Authors: Ben Bova

Powersat (The Grand Tour) (24 page)

BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)

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E
ven though the long-distance connection was scratchy with crackling interference, Roberto could hear sudden anxiety in al-Bashir’s voice.

“They’ve put fuel into the spaceplane?”

“Thass what my contact told me,” Roberto said in his stolid, no-nonsense way. “He claims they did it lass night.”

He had no way of knowing where al-Bashir was. The Tunisian had phoned him at their regular prearranged time. It was a satellite connection, though, Roberto figured, because there was this little hesitation between his talking and al-Bashir’s answering.

“It could be part of a test, I suppose.”

“There’s somethin’ else,” said Roberto. Before al-Bashir could respond he went on, “Their top engineer and some of her crew left on the company jet.”

Again the brief lag, then, “Left? Where are they going?”

“My contact don’ know. He says he’s gonna find out tonight. Got a date with Randolph’s secretary.”

This time the hesitation from al-Bashir was longer than usual. “Perhaps you should get down there.”

“Matagorda?”

“Yes. I’ll fly to Houston in a day or so. You stay close to your contact—and that secretary.”

“You want me to handle her?”

“No! Not yet. But I want you close enough to deal with her and your contact quickly. If the need arises.”

“Uh-huh.”

“If the need arises,” al-Bashir repeated. “You are not to act unless I tell you to.”

“So why I gotta go to Matagorda, then?”

He could hear the irritation in al-Bashir’s voice. “So that you can be close enough to strike quickly, if and when I tell you to!”

Roberto nodded. “Okay, I’ll go down there tomorrow.”

“Just lay low. Stay at the motel. Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

“Yeah, okay.” But Roberto heard the words
strike quickly
repeating over and over again in his mind. He had seen Randolph’s secretary. Kinsky was a wimp; taking care of him would be a snap. But the secretary was something else. Taking care of her would be fun.

I
n his palatial home on the outskirts of Tunis, al-Bashir put down the phone, his thoughts swirling. Randolph has the spaceplane ready to launch. But his top engineer and some of her crew have left Matagorda. Why? What is Randolph up to?

He picked up the phone again and jabbed at one of the buttons. The phone buzzed four times before a sleepy voice answered, “Yes, sir?”

One-twenty-three in the morning, al-Bashir saw from the ornate clock on the wall opposite his desk.

“Wake up, Ali,” he snapped.

“I’m awake, sir. Fully awake, sir.”

“Listen carefully,” said al-Bashir. “I want you to contact
each member of my special operation team. Tell them they must be ready to move to Marseille within a moment’s notice. Do you understand?”

“A moment’s notice, yes, sir.”

“At eight o’clock this morning you will phone the operations center outside Marseille.”

“Eight o’clock, yes, sir.”

“Tell them to prepare for receiving my team. Find out how long they will require to be fully operational.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to bed now. When I awake I will expect you to have done these tasks.”

“They will be done, sir.”

“I will expect a full report from you.”

“Yes, sir. I will be prepared whenever you call.”

“Good.”

“Have a pleasant night’s sleep, sir.”

Al-Bashir detected just the slightest hint of irony in the voice of his faithful servant. Well, he thought, Ali isn’t going to get much sleep tonight. He’s entitled to a little resentment, I suppose. But heaven help him if he hasn’t completed his tasks to my satisfaction.

With that, al-Bashir got up from his desk and headed for his bedroom, trying to decide which of his women he wanted tonight.

F
lying thirty-seven thousand feet above the Gulf of Mexico, Lynn Van Buren cranked her seat as far back as it would go and tried to get some sleep. But she was far too excited even to close her eyes. She had never been to Venezuela. Only two of her five-person crew spoke any Spanish at all.

Dan’s going to outfox all of them, she thought. He’s going to launch the spaceplane, fly several orbits, and land it in Caracas. Hot spit! He’s got more balls than the Mongol hordes and the U.S. Marines put together.

The twin-jet Citation couldn’t make it all the way from Matagorda to Caracas without a refueling stop in Florida.
Van Buren gave up any pretense of sleeping and peered out of the plane’s tiny round window at a tropical Moon riding along silvered clouds. Down in the plane’s cargo hold was the guidance and control equipment that they would use to monitor the spaceplane’s landing. If the bird deviated from its preset flight plan Van Buren and her people could take active control from the ground.

Dan had at first told Van Buren that they would have to work from a boat out in the harbor of La Guaira, the port city for Caracas. But apparently Dan’s Venezuelan contact, somebody high up in the local government, had promised them tight security at the airport itself. They could handle the flight much better from the airport, Van Buren knew. Besides, she didn’t relish the idea of trying to handle the mission while bobbing up and down in some boat.

The Citation landed at Florida’s Southwest International Airport just outside Fort Myers, refueled, and then took off for its run to Caracas. Van Buren finally fell asleep and only woke up when the sudden thump and rushing wind noise of the landing gear being lowered startled her out of a pleasant dream about a picnic with her kids. As she rubbed the sleep from her eyes the plane landed with a screech of tires on the long concrete runway.

Craning her neck to look out at the Caracas airport in the early morning sunlight, Van Buren saw that the plane was taxiing to a remote corner of the facility, far from any buildings or other planes. The only thing out there was a tall wire mesh fence topped by razor wire. And a big, square army truck in chocolate-chip camouflage. As the plane squealed to a stop, a full squad of young soldiers piled out of the truck, automatic rifles in their hands, and formed up in a straight line.

“What’s going on?” one of her technicians asked.

“Don’t worry,” Van Buren assured him. “It’s okay. Nothing to worry about.” She hoped she was right.

The captain came out of the cockpit, stooped over because of the cabin’s low ceiling, and swung the hatch open; a metal stairway automatically unfolded from the plane’s fuselage. A trim-looking young soldier immediately clambered up the
steps, looking very serious. He had some sort of insignia on the collar of his shirt, a thick dark moustache, and a pistol holstered on his hip.

“Señora Van Buren?” he called out.

“That’s me,” she replied, heading up the cabin’s central aisle toward him.

The soldier was short enough to stand erect at the hatch. “I am Capitan Esteban Guitterez, commandante of your security detail,” he said in heavily accented English. Then he smiled brilliantly. “Welcome to Venezuela!”

L
en Kinsky wasn’t exactly panicked, but he certainly felt nervous. His date with April had been a total waste of time. They spent the whole evening fencing verbally: he tried to find out from her what Dan was up to and gradually realized that she was trying to find out what he was doing. She knows! Kinsky realized, halfway through his bland chunk of dead fish at Lamar’s fanciest restaurant.
She’s
trying to pump
me!

By the time he got home that evening there was a message on his answering machine from Roberto. The big mook was coming down to Matagorda. Great! thought Kinsky. He’d only met Roberto in the flesh once, but that was enough. Plenty, in fact. The guy looked like he should be playing linebacker for some prison football team. Scary.

Roberto wasn’t satisfied with the flow of information Kinsky was providing him. Kinsky had to admit that he hadn’t much information to pass on. And now April was probably on to him. What to do?

As he drove to the ferry that morning, Kinsky wished he’d never met Roberto, never gone for the money the big lug offered. All they’d wanted was a pipeline into Dan’s office. Industrial espionage. Happens all the time. With Astro going down the toilet and his job going with it, Kinsky figured a little extra money on the side was a good bet. Insurance for that inevitable day when Dan called him in and sadly told him he was laid off.

Yeah. Good bet. Kinsky sat and fidgeted while the ferry chugged across the bay. Maybe I ought to just pull up stakes and go back to New York. I can sell some freelance magazine articles if nothing else pans out.

The ferry docked. As he drove the last few miles to the office Kinsky formed a plan of action. Roberto wants the inside poop on what Dan’s up to. Otherwise he’s going to get nasty. Maybe he was involved in Tenny’s death. Kinsky didn’t like to think of that. Focus on the here and now, he commanded himself. Figure out what you’ve got to do and then do it.

By the time he parked his car he had made up his mind. He strode straight to Hangar A. In the distance he could see that they’d rolled the grillwork gantry structure up to the booster and spaceplane perched on the launchpad. A thin wisp of vapor was wafting from one of the umbilicals connected to the spaceplane. Kinsky stopped in midstride. Christ! They’re fueling up the plane! He’s really going to launch it!

Kinsky ran the rest of the way into the hangar and pounded up the steps, heading for Dan’s office.

BLOCKHOUSE

“T
minus ten minutes,” the launch director’s automated clock announced.

“Propellant top-off complete,” said one of the technicians.

“Copy propellant top-off complete,” said the launch director as he tapped a keypad on the board before him. He was balding, slightly overweight, so much in control of himself that Dan wondered if he ever perspired. In the corporate organization charts he was Van Buren’s assistant, although he had accumulated a career’s worth of experience launching
ballistic missiles for the Air Force before retiring from the military and coming to work for Astro.

Of the six others sitting at the row of consoles inside the thick-walled concrete blockhouse, three were NASA veterans, the other three recent graduates of technical schools. All of them had headsets clamped over their hair; their eyes were focused on the screens and gauges of their consoles.

There were no windows in the blockhouse, but an oversized display screen that covered one entire wall showed the booster and spaceplane erect on the pad outside with the rust-red tower of the gantry enveloping them protectively.

Dan stood by the blockhouse’s steel door, feeling the tightening of his nerves that he always experienced during a launch countdown. Firing off the solid-fuel booster was a simple operation compared to the big liquid-propellant rockets that NASA and other space agencies used. Still, the blockhouse felt hot and stuffy to Dan, damp with perspiration and the smell of tension.

“T minus seven minutes. Gantry rollback in two minutes.”

The intercom buzzed, a sudden annoying insect in the midst of the tight, businesslike procedure. The kid handling outside communications pressed one hand against his earphone and whispered into his pin mike. The young man, a graduate student from Duke University, then turned in his swivel chair and motioned for Dan to pick up the phone on the concrete wall.

Frowning with annoyance, Dan yanked the receiver off its cradle.

“Dan? What the fuck is going on?” Kinsky’s voice, high, screeching.

“Not now, Len,” Dan said tightly into the phone.

“You’re going to launch it?” Even higher.

“I’ll talk to you when I get back to my office. Wait for me there.”

“For Jesus Christ’s sake, Dan, you can’t—”

Dan hooked the receiver back onto its cradle, then stepped over to the communication guy and tapped him on the shoulder. The kid looked up and Dan drew a finger
across his own throat. “No more incoming calls,” he said. “No matter who it is.”

The young man nodded. Dan walked back to his spot by the door, where he could watch over the shoulders of the whole launch team. The last thing I need is a phone call from Passeau or some other government pain in the butt telling me I don’t have permission to launch.

“T minus five minutes. Begin gantry rollback.”

“Confirm. Start rollback.”

Dan saw the big gantry structure begin to move slowly away from the rocket assembly, like the steel framework of a twenty-five-story building rolling on a set of rails. The umbilical tower stood to one side of the launch pad, its electrical power cables and propellant hoses connected to the booster and spaceplane.

What’s got Len so geared up? Dan asked himself. And answered, He’s probably warped because I didn’t let him know about the launch ahead of time. That must be it.

Dan suppressed an urge to go outside. The tension was coiling tighter inside him. The launch crew was going smoothly through the countdown, no hitches, no glitches, but still Dan’s insides were clenching up just as hard as they used to when he’d been sitting inside a capsule at the top of a big rocket, waiting to be fired off into space, knowing that he was perched atop enough explosive power to blast the rocket and its cargo of human flesh into a roaring hell-hot blossom of flames.

“T minus four minutes. Weather check.”

The woman seated to the launch director’s right punched several keys on her console, then said, “Weather conditions all well above minimums. No problems.”

“Weather confirmed,” the launch director said.

Dan knew there would be no need to check weather conditions downrange, nor air traffic, either. The rocket would lift off vertically, then pitch over slightly to head out over the Gulf as it swiftly rose above the altitude that air traffic used. She’ll be above controlled airspace in less than a minute, Dan told himself. No sweat for the FAA or anybody else.

“Emergency landing sites?” the launch director asked, peering at the checklist on his console screen.

The three sites in Spain, South Africa, and Australia had been alerted when the countdown had begun, less than an hour ago. Each of the airports confirmed that they were ready to clear all traffic if the spaceplane needed to abort its flight and make an emergency landing.

Van Buren and her team had reported that they were ready at Caracas. Dan had talked to her before coming over to the blockhouse. Lynn seemed to be enjoying her sojourn in Venezuela, even though neither she nor the others with her had left the airport.

The countdown proceeded. A tiny plume of white vapor wafted from the spaceplane’s lower body. Liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen powered its rocket engines, so cold that they condensed the water vapor in the humid summer breeze drifting across the plane’s propellant tanks into a miniature cloud of glittering droplets.

His eyes riveted on the big wall screen, Dan saw that the sky outside was as clear as it ever gets, bright blue with only a few fat puffs of cumulus clouds floating slowly past. He licked his lips, clenched his fists, and resisted the urge to pace up and down. Might make the crew nervous, he thought. Still, a quick trip to the toilet won’t bother anybody.

The blockhouse lavatory was no bigger than a closet, its walls thin plywood. Dan could hear the countdown clicking inexorably along.

He came out as one of the launch team sang out, “Internal power on.”

“Confirm internal power.”

“T minus two minutes. Umbilical disconnect.”

The cables dropped away from the booster and rocketplane.

Okay, Dan said to himself. It’s all on automatic from here on. He clasped his hands behind his back and crossed the fingers of both hands.

The automatic sequencer was counting off seconds now. Dan held his breath. Five … four …

“All systems go.”

Two … one …

“Ignition.”

A bloom of fire flared at the base of the booster and for an agonizingly long moment the big rocket stood unmoving, belching flame from its tail. Then it started to rise, slowly, slowly, like a sedate monarch rising from his throne.

“Go, baby!” somebody shouted.

“Up, up, and awaaay!”

The sound started to roll over them now, thundering waves of raw power reverberating through the blockhouse, rattling the bones and guts deep inside. Dan felt as if he were inside some enormous musical instrument with the whole bass register bellowing away madly.

The wall screen showed a billowing cloud of gritty gray smoke. Dan heard, “Pitch maneuver confirmed.”

“She’s on her way.”

The launch director pushed his wheeled chair back, yanked off his headset, and got to his feet.

“Come on, boss, let’s go out and take a look.”

Dan followed the heavyset launch director out into the bright morning sunshine and squinted up at the smoky trail of.the booster’s exhaust, starting to kink slightly where the higher-altitude winds pushed it.

A bright flash of light startled Dan for an instant, until he realized it was the spaceplane’s rocket engine lighting off.

From inside the blockhouse they heard, “Separation confirmed. Spaceplane engine ignition confirmed.”

The launch director gave Dan a lopsided grin. “Okay. My workday’s finished. Think I’ll take my crew down to the motel and have a few beers.”

BOOK: Powersat (The Grand Tour)

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