Hot Shot
Page 50
"Mrs. Blaine, if I could brief you on your agenda for the week…"
"Mrs. Blaine, we've scheduled your first press conference for-"
She held up her hand. "My name is Faulconer. You may call me Susannah. And the next person who says a word to me will-I swear to God-be given permanent responsibility for cleaning out every coffeepot in this building."
Turning her back on all of them, she walked into the private office of the chairman of FBT and shut the door.
With the exception of the many sprays of flowers from well-wishers, the office looked much as it had when her father had occupied it. She toured the room slowly, touching familiar objects-the bookcases, side chairs, a brass lamp. The gold and blue draperies drawn back from the great wall of windows were exact reproductions of the ones she remembered. Her father's huge desk with its polished malachite top still dominated the room. The bronze FBT falcon hung on the wall behind it, its wings spread wide to encompass the globe on which it perched.
The awesome scope of the task she had set out for herself swept over her. "Oh, Daddy, what am I doing here?"
But her father wasn't talking to her today. Maybe he knew what she had in mind.
To steady herself, she began opening the cards propped in the various flower arrangements. One was from Paige and Yank. They were converting the old guest house at Falcon Hill into a state-of-the-art laboratory for Yank. He had decided to work independently, dividing his time between projects for SysVal, Sam, and whoever else managed to capture his imagination. It amused Susannah to watch the man who had once been so involved in his work that a nuclear explosion couldn't distract him now shoot up his head at the faintest echo of Paige's footsteps. She could only imagine what he would be like when they had a child.
A dozen roses had arrived from Mitch's children. Their thoughtfulness touched her, even though she suspected their father had been behind it. Still, they were wonderful kids, and the cheerful acceptance with which they had greeted her marriage to their father had been a blessing.
Angela had sent a splashy display of carnations, snapdragons, and daisies. So far, she was the only one Susannah and Mitch had told about their baby, and she had immediately announced that the child was to call her "Na Na."
"Not 'Granny,'" she had insisted, adjusting the silver-studded sleeves on her new red leather jacket. "I'm too young for that. But 'Na Na' has a nice ring."
Mitch and Susannah were touched by Angela's offer. Both suspected she would prove to be a first-rate grandmother, regardless of what she chose to call herself.
Susannah's eyes teared as she read the card from her former mother-in-law. "You'll always be my daughter. Knock 'em dead, kiddo!"
She walked over to the malachite desk, and after a moment's hesitation, took her place in the great leather chair that had once belonged to her father. The panel of switches that controlled the FBT fountains was still there. She jotted down a note to have it removed. That sort of power held no interest for her.
As she pushed her notepad aside, she spotted a small package wrapped in silver foil. It couldn't be from Mitch; his present had been on her night table when she had awakened that morning. While he had looked on, she had unwrapped a week's supply of naughty black underwear imprinted with the FBT logo.
"Dress for success," Mitch had said, and then he'd kissed her until she could hardly breathe and dragged her into the shower, where they'd made love.
After turning the silver box about in her hand, she opened the envelope that accompanied it and pulled out the card. In big block letters were the words remember your roots. It was signed, "Sam."
Inside the package she found a small gold charm, a perfect replica of the Blaze. She cupped it in her hand and told herself that a wise executive understood changes couldn't be made overnight. Adjustments had to be implemented slowly. Upheaval threatened people, made them feel insecure.
The wise executive understood the value of tact and patience.
And then she gazed about the spacious office and remembered that this was the place where her father had humiliated Sam.
"You were wrong, Daddy," she whispered. "You should have listened to him."
Taking the charm with her, she got up from the desk and went over to investigate the walnut cabinets. In one of them, she found the equipment that tied the executive office into the building's loudspeaker system. In the next cabinet was the elaborate stereo system that Cal had installed. She pulled a tape she had brought with her from her purse and slipped it into the cassette deck.
Looking down at the little Blaze charm in her hand, she smiled to herself and whispered, "This one's for the kids in the garage." She picked up the microphone and switched on FBT's loudspeaker system.
"Listen up, everybody. This is Susannah Faulconer speaking. Beginning in exactly one hour, my door is open. Everybody in this company who wants to talk to me, start lining up. Rank doesn't count. First come, first served. My door stays open until we're done. And you'd better be ready to strut your stuff, because starting right now, I'm throwing this corporation into chaos. All official policies are suspended. All normal procedures are up for grabs. We're going to rediscover who we are. And when we're done-if we're very smart and very lucky-we'll be ready to dazzle the world." And then she hit the button on the cassette recorder.
While the hallowed halls of FBT filled with the music of the Rolling Stones, she settled back at her desk, propped up her feet, and waited for the screams to start.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This novel is based upon fact: the events surrounding the birth of the personal computer industry. These events, as well as the people, corporations, and organizations which were involved, serve as the factual foundation upon which my fictional drama takes place. My fictional characters are not intended to resemble real people, and any interplay my characters have with real persons and actual corporations is entirely a product of my imagination.
Of the many books and articles I have read to research this novel, the most useful was Steven Levy's fascinating book Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution. Also useful were Fire in the Valley: The Making of the Personal Computer, by Paul Freiberger and Michael Swaine; Silicon Valley Fever, by Everett M. Rogers and Judith K. Larsen; The Ultimate Entrepreneur: The Story of Ken Olsen and Digital Equipment Corporation, by Glenn Rifkin and George Harrar; and Charged Bodies: People, Power and Paradox in Silicon Valley, by Thomas Mahon.
Readers interested in the rich and fascinating history of the Apple Computer Corporation would enjoy Michael Moritz's excellent The Little Kingdom, as well as John Sculley's Odyssey, a work that I consider one of the most intriguing books published in the last decade-a business book that has all the page-turning qualities of best-selling fiction. I would like to thank all of these authors for fueling my imagination and giving me so much of the valuable background for this novel.
I am deeply indebted to my trio of technical advisors: Dan Winkler, Gerald Vaughan, and Bill Phillips. Any errors in this book are entirely my responsibility. The three of them did their best with me.
I would also like to express my heartfelt appreciation to the wonderful people at IBM and Apple Computer, Inc., who so patiently answered my questions. Thanks also to Mary Pershall, Richard Phillips, John Titus, and DeDe Eschenburg for their helpful contributions.
And to the people at Pocket Books-you're the best! A special thanks to my editor, Claire Zion, who believed in this project from the beginning and never lost sight of the vision, not even when I did. Steven Axelrod, you have truly been a blessing. And I will forever be grateful to Linda Barlow, who encouraged me to write Hot Shot and whose extensive contributions to the final draft were critical.
Thanks, Lyd, for helping me learn what sisters are all about. Ty and Zach, be your best.
Susan Elizabeth Phillips
Naperville, Illinois
Susan Elizabeth Phillips
***
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