Powersat (The Grand Tour) (19 page)

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Authors: Ben Bova

BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)
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“V
enezuela?” Dan asked.
Sitting next to him at the round conference table in the corner of Dan’s cluttered office, Lynn Van Buren nodded, her smile bigger than usual because she had found what she’d been searching for.
“Venezuela,” she repeated. “We can land the bird at Caracas and we won’t even have to alter its orbital track very much.”
“It flies over Caracas?”
“Pretty close. On its second orbit.”
Dan started thinking out loud. “We could load the ground control staff and equipment onto a ship, I suppose …”
Nodding enthusiastically, Van Buren said, “Use the backup equipment and a skeleton crew. You don’t need more than three, four good people.”
“Put them on the ship and don’t tell them where we’re going,” Dan mused, warming to the idea.
“Or why.”
“That way nobody can tip off anybody outside the company about where we’re going to land the bird.”
With a laugh, Van Buren said, “We’ll sail under sealed orders.”
Dan grinned back at her. “That’ll give us tight security, all right.”
“Then it’s Venezuela, for sure.”
“Except for one point,” Dan said. “How in the name of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs do we get permission to fly through Venezuelan airspace and land there?”
Van Buren fiddled with the strand of pearls at her throat. “That’s not an engineering problem, chief.”
“You’re right. It’s a political problem.”
“Know any good politicians, chief?” Van Buren asked. “Or is that an oxymoron?”
 
 
A
sim al-Bashir returned to Houston after his meetings in Beijing and, with a nonchalant air of superiority, presented to Wendell Garrison a draft agreement with the Chinese government.
“Tricontinental will market Chinese coal in Asia,” al-Bashir summarized for the corporate head, “as far west as Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
Garrison scowled up at him. The old man wheeled his powered chair out from behind his desk and, without saying a word, led al-Bashir to the curving teak cabinet that stood at the foot of one of the ceiling-high windows. With the press of a stud on the chair’s armrest, the cabinet opened smoothly and silently, revealing three rows of bottles.
“Pick your poison,” he said grudgingly to al-Bashir. “I suppose you’ve earned yourself a drink.”
Al-Bashir took a modest thimbleful of sherry while Garrison clattered ice into a tumbler and splashed bourbon into it.
“This is gonna put us in competition with ourselves, you know,” Garrison grumbled, after they had touched glasses. “We sell a lot of oil to Pakistan.”
“It won’t affect our oil sales,” al-Bashir said. “The Pakistanis want to build new industrial capacity, and they’ll power it with Chinese coal.”
“Bought from us.”
“Indeed so.”
Garrison nodded, reluctantly. Al-Bashir did not think it necessary to tell the old man that by delivering Chinese coal to central Asian nations, more oil from Iran and other Persian Gulf fields could be sold to Europe and America. Keep the West dependent on us, al-Bashir told himself. Bind them to us so tightly that they will never be able to escape.
After his drink with Garrison, al-Bashir returned to his hotel suite, looking forward to a restful weekend. Then back to Tunisia and another meeting of The Nine. Several members of the group were showing signs of unease about his plan to use the power satellite. Time to reassure them, al-Bashir told himself.
Roberto was waiting for him at the suite. The man has a look of violence about him, al-Bashir thought. Roberto was big enough to be intimidating, but it was not his size alone that gave the impression of danger. He radiated anger. His face was always set in a tense rictus; his eyes always smoldered. He moved with the compact, controlled energy of a stalking cat. When he spoke, his voice was soft, low, almost gentle. And all the more menacing for it.
Roberto stood in the middle of the suite’s sitting room, a large, heavy-shouldered man, his arms hanging at his sides, his hands balled into fists. Al-Bashir felt small and a little frightened next to him, but he knew that Roberto would never harm him. He had recruited Roberto from San Quentin and personally vouched for him at his parole board hearing, on the recommendation of the mullah who trolled the California prison system for converts to Islam. Roberto was no Moslem. But he didn’t have to be, as far as al-Bashir was concerned. He had other qualifications.
Indicating the plush armchair at one side of the sofa, al-Bashir said, “Sit, my friend, and tell me what is happening at Astro’s headquarters.”
Roberto went to the chair and lowered himself into it like a cat settling warily onto its haunches, ready to spring up again in an instant. Al-Bashir took the chair facing him.
“They’re talkin’ about bringin’ out the second spaceplane and stickin’ it on top of one of their rocket boosters,” Roberto said, nearly whispering.
Al-Bashir frowned. “They’re going to fly the backup spaceplane?”
“They say it’s jus’ a test to check out ever’thing. No launch.”
His suspicions aroused, al-Bashir said, more to himself than Roberto, “They’d need government approval to try another flight. That’s not likely.”
Roberto said, “Somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“Randolph’s secretary is askin’ questions. The same kinda questions that Tenny asked.”
“The black woman? The pretty one?”
“Yeah.”
Al-Bashir ran a hand across his bearded chin. “I don’t like that.”
Roberto said nothing.
“Keep an eye on her. I want to know what she’s up to.”
“I’ll go down to Matagorda—”
“No,” al-Bashir snapped. “You have an informant inside the company, don’t you?”
Roberto nodded. “More’n one. Tha’s how I know about her.”
“Use your informants, then. You shouldn’t be seen down there unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
Roberto said, “We might hafta do somethin’ about her.”
“Perhaps so,” said al-Bashir. “Perhaps so.”
Roberto smiled, while al-Bashir thought that he might have to pull some government strings to help make certain that Randolph would be allowed to fly his spaceplane.
D
espite the heat, Georgetown’s M Street was jammed with tourists and locals sweating and red-faced under the late afternoon sun. Wearing an open-neck shirt and light slacks, Dan weaved through the crowd, heading for the French restaurant where Jane had agreed to meet him.
Not for dinner. She’d been too wary for that. It had taken Dan two days just to get her to talk to him on the phone, and once he had explained that he needed her help but he couldn’t say why over the telephone, she had reluctantly agreed to have a drink with him. So Dan had dusted off his Orville Wilbur credit cards, flown to Ronald Reagan National Airport, and taken a modest room at the Four Seasons Hotel.
He found the Bistro Français and stepped gratefully from the hot, crowded street into the cool, shadowy restaurant. Jane wasn’t there yet, of course. Dan grumbled to himself that while Admiral Nelson might have claimed that he owed his success in life to being always fifteen minutes early, you spend a hell of a lot of time waiting for other people that way.
The bar was mostly empty and Dan had no problem getting a booth back away from the door, once he explained to the pinch-faced hostess that he was expecting someone to join him, and handed her a five-dollar bill. He ordered a Pernod with water and settled down to wait for Jane.
Half an hour later, when his drink was down to greenish melted ice cubes and he had gloomily watched the dreary news report of the stock market’s continuing slump on the television screen above the bar, Jane finally showed up. She was accompanied by a very fat guy in a rumpled gray suit. Rivulets of sweat were trickling down his bulbous cheeks and several chins. Jane looked fresh and cool in a pale lavender
skirt and off-white blouse, as if the weather outside hadn’t touched her at all.
Dan slipped out of the booth to greet her. Jane smiled pleasantly and accepted a handshake, nothing more, then introduced Denny O‘Brien. She’s brought a chaperon, Dan thought. Well, at least she’s not with Scanwell. Dan felt sorry for O’Brien as he grunted and squeezed into the booth beside Jane. Once they were all seated, the booth felt to Dan as crowded and uncomfortable as the street outside.
The waitress drifted over and Jane ordered a vodka martini; O’Brien asked for a bottle of sparkling water. The waitress asked, “Another Pernod for you, sir?” Dan nodded.
“Denny’s my top political advisor,” Jane explained as they waited for their drinks. “He’s our real campaign manager.”
Dan nodded and made small talk about the weather, the stock market, anything except how much he wished Jane had come alone.
Finally, once their drinks were on the table, Jane said, “You sounded kind of mysterious on the phone.”
Glancing at O’Brien, Dan said, “I don’t want anybody to know what I’m about to tell you.”
“You can trust Denny.”
O’Brien smiled amiably. “I’m the soul of discretion.”
“In Washington?” Dan asked, his amazement only partially feigned.
Jane cut through the badinage. “What’s going on, Dan? Why did you want to see me?”
Because I love you, Dan wanted to say. Because I’d march into a horde of fanatical terrorists to get to you.
Instead, he replied, “I need your help. I need to talk to somebody high up in the government of Venezuela.”
O’Brien’s brows shot up, but Jane’s only reaction was a slight smile. “Are you thinking of leaving the country, Dan?”
“You know I’m not.”
“Then what’s this all about?”
He wasn’t prepared to tell the truth. “Sooner or later,” he began, “we’re going to need secondary landing fields where the spaceplane can land in an emergency.”
“‘We’ meaning Astro Corporation?” O’Brien asked.
“That’s right.”
“And you want an emergency field in Venezuela?”
“We’re working on agreements with Spain, South Africa, and Australia,” Dan said. “But Venezuela’s closer.”
O’Brien glanced at Jane, then said, “You expect to get your spaceplane flying again?”
“Sooner or later,” Dan repeated, straight-faced.
“They why the hurry?”
Dan made a lopsided smile. “I’ve got nothing better to do until the double-damned FAA okays the plane for flight.”
Jane obviously saw through his fabrication. “I can ask State for the names of the right people in Venezuela.”
“That would help,” Dan said. “Could you do it this week?”
“Why this week?” O’Brien asked, clearly suspicious. Dan hesitated, thinking fast. Then, “Okay, let me put my cards on the table.”
Jane smiled as if she knew there was a whopper coming up.
“Please do,” she murmured.
“I’m trying to raise money, you know that. Tricontinental and Yamagata both want to buy into Astro. You know that, too. I’m trying to stall them, or at least get them to give me a loan instead of buying in.”
O’Brien said, “But what’s that got to do—”
“The more I’ve got this operation nailed down,” Dan said, hoping it sounded believable, “the stronger my position against Garrison and Yamagata. If I can show that I’ve even got emergency landing fields set up for the spaceplane, hell, I might even be able to float a big-enough loan from some American banks to keep Astro in my own hands.”
“When will the spaceplane be ready to fly again?” Jane asked.
Dan almost said it was ready now, but he caught himself in time. “As soon as the double-damned FAA winds up its investigation and gives the backup plane a clean bill of health.”
“Months from now,” O‘Brien said. “Maybe a year or more:’
“Maybe,” Dan replied tightly.
Jane said, “Denny, could you go to the bar and get a couple more olives for my drink, please?”
O’Brien looked back and forth from Jane to Dan and back again, then said, “Sure.” He struggled out of the booth and headed for the bar, which was filling up now with drinkers.
Jane leaned across the table toward Dan. “What are you up to?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”
Her lips tightened. “Do you really need to talk to someone in Venezuela this week?”
“Yep.”
“Dan, I don’t want you doing anything that will hurt Morgan’s chances.”
“I don’t intend to,” he answered. Silently he added, I’m fighting for my life here. Scanwell can take care of himself.
O’Brien came back with two green olives on a toothpick, carried daintily in a cocktail napkin. As he grunted back into the booth, Jane said:
“Very well, Dan. I’ll get one of my people to contact State first thing tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” said Dan.
Suddenly there was nothing else for them to talk about. They finished their drinks as quickly as they decently could. Dan spent the time explaining to O’Brien the economics of mass-producing the solid-fuel rocket boosters he used, instead of hand-crafting rockets one at a time. He neglected to tell the man that Astro Corporation had a warehouse full of boosters that the double-damned Internal Revenue Service would not allow them to discount as inventory.

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