“Fascinating,” Falcone said. “Sounds like your Hamilton book is progressing. I’d like to hear more. But right now I have to talk to my client. And so, good night,” Falcone said, motioning in the direction of the entrance-hall door.
40
Darlene sleepily looked at the clock beside her bed. A 1:27 a.m. call never brings happy news. Her heart was pounding when she picked up the phone, which was oddly heavy in a hand used to speaking into a cell phone.
“I’ve got to talk to your father,” Sean said flatly.
“Oh, Sean. What’s—”
“Is he up?”
“I’ll wake him.”
“Okay. Tell him I’ll be there in about ten minutes. I’ve got to talk to him right away. And, please, Darlene, make some coffee.”
Falcone hung up, pressed a button on the phone console, asked the night watchman to call a cab, and walked into his bedroom to exchange slippers for sneaks. He grabbed a windbreaker out of the closet and put it on over his sweatpants and Celtics sweatshirt. He picked up his wallet and keys from the top of his bureau and walked out the hall door.
Falcone could hear the phone ringing in Taylor’s home as he closed the taxi door and sprinted up the front walk. At the edge of his vision he saw a white truck with a satellite dish coming up the street. I’m not the only one who saw the Grudge Report tonight.
Darlene stood in the lighted doorway.
“Don’t answer that phone,” Falcone said as he entered. “And don’t answer the doorbell.”
Darlene nodded and closed the door.
“Where’s your dad?” Falcone asked.
“He’s still upstairs. It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“What happened?”
“You know how impatient he is.…”
“I think you mean what a hothead he can be.”
“Well, he decided to drive out to Goddard to find out about what Cole Perenchio had been doing there.”
“And?” Falcone asked, worry in his voice.
“He was on the Cabin John Bridge. You know, the one where only one line of traffic can pass at one time.”
“Know it well.”
“It was dark. Raining. And he saw headlights coming toward him. And he thought someone was trying to run him off the road. And he saw it was a pickup truck barreling right at him. There was no place he could move to. Nothing he could do.”
“So what happened?” Falcone was getting impatient and he was not known for having a very long fuse.
“The truck hit Dad’s car dead-on … well, head-on.”
“Was he hurt? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine. Just a little banged up from the air bag that went off.”
“Was it…?”
“Intentional?” Darlene finished Falcone’s question. “Police don’t think so. The kid driving was from Hicksville and high on weed. Jesus, I hope they never legalize that stuff around here. They arrested him for DWI.”
“Your dad get medical treatment?”
“Sean, are you kidding? He’s scared to death of doctors. Figures they’ll always find something wrong with him.”
Ben Taylor slowly came down the stairs a bit unsteadily and stood behind Darlene. He wore a red and gray bathrobe over blue pajamas. His feet were bare.
“Christ, Ben, you look like hell. Darlene told me what happened. The accident. You okay?”
“Yeah. Headache and sore arm from those damn air bags.”
“You’re sure it was an accident?”
Taylor nodded and said, “Pretty sure. At first I thought I was about to become the next man on the hit list. But no. The kid was a stoner. Had one too many bongs. Nothing more sinister.… So tell me, Sean. What the hell’s going on?”
“Bad stuff, rotten stuff, Ben. Where’s your iPad?”
Darlene picked up her iPad from a kitchen counter. “He never knows where his is,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Bring up the Grudge Report.”
“What? I never look at…”
On the iPad appeared the three photos and the headline “Three Black Musketeers.” Darlene clicked the headline and the story came up, surrounded by advertisements and pointers to other stories.
Taylor stared at the iPad on the kitchen table and silently began reading, with Darlene looking over his shoulder, now and then exclaiming “My God!” and “Good Lord!” The doorbell rang three times, followed by heavy pounding. They heard the sound of a vehicle starting and moving away.
Falcone walked over to the coffeemaker. When the light went on, he poured three cups, added milk to Darlene’s coffee, brought them to the table, and sat down. Neither Taylor nor Darlene said a word until Taylor finished reading and switched off the iPad.
“Quite a piece,” he said quietly. “Three Black Musketeers. Brings back memories. Actually, we just called ourselves the Three Musketeers. Anyone could see we were black.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” Darlene exclaimed. “The goddamn Grudge Report is crucifying you. You’ve got to sue him.”
“‘Crucifying’ is a bit strong, Darlene,” Taylor said. “But it certainly doesn’t make me look good.”
“There’s really nothing to sue over, Darlene,” Falcone said. “No libel suit. No defamation of character suit. Not on my advice anyway. There’s a lot of nasty stuff, but as far as I can see, there’s no absolutely false statement—and sometimes even that’s not enough. Anybody who tries to sue over anything like this gets hit between the eyes by the First Amendment. But, if the Smithsonian or PBS moves against your father, we have a lot of choices.”
“Like what?” Taylor asked.
“Like breach of contract for starters.”
“You think they’ll fire me?”
“I think PBS will cave by taking something like the White House line and saying the show is ‘under review’ and is no longer on the schedule. The Smithsonian will probably choose putting you on ‘administrative leave’ with pay.”
“Like they do with cops who shoot somebody,” Darlene said. “‘Administrative leave’ gives people the idea that maybe you’re guilty of something. Guilty until proven innocent.”
“So be it,” Falcone said. “We’ve got a bigger issue: Who set this up? My candidate is Robert Wentworth Hamilton. But why is he going after you? And what will he do next? Get serious, Ben. Two of the Musketeers are dead.”
“Well, I told you I did have that run-in with Hamilton,” Taylor replied, speaking calmly, as if nothing serious had happened. “It was over the letter from scientists. We were protesting his selection of an anti-global-warming guy for a scientist award. But I’d think that was ancient history by now.”
“Not ancient, Dad,” Darlene said. “You’re exasperating! Don’t you know what happened yesterday? Somebody at PBS got all excited about the show and put out a tweet that used the words ‘asteroid’ and ‘collision.’ The Huffington Post picked it up and, of course, mentioned the SpaceMine announcement about Asteroid USA. Then the tweet went viral and—”
“What?” Falcone interrupted. “I did see Street Speak mention something about what this might mean for SpaceMine. But I didn’t know that a PBS tweet was involved.”
“There’s a big new Twitter world out there, Sean. Just like the wild Internet world and its Grudge Report world,” Darlene said. “And the old world doesn’t know anything about it.”
“Look, Sean. I agree that this is serious,” Taylor said. “And there’s a lot that the old world doesn’t know. A lot.”
*
Outrageous as it was, the Grudge Report on the Musketeers stirred a sudden memory for Taylor. Back in 1967, an MIT professor had lectured about a mile-wide asteroid named Icarus, after the mythological daredevil who flew too close to the sun. Asteroid Icarus would pass relatively close to Earth in 1968. The professor told his students to assume that Icarus was on a collision course with Earth—and they had to save the planet. They decided to pummel Icarus with thermonuclear bombs borne on Saturn V rockets.
/> The Icarus project inspired the 1979 science-fiction film Meteor, which Taylor saw as a teenager. He came out of the theater determined to learn all he could about asteroids, not realizing that he was putting himself on the path to MIT.
41
Besides being chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations, Senator Kenneth Collinsworth was also a member of the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation (CST), which had jurisdiction over highway safety, inland waterways, ocean navigation, marine fisheries, weather and atmospheric activities, the Merchant Marine, the Panama Canal, and space sciences, among other matters. After several hysterical calls from Hamilton, in a rage about Taylor, Collinsworth decided to place a call to Senator Frank Anderson, the Oklahoman who chaired CST.
After an exchange of pleasantries, Collinsworth plunged into his reason for the call: “Frank, it seems that this guy Dr. Taylor has stirred up a firestorm with his TV appearances and documentary about the need to change the Outer Space Treaty and get the damn feds involved in a place where it has no business to be. I think I’ll need a little help to put this fella in his place.”
“Talk on, Ken. I’m with you so far,” Anderson said.
“I already have a public hearing scheduled for next week on NASA trying to get back into the game of setting up a moon colony,” Collinsworth continued. “They’re afraid the Chinese are going to build some of their megacities up there. What say we make it a joint committee hearing so we can round up some votes? I’ve got some folks on my committee who are pretty wobbly when it comes to taking on NASA and President Oxley. Their states used to get quite a bit of business out of NASA before we cut NASA’s budget, and their governors are putting pressure on them to start the printing presses rolling again.”
“Absolutely! I’m with you, Ken,” Anderson replied. “We got a goddamn nineteen-trillion-dollar train wreck coming at us and we’ve got to hold Oxley’s feet to the fire on our national debt or he’s going to take us all the way to Greece and back before he leaves office. I’ll get my press guy to work with your man on a release. How about something like, Senators Kenneth Collinsworth and Frank Anderson announce a joint hearing to examine ‘Federal Waste in Space’? We can fold the issue of asteroid mining in, along with hammering Taylor for scaring the hell out of the American people so he can get the so-called international community into Uncle Sam’s knickers.”
“Spoken like a true patriot, Frank,” Collinsworth said, a half smile racing across his lips. “You have a way with words, my friend. Let’s move on it.”
*
When Senator Sarah Lawrence, the senior senator from Maine and chairwoman of the Armed Services Committee, learned of the joint hearing, she cornered Collinsworth on the Senate floor following a recorded vote.
“Frank, I saw the notice of your hearing next week,” she said, placing herself directly in front of Collinsworth, stopping him in midstride. She was a foot shorter than Collinsworth, but long ago she had learned if she stood back far enough, she did not have to look up at a man’s face. She was in her early fifties, with a figure little changed since her cheerleader days at the University of Maine. She wore a black skirt and a white blouse under a dark blue jacket. Her black pumps had sensible one-inch heels.
Although a space treaty sounded like a subject beyond the jurisdiction of the Armed Services Committee, she was powerful enough to have her way. Collinsworth knew that she also was popular enough with the media to grab some attention. But, with a broad smile and nod, he asked what he could do for her.
“I’d like to sit in on your hearing with your permission,” she went on. “It’ll give me an opportunity to see where all of this asteroid talk is heading.”
Collinsworth held Lawrence with barely concealed contempt. She was just too damn liberal to suit him. To him, she represented a bunch of liberal bastards trying to pass themselves off as “responsible” conservatives who believed the art of compromise. Horseshit, he thought. He was not one to follow Senate protocol or courtesy, but he decided that someday she might become an ally, as unlikely as that might seem at the moment.
“Well, it’s going to be a little crowded up on the dais, but sure, Sarah, I’ll see that you get a seat.” Jesus, he thought to himself, and I’ll have to listen to her pontificating.
A “little crowded” was an understatement. Originally, the hearing had been scheduled to be held in the Dirksen Senate Office Building. But so many senators planned to attend the hearing that a larger room was required. Collinsworth called Charlie Napolitano, the architect of the Capitol, and tasked him to come up with the best way to accommodate as many as twenty-five or more members.
Napolitano, a short, wiry man who wore large horn-rimmed glasses and a poor comb-over, said, “Not a problem, Mr. Chairman. We’ll set everything up in the Caucus Room of the Russell Senate Office Building. Just a matter of marshaling lumber, carpenters, and a small amount of money which I can take from the contingency fund.”
“Excellent, Charlie. I’ll need to have it ready by next Wednesday.”
“Done.”
And it was. The construction crew carried out the project quickly and without a hitch. The workmanship was excellent. The dais had the appearance of a permanent structure with all senators having an assigned seat where they could see—and be seen.
A lot of history had been made in the Caucus Room. It had been the site of the hearings held on the sinking of the Titanic, the Teapot Dome scandal, and the Army-McCarthy, Watergate, and Iran-Contra hearings. It was in that very room that Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas accused tormenting senators of conducting an “electronic lynching” during his confirmation hearing.
There were likely to be a lot of histrionics displayed on Wednesday, and just maybe a little history made as well.
42
When Falcone, a veteran of countless congressional hearings as both inquirer and responder, heard about the announcement, he knew what to expect, especially from Collinsworth. He knew Collinsworth and his reputation. He would produce his own little play, with himself as hero and Taylor as villain. Falcone quickly called Collinsworth’s office to say that Taylor would appear voluntarily. But a subpoena was already on its way to Taylor, creating the false appearance of his being a reluctant witness being dragged to the hearing. Falcone tried in vain to meet with Collinsworth or his chief of staff to lay out ground rules. That made it inevitable that the hearing would be a kangaroo court.
Assuming that Ben Taylor would be sandbagged by aggressive questioning, Falcone called for a prehearing strategy session. A few minutes after he, Ben, and Darlene gathered around the table in the Taylor kitchen, Sam Bancroft appeared. He wore jeans, sneakers, and a blue polo shirt bearing the image of USAF wings instead of a polo player. He carried a briefcase.
“First order of business is our pizza order,” Falcone said. “You can’t make strategy without pizza.” He and Sam quickly agreed on a chorizo and pepperoni pizza. Darlene chose broccoli and mushrooms. Ben Taylor did not make an additional choice, accepting whatever had been chosen.
Bancroft took a thick loose-leaf binder out of his briefcase and placed it on the kitchen table. “I’ve been thinking about your opening statement, Ben,” Bancroft said. “I figured that Collinsworth and Anderson’s strategy will be to belittle you, build up Hamilton and SpaceMine, and stop you from saying anything about the dangers of mining satellites. So I thought we should have a counterstrategy.”
“Looks like you have a secret weapon,” Falcone said, pointing to the binder.
Bancroft nodded, opened the binder, and began talking. His voice had the soft accent of South Carolina mountain country.
“Ben, I guess you know that the Pentagon, with much cooperation from NASA, runs a quiet little outfit called the Operationally Responsive Space Office,” Bancroft said.
“Sure, I remember it, the place was always spoken about in initials,” Taylor said. “The ultimate idea of the ORS, as I got it, was to develop a way to have standby space vehi
cles that could react to some vague, unstated need. Most people in NASA shied away from it. Sounded like space warfare.”
“Well, yes. Some classified stuff. I’ve been working for the office for about a year, but spending most of my time at the Pentagon instead of NASA headquarters. Mostly, I’ve been churning out unclassified reports full of empty phrases,” he said, pointing to the binder and flipping through pages. “You know, ‘the military’s need for responsive, flexible, and affordable systems operating in space’ or there is ‘a critical need for improved space situational awareness.’”
He flipped to a page and looked up to say, “But I’ve also seen some solid stuff about how an asteroid could kill millions and maybe wipe out civilization. It made me wonder why we aren’t spending more time and money setting up a warning system. We have systems like that for floods and tornadoes and hurricanes—maybe not perfect systems. But they exist and they improve. A warning system for asteroids seems like a no-brainer.”
He read from the page: “‘The impact of a relatively small asteroid would, in all likelihood, cause catastrophic damage and loss of life—even the possible extinction of the human race!’ That sentence, by the way, ends in the only exclamation point I have ever seen in a Pentagon document.”
“Pentagon?” Falcone said. “You mean that you’re reading from an official DOD document?”
“Yes. Don’t worry. It’s unclassified.” Bancroft said. “It’s a report issued by an Air Force study group a long time ago.”
“The title, believe it or not, is Planetary Defense: Catastrophic Health Insurance for Planet Earth. And, get this: It was written in 1996. It was produced by a group of brilliant, forward-looking military officers who were concerned about an overlooked threat, not just to the United States but to the whole world. They imagined a planet defense system that would be operated by spacefaring nations and—get this—controlled by the UN.”
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