grow the brand'." The plane starts to lift off and McGraw leans back against his seat with the momentum. "The last thing I need is an international panic."

Baker nods.

"I know why things have to be the way they are. How reality is... strengthened by the belief that things aren't the way they are, but it would be a hell of a lot easier if we could just come clean."

Baker chuckles.

"Of course then the walls of reality would come tumbling down and eldirich horrors beyond human comprehension would eat our souls, so we might as well keep things the way they are, even if it is a pain in the ass. When do I start?"

"You already did," McGraw replies. "We were monitoring some RDs in Vegas. Sanchez was pegged to capture or eliminate them before they started opening hell gates or whatever. You - sorry, Baker - were the distraction, so they wouldn't catch on to his real mission."

The plane banks, still ascending, as it changes course. "He called in the team last night. Caught them in some sort of ritual - we stopped them just in time. You didn't even know you were doing it, but you did a good job keeping them off our scent."

He pulls the cigar out, looks at it, then shrugs and flicks it over his shoulder. "Nasty habit. I really ought to quit." He turns towards Baker, fighting the Gs of the still-ascending plane. "Don't think that's why I snapped you up, though. Like I said: I don't let opportunities pass me by. But we really do need you. Our last Marine retired a couple years ago, and we've been having problems keeping the Border secure without one."

"Well if you aren't hiring me to be a professional decoy, and I wouldn't mind that, frankly, if it means all-expense-paid vacations, what do you plan on having me do? Field ops, I assume."

Baker waves his hands to encompass the plane, and by extension everything else Dirtside.

"I've been out there for a long while. Things have changed down here in fourteen years."

"To do what Directive Six does," McGraw replies, falling back into his seat. "To do what you do.

"Things haven't changed that much in fourteen years. The borders are stronger in some ways, but weaker in others. Something has really riled up the furries - ain't safe to go in the woods any more, even with a full strike team. We've had a few incursions - aliens, ghosts, and other things - that we haven't been able to fully lock down before something got through ever since Shen left. I really need someone down here that understands how to shore up breaches in reality, with the know-how to keep the aliens and assorted riff-raff on their side of the wall."

The plane reaches its cruising altitude, and levels off. McGraw punches some buttons on his chair (Baker has them too), and a glass emerges from the bulkhead - whiskey on the rocks. He takes a sip. "I'll be honest with you, Baker. We're stretched pretty thin. We've got cleaning teams, and strike teams, and media relations groups; but we've never had a multi-purpose, first response team. Someone to get on the ground quick and contain the situation before things get out of hand. I aim to change that, and I need someone experienced to lead the field team."

"Sounds like the best job I could get down here. Which is probably one of the reasons you picked me."

Baker fiddles with the controls and orders himself a drink.

"Do you already have a team in mind, or are there candidates?"

"I've put together a team already." The Director adds with a wry grin, "Though you'll probably find them less disciplined then you're used to. Can't always get soldiers for the job down here."

"I figured as much. Well as long as they're up to the level of competence that the Directive Six boys I've worked with in the past were, it will be alright. I've served with every kind of personality, and a good leader finds a way to get along. So long as none of them are total jerks it'll be fine."

Baker raises his glass.

"Well, here's to me I guess. When do I meet the team?"

"We're on the way to meet them now. Enjoy the ride."