The Green Progression

by L. E. Modesitt Jr

  Buzzzz …

  He grabbed the intercom, nearly tipping over the swivel chair. “Yes.”

  “Find out anything yet, Jack?” Jonnie sounded preoccupied, and that was as close to worried as he ever sounded.

  “No. I’ve got someone looking.”

  “Someone?”

  “An old friend who might know. I’ll let you know. All right?”

  “Okay … I guess.”

  “I’ll let you know,” McDarvid repeated before setting the phone down.

  Finally, he returned to explaining the likelihood of the special review resulting in a partial ban on the use of Kiltough, the United Agricare granular pesticide being investigated by DEP.

  After a late lunch at his desk and another call from Jonnie, Eric actually called.

  “He’s not ours.”

  “You already knew that. Is he DIA?”

  “Sort of. He’s DIA, but on detail to the National Security Council.”

  “What does the White House have to do with this?”

  “They didn’t tell us.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “None whatever. But check last Thursday’s business section. And tomorrow’s paper for … French developments. And, obviously, I know nothing, except that Murrill’s for real. And … Jack…”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m telling you this so you don’t have to make any more inquiries.”

  “Understood. Thanks, Eric.”

  “My pleasure. This time.”

  McDarvid frowned. Eric didn’t like the inquiries. That came across loud and clear. Probably a trade-off—but what? He reached for the intercom.

  “Yes?” Jonnie’s voice was cautious.

  “Find the business section of last Thursday’s Post and come on down.”

  “Last Thursday’s business section—a week ago?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “All right, but what’s the mystery?”

  “We’ll both have a better idea if you can locate it. I didn’t get a straight answer.”

  “It may take a while.”

  McDarvid had finished the first draft of the special review paper by the time Jonnie dragged in with a tattered copy of the week-old business section.

  “Managed to reclaim it from the recycling pile.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Not since last Thursday, if I even read it then. You do the honors, since you seem to know what you’re looking for.” Jonnie thrust the paper at McDarvid.

  The story was buried on the bottom of F-2. McDarvid read it aloud.

  Washington. Today, attorneys for the Justice Department retracted their objections to the acquisition of Pherndahl-Elkins by JAFFE International, a French multinational. According to industry sources, JAFFE has recently acquired a number of smaller companies involved in computer and space technology. Pherndahl-Elkins, a Colorado-based manufacturer, specializes in advanced microchip technology …

  “They like to acquire high-tech companies.” Jonnie’s tone was not quite sardonic.

  “I learned something else,” McDarvid added. “This was a deal. The second half will appear in tomorrow’s paper. And Murrill’s real. He is DIA, but he’s on detail to the National Security Council.”

  “What’s he do there?”

  “Beats me.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  McDarvid repressed a sigh. “One of my former bosses. He also suggested we stop investigating JAFFE. Very strongly.”

  “That doesn’t exactly reassure me, Jack.”

  “It doesn’t reassure me, either. I just hope we can figure out what story he was referring to that’s supposed to appear tomorrow morning.”

  “Un … huhhh…” Jonnie did not look at McDarvid.

  McDarvid cleared his throat. “Jonnie, this ties rather neatly to what you found out about JAFFE’s hiring practices.”

  “Yeah, it does. Pherndahl-Elkins is a relatively small high-tech company, working on the next generation chip manufacturing technology. Right now, all sorts of chips can be designed that can’t be produced. Companies just can’t etch enough lines through the chip without the circuits crossing or the chip burning out. Pherndahl-Elkins is developing techniques for manufacturing the next generation of very high density chips using new technologies and materials.” Jonnie suddenly grinned.

  “Why do I suspect that these new technologies and materials involve some of the same materials involved in the metals initiative?”

  “You’re just a quick study, I guess.”

  “Can we presume that Pherndahl sold out because they ran out of options to raise money.”

  Jonnie nodded. “It’s not cheap trying to develop new high-technology manufacturing processes. Still, I’d bet there was a lot of opposition to the sale. Probably most of DOD and even a few people at Commerce objected to selling a high-tech firm like Pherndahl to a foreign company, even one based in a more or less friendly country.”

  “Like I said, this is some sort of deal. But we can’t figure out what sort until we see the morning paper.”

  Jonnie yawned and looked at his watch. “What I don’t understand is why an American firm didn’t step in and buy Pherndahl. There are enough companies with more cash than they know what to do with. Getting Pherndahl would be a hell of an opportunity for someone.”

  “There’s a simple answer there.” McDarvid snorted. “American companies are long-term risk averse. They don’t want to spend a lot of money on a project that may not pay off for years, if at all. Stockholders want to see profits now. They don’t want to hear about buying a company that, at best, will only turn a small profit for years and isn’t even good for a nice tax write-off. Even if doing so will contribute to the nation’s technology base and their own long-term profitability.”

  “So the French will take over our high-tech industry?” asked Jonnie.

  “You prefer the Japanese?”

  “Does it make a difference? At least somebody is interested in building for the future.”

  McDarvid grimaced. “That’s all I know for the moment. We can figure out the next step tomorrow—once we see what’s in the paper.” He stood up slowly and looked toward the briefcase on the credenza. “Late night for Allyson, and time to head out and rescue the baby-sitter from the kids.”

  “Oh … yeah … See you tomorrow, Jack.”

  McDarvid shook his head. What sort of trade-off had Eric hinted at, and why had he let on that much—just to stop further investigations?

  No. Whatever happened tomorrow had to close a chapter. It was Eric’s way of saying, it’s over. Don’t upset things by mucking around. But what was over, and what did it have to do with JAFFE?

  He picked up the briefcase and walked toward the elevator.

  37

  THE MUSIC BARELY WHISPERED. McDarvid wanted to pull the pillow over his ears. Instead, he jabbed the alarm and lurched upright.

  Five forty-five. The glowing numbers on the clock confirmed, as they did every morning, why he did not want to be up. Slowly, he eased himself through the darkness toward the closet, where the short pajamas came off and the underwear and sweat suit went on. As he sat back down on the edge of the bed to pull on socks and running shoes, Allyson pulled the pillow over her head.

  He stood and headed downstairs. Taking the door by the kitchen, he stepped out into the December chill, pulling the sweatshirt hood over his ears as he walked toward the park, his pace faster than that of many joggers.

  The paper would be on the doorstep by the time he finished his workout, not that he would have the chance to read it until after he had fixed breakfast and gotten the kids off to school and Allyson off to work.

  Once he had covered the four blocks to the park and his feet touched the grass, he began the first of the premeasured sprints between the trees.

  A lone dog skittered away into the gloom as McDarvid charged the old oak, practicing the few old kicks he remembered from training. Whacking and thudding at trees, doing brok
en field running—just the thing for cold mornings. But he only thought the words, not having the breath even to mumble them. Despite his five-day-a-week devotion to his walk-run-modified workout-run-walk regime, age was creeping up on him. Not fat, but age. Unless the scales were lying and his trousers were stretching, neither totally beyond the realm of possibility.

  He began another sprint along the edge of the park as a few oblivious commuters trudged toward the Metro stop, their faces averted from the idiot in the tattered Navy sweat suit, plunging from tree to tree, only halting to deliver poorly timed kicks to the unyielding trunks.

  Despite the white stream of his breath, the sweat had begun to pour across his forehead, and he flicked back the sweatshirt’s hood as he reached the monkey bars and began the pull-ups.

  “Hate this…”

  But he hated the thought of being fat and sloppy worse. So the pull-ups were followed by the inclined sit-ups. Then two more tree-hopping sprints to the far end of the park, where he slowed to a quick walk home. He had to walk then—running on hard surfaces left his back stiff for days. Grass was the only surface on which he ran, and only when the ground wasn’t frozen solid.

  The paper was waiting. He tucked it under his arm and walked around the front of the house to the side door by the kitchen. As he stepped inside, he glanced at the headlines: “Islamic Hardliners Reassert Control in Somalia.” Somehow, he doubted that even JAFFE was tied up in Somalia.

  With the paper set aside on the buffet in the dining room, he put on the kettle for tea and hot chocolate and set up the coffee maker to deliver Allyson’s two cups of decaffeinated coffee.

  He emptied the dishwasher, knowing that the rattle of plates served more as an alarm for Allyson than the beautiful music station that was their compromise between her soft rock and his country music. Next he laid out the mugs and the plates and began setting up for the breakfasts to follow.

  The sound of the kettle reminded him to turn down the gas before the water boiled out the spout and all over the stove. His and Elizabeth’s bagels went into the toaster oven, and he laid out Allyson’s bran.

  “Breakfast is almost ready!”

  “Dadddddd…”

  “I will be there presently…”

  “Here I am,” announced his younger daughter.

  McDarvid slipped the cereal bowl, the sliced bananas, and the hot chocolate before Kirsten. Then he started sectioning the grapefruit.

  “David’s yelling at his closet.”

  “He forgot to lay out his clothes again, I suppose.” McDarvid poured his and Elizabeth’s tea. Turning the kettle off, he retrieved the bagels.

  After hearing the shower shut off, he poured Allyson’s coffee and set it at the end of the long breakfast bar.

  “Father…”

  “It’s in front of your stool.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’re wearing the blue pants and top,” said Kirsten. “The green stuff looks yukky.”

  “Father…”

  “Kirsten, just eat your cereal.” He looked up toward Allyson, in her heavy green robe, damp hair, and still-sleepy eyes. “Morning, sweetheart.”

  “Morning.” She slipped onto the stool and grasped for the coffee.

  He set the cereal bowl and milk pitcher in front of her, then turned to pour the still-boiling water into David’s oatmeal. After that, he took three quick spoonfuls from his grapefruit, followed by a bite of bagel.

  “… no jeans … Kirsten, did you hide my good jeans? Where are my tennis shoes?” David slouched into the kitchen, barefoot, but with new jeans and a black sweatshirt proclaiming a musical group whose sounds reminded McDarvid of near-dead cats.

  “Your shoes are where you left them. That usually means under your bed, under your desk, or in some corner in the family room. And do a better job in making your bed this morning. Yesterday, it was a mess.” He mock-glared at Kirsten. “You, too, squirt.”

  “I’m not as sloppy as David.”

  “There is scarcely any difference between the two of you,” announced Elizabeth.

  Allyson winced and took another sip of coffee, then poured milk into her cereal.

  “Can I have the milk, Mom?” David blared.

  McDarvid, still standing behind the breakfast bar, finished his grapefruit, took another sip of tea, and removed Kirsten’s cereal bowl. “You need to work on that hair before your mother puts it up. The deal was that you brush out the tangles first. Otherwise, it gets cut.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  Within minutes, the three children were upstairs, and McDarvid plopped onto the stool next to Allyson. “You didn’t say much last night. Long day?”

  “No. Just colds and flu going around. A lot with pretty high fevers, and that always gets parents worried.” She took another sip of coffee.

  McDarvid got up and retrieved the coffeepot, refilling her cup.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t mind. You’re not awake in the morning, anyway.” He sat down.

  Allyson rested her head against his shoulder for a moment, then reached down and squeezed his leg. “You’re still worried a lot. You’re tossing in your sleep again, all the time, and you haven’t done that since you worked for the Agency.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  “I went back to sleep. I didn’t remember anything after that; so you didn’t keep me awake.” Allyson methodically finished the small bowl of bran.

  He took another swallow, emptying the last of his tea from the heavy mug.

  “Is pot roast all right for dinner?” she asked.

  “Fine. I shouldn’t be late.”

  She touched his leg again, then set down her mug. “I’d better get up there and do Kirsten’s hair.”

  “If you must…” His lips brushed her cheek, and he squeezed her shoulder gently. “Maybe this weekend?”

  As she rose, Allyson smiled faintly, but whether the smile was mere fondness or a promise—that he couldn’t tell, not even after all these years.

  By the time everyone had piled out, either to school or to work, McDarvid had cleaned up the kitchen and shaved. He debated retrieving the paper, but, instead, stepped into the shower.

  Finally, fully dressed, he took the paper into the small study.

  His eyes targeted the story about the early resignation of the Admiral in charge of aircraft procurement. But the story was just another retelling of the typical Washington situation. The Admiral, apparently a good tactical commander, had gotten frustrated by the Washington fogbank of rumor and indirection and gone aground when he blamed the procurement mess on congressional legislative requirements. McDarvid shook his head wryly. It didn’t matter whether the congressional requirements—procurement or environmental—were impossible. You didn’t blame the imperial Congress, because the appropriations committees invariably cut your budget and the legislative committees added more requirements, and that just made the situation that much worse.

  He scanned the rest of the paper, discovering that the only story that made sense was in the world news section on page 20.

  FRENCH CONDUCT NUCLEAR TEST

  … detonated a nuclear device in the South Pacific yesterday … the yield was undetermined … French sources refuse to speculate on the purpose of the test …

  In a related development, Greenpeace reported that a Navy ship, identified tentatively as the destroyer O’Falleron, had been tracked in the area of the test for the past several days … neither the Pentagon nor the White House would offer comment …

  McDarvid folded the story into his briefcase.

  38

  “I TAKE IT THAT IT WAS THE FRENCH NUCLEAR TEST STORY?” asked Jonnie, even before McDarvid could open his briefcase.

  “Has to be.”

  “You want to speculate why? Before I go off to coffee with the spooks?”

  McDarvid shrugged. “I can’t figure out all the reasons, but the French don’t tell anyone what goes on with the
ir tests. The whole thing probably goes pretty high.”

  Jonnie nodded slowly. “Well, I got in early this morning. I had a chance to make a couple of calls. A buddy of mine at Commerce said there’s a rumor that approval for the JAFFE deal came from high up, real high.”

  “The Secretary?”

  Jonnie shook his head. “There are some folks who think that the White House made the call on this one.”

  McDarvid frowned. “About how long ago did JAFFE receive approval to buy Pherndahl?”

  “No more than a couple of weeks ago, assuming the story hit the Post fairly soon after approval. Why?”

  “Wasn’t that about when what’s-his-name at the Pentagon was in France? You know, the new Secretary?” mused McDarvid, pulling on his chin.

  “I thought that was a couple of months ago. Besides, that was just the standard consult-with-the-allies tour taken by every new Secretary. I couldn’t imagine that…”

  “No. You’re probably right about that. But if the JAFFE thing had a White House twist…”

  “That might explain Murrill’s interest?” Jonnie asked.

  “I suppose so. But whatever’s with that test must be really critical, if the White House types were willing to squash Justice.”

  “Why Justice? I thought Commerce had the objections.”

  “Justice always files the antitrust objections, no matter who raises them. Lawyers, again.” McDarvid shrugged. “But why that ties to a French nuclear test, I don’t know.”

  “The Russians monitor our tests,” Jonnie observed, “and, under the agreement, we monitor theirs.”

  “Shhhhiit.” The curse slipped from McDarvid’s mouth. “No wonder they didn’t like your inquiries.”

  Jonnie’s forehead wrinkled.

  McDarvid walked past him and closed the door. “It all fits. We can talk about the reasons later, but we have some test or equipment being conducted in conjunction with the French test, probably something that we don’t want the Russians to know about. The French government politely called in a favor…”