Able One (14 page)

Pasadena: Anson Aerospace Corporation Headquarters

Victor Anson sat behind the gleaming broad desk of his private office and gave the three men sitting anxiously on the other side his coldest, hardest stare.

Anson was totally bald but sported a natty little pencil moustache. He was athletically slim and wore an impeccably tailored Italian silk suit of silvery gray, with an off-white shirt and carefully knotted sky blue tie.

Two of the three men before him were corporate executives in proper business suits and ties; the third was Jake Levy, one of his top physicists, dressed in sloppy, unpressed slacks and a white open-necked short-sleeved sport shirt. Typical scientist, Anson thought: every day is casual Friday for them. At least Levy knew better than to wear denims in his presence, Anson told himself.

Looking closer at the physicist, Anson saw that his left eye was swollen and bruised bluish. The man looked faintly ludicrous; Anson had to suppress a smile.

Anson had made the company what it was and he knew it. Starting with nothing but his father’s few millions and a humdrum aircraft-repair operation, Victor Anson had spent his life, his well-known shrewdness, and his single-minded determination to create Anson Aerospace Corporation and make it into one of the most successful industrial research and development organizations in the world.

Now he glared across his desk at the man whom he’d trusted to make that goddamned laser into a winner. All he had to show for six years of work was a tangled mess of smoking wreckage.

“You realize that SDB has already submitted a formal proposal to the Air Force for their version of a high-power laser?”

Before they could do anything more than nod miserably, Anson went on. “And Vickers has its whole Washington team bending the ears of every major congressional committee chairman, telling them that
they
can take over the laser program. Vickers! They’re British, for god’s sake!”

Jacob Levy, who’d been born in Liverpool, replied in his studied Oxford accent, “Vickers couldn’t possibly handle the task, and everyone knows it.”

“Those congressmen don’t,” Anson snapped. “Those senators don’t.”

The two men sitting on either side of Levy were James Dykes, the corporation’s chief financial officer, and Milton Haas, who headed Anson’s Washington office. Dykes was built like a fireplug: thick torso, short limbs, a thick mop of dirty blond hair. Haas was as slim and graceful as a ballerina, with the most beautiful dark eyes Anson had ever seen on a man.

“It’s not all that bad, V.R.,” said Dykes, his voice rough and throaty, as if he’d been hollering at people all morning. “Our contract isn’t up for renewal until--“

“The goddam Air Force can cancel our goddam contract whenever it goddam wants to and you know it, Jimmy!” Anson snarled.

Haas raised a slim finger. “There’s no movement in the Pentagon to cancel our contract.”

“Not yet.”

“We can rebuild the laser in three months,” said Levy. “Perhaps less.”

“Not until you find out what made it blow up,” Anson replied.

“We know what caused the explosion. A speck of grease got entrained in the oxygen line. Once the oxygen was pressurized it ignited--“

“A speck of grease?” Anson roared. “How in the name of all the devils in hell did a speck of grease get into the oxy line?”

Unconsciously touching his swollen eye, Levy replied with deliberate calm, “The important thing, Mr. Anson, is to look ahead. I’ve instituted procedures that will make certain all the feed lines are purged with nitrogen before we power up the laser. That will ensure that the lines are clear.”

Anson scowled at him. “One of your technicians screwed up. Fire the bastard.”

“I’m not certain--“

“Find out who’s responsible and fire him!” Anson insisted. “You don’t have to be certain. Pick the likeliest chump and throw him out on his butt. Make an example of him so the others shape up.”

“But I can’t simply fire someone at random like that.”

Anson stared at Levy for several heartbeats. Then, “Well, if you can’t--or won’t--I’ll find somebody who can.”

Levy’s face went white.

“Find a scapegoat,” Anson said, his voice cold and hard. Then he smiled thinly. “It ought to be easy enough for you. You Jews know all about scapegoats, don’t you?”

Pasadena: Olympia Medical Center

It wasn't until Harry's seventh day in the hospital that Sylvia came to see him. He had the bed cranked up to a sitting position. His ribs ached, but the tight cast they'd put around his trunk made the pain bearable. The head nurse told him that they were weaning him off the painkillers as she changed the plastic bag of his IV drip.

"Don't want to make a druggie out of you," she said cheerfully.

Harry grunted, even though it hurt his ribs.

The nurse left, and before the door closed Sylvia pushed through. Harry felt surprised, then a little guilty. He hadn't asked about his wife, had hardly even thought about her, since waking up in the hospital.

"Hi, Sylvie," he said. It sounded weak to him, as if he were automatically trying to gain her sympathy.

Sylvia stood uncertainly at the doorway. He was surprised to realize how chunky she'd gotten over the years. The curvaceous girl he'd married had evolved into an almost dumpy matron. Like everything else, Harry thought. Everything goes downhill. I should talk, Mr. Bald Flab Guy.

For a moment Harry thought Sylvia was going to turn around and leave. But she came into the room a few steps, clutching her purse in both hands.

"Are you okay, Harry?"

He tried to smile. "It only hurts when I breathe."

She frowned at him. "Don't try to make a joke out of it. The man on the phone said you were seriously injured."

"Cracked some ribs."

"What happened?"

Harry hesitated, vaguely remembering the secrecy agreement he had signed. "I can't tell you."

She came up to the edge of the bed. "You can't tell your own wife?"

Harry started to shake his head, but the flare of pain made him stop. Instead he merely said, "Air Force stuff. It's all classified."

"Your own wife?" Sylvia demanded. "Do they think I'm a spy or something?"

Harry thought of Ben Franklin's dictum: Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead. Then he remembered Pete Quintana.

Sylvia stood at the side of the bed. "Leona Rosenberg told me that one of your crew got killed. That Hispanic guy."

"Pete Quintana."

"There was an explosion? Your face looks burned on one side."

"I'll be all right," Harry said. "I should be home in a few days."

She said nothing.

"How're the kids?" he asked.

"Vickie's dating that Vietnamese boy from her class again. I don't trust him."

Harry smiled faintly. "But we can trust Vickie. She's got a good head on her shoulders."

Shaking her head, Sylvia said, "I don't like the way he looks at her."

"He comes into the house, doesn't he? He doesn't just toot the horn and expect her to go running out to him. The kid's got some manners."

"For god's sake, Harry! You'd let your daughter get raped just because you think the boy's polite!"

"Don't start, Sylvie."

"I don't see why Vickie can't date her own kind of boys," she grumbled.

Harry tried to change the subject. "How's Denise?"

"She's fine. Breezing through school. They want her to come out for the orchestra next term." "That's good."

And suddenly they had nothing more to talk about. Nothing that wouldn't lead to an argument. Sylvia stood by the bed for a few moments more, looking as if she wanted to get away.

"I'll be out of here in a couple of days," Harry said.

She nodded. "Good. Call me if you need anything."

"Yeah."

"I've got to be going now. The kids will be coming home from school."

"Yeah."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

Harry almost said, Don't bother. But he kept the thought to himself.

Pasadena, California: Hartunian Residence

Harry felt silly in the powered wheelchair, but he had to admit that it was better than trying to walk. Sylvia had come to the hospital and stayed alongside him as he rolled down the hospital corridor, checked out at the admissions counter, and then wheeled himself outside and up to the SUV that Anson Aerospace had provided him for the trip home. The driver and one of the hospital's orderlies helped Harry into the SUV's right-hand seat with a minimum of agony and then stowed his wheelchair in the back.

Once home, Harry realized that the world looks a lot different when you're confined to a wheelchair. The split-level house had only two sets of stairs and they were no more than six steps each, but to Harry they suddenly looked formidable. Carefully, with the SUV's driver grasping his left arm and Sylvia his right, he got up from the chair. Then he stood there with his daughters staring wide-eyed at him while the driver carried the chair down the little flight as easily as if it weighed only a few ounces.

He walked down the steps like an arthritic old man, Sylvia and the driver holding him again, and settled into the chair once more.

"I'll be okay now," he said to the driver. "Thanks."

The guy dipped his chin in acknowledgment, grinned at the two girls standing there, and left the house. Sylvia stood in front of him, looking him over with a disapproving scowl on her face. Harry nudged the chair's control stick and wheeled past her, down the carpeted hallway.

As he turned into the bedroom, Sylvia said from behind him, "Not there. I set up the guest room for you." Her voice sounded edgy. "The doctor said it'll be better for you."

Harry spun the chair around. Sylvia looked strained, almost frightened. He started to say something to her, but gave it up. Without another word he turned the chair around and rolled it to the guest room.

Sylvia and the girls fussed around him as he got out of the chair on his own and stretched out gratefully on the queen-sized bed of the guest room. His back throbbed and he felt the beginnings of a headache pinching at the back of his neck.

"You have everything you need right here," Sylvia said from the doorway. "If you want anything, just holler."

"You want some juice, Dad?" Denise asked, her eyes full of anxiety.

He made a smile for her. "I'm okay, honey. Thanks anyway."

Vickie said, "We'll be your nurses, Dad. We'll take care of you."

"Thanks," he said, thinking that Sylvia would be happy to let them take care of him. Or anyone else. As long as she didn't have to.

In two days Harry felt almost normal. His doctor came from the hospital to remove the body cast he'd been wrapped in and ordered Harry to make an appointment for an x-ray of his ribs the next week. Denise and Vickie looked in on him before rushing off to school and once again as soon as they got back. The rest of the time Harry spent in bed watching television or pecking at his laptop. Sylvia stayed out of the guest room.

It's just as well, Harry thought. I sleep better alone. She doesn't want me near her anyway.

It was then that he realized his marriage was over. Had been over for years. They'd just been going through the motions, staying together for the kids' sake. This accident broke the bubble.

But where do I go from here? Harry asked himself. How do I tell the girls that I'm leaving them? That their mother wants me to leave them?

Pasadena: Anson Aerospace Corporation Headquarters

“We've got a real problem, Victor." General Scheib looked more worried than Anson had ever seen him before. The two men were sitting in the corner of Anson's spacious office by the windows that looked out on the parking lot. Scheib was in uniform, although he had loosened up enough to take off his beribboned jacket and toss it on the sofa on the other side of the room. Anson had kept his suit jacket on, his tie precisely knotted at his collar.

It was early evening, the sun was setting, the parking lot was almost empty as a handful of late leavers straggled to their cars and drove home.

Anson had broken out his best scotch and told his secretary she could go home as soon as she set his phone to refer all incoming calls to the answering machine.

As nonchalantly as he could manage, Anson replied, "We've identified the cause of the accident and taken steps to make sure it won't happen again."

"I know," Scheib said, avoiding Anson's eyes. "But there's a ton of pressure coming down on us. The head of the Missile Defense Agency has never believed in the laser; he calls it 'Buck Rogers' fantasy.' That's my boss; that's what I've got to work with."

Anson picked up his glass from the little table between them. He'd poured a generous dollop of scotch for the general; he himself was drinking dry amontillado.

"We've made the laser work. The testing program was only a couple of months behind schedule. So we'll be five or six months behind; that's no big deal."

"The laser blew up, Victor."

"Accidents happen."

Scheib stared at him for several heartbeats. "Do you know what would happen if your laser blew up when it was flying in a 747? You'd have a dozen deaths on your hands. And my career would go down in flames with the plane."

"We'll fix it," Anson said firmly. "We'll make it work."

Shaking his head ever so slightly, Scheib said, "We don't have just the Air Force and the MDA to deal with here, Victor. There's the White House, for god's sake. The President's cut missile defense again. And the committee people in Congress; that's where the funding comes from."

"They're in favor of the airborne laser."

"They
were
in favor. But now ... even our strongest supporters are wavering."

"But we've proved the concept," Anson insisted, feeling more alarm than he wanted to show. "We've shown that the laser can destroy a target almost instantaneously. We've shown that we can pick up a missile's signature and lock onto it."

"In separate experiments."

"But all we have to do is put them together. Systems integration. Anson Aerospace is good at systems integration."